What I'm thinking about when I'm not thinking

  My parents moved to Dubai this week.  Every time I sat down to write a blog post it was all I could think of, the proverbial 'elephant in the room'.  But I can't write that post now.  I will eventually, when I can write thoughtful reflection instead of emotional vomit.  So I asked for writing prompts and one suggestion was to write about what I'm thinking about when I'm not thinking.  Um, I don't think my mind ever turns off, but what about when I'm not consciously thinking?  I have many weird dreams and sometimes when they happen right before I wake up and I remember them vividly and I actually get my butt out of bed to write them down and no one bothers me, I have fodder for stories.  This is a story born from a dream I had in March of 2008.

 The Key-Hole
 The first memory I have of this place is of the trees descending from the sky and planting themselves in two long rows on the ground.  My family and I stopped our wandering to watch.  The ground was dry and parched.  I remember thinking the trees would not grow without water, their roots would not be deep enough yet to sustain them.
    Edward went up to the closest tree, the long line stretching away into the distance.  Whether it was because he touched the tree or it just happened at that exact moment I do not know, but water began rising out of the ground.  It quickly rose to our ankles as we moved in between the rows of trees.  There was a feeling of safety under the green branches that had been absent with only the vast sky above.  As the water climbed towards our knees and showed no signs of slowing the boys began to talk of climbing the trees.  We were wading and half swimming as the water crept past our knees.  Mother silenced the boys, there were no low branches, the trees rose in tall straight columns of blue-grey bark before branching out into a green canopy high above our heads.  Besides, Chloe would never be able to climb.  She was already on Mother’s back, the water would have been above her head now.  We waded as fast as we could through the waist-high water with no destination except further between the comforting trees.
    We began swimming when the water rose to our chests; at least for us older ones, the younger ones were already swimming.  We were concentrating so hard on swimming that no one knows when the house first appeared.  Natalia spotted it first.  At the same time her shout went up we noticed driftwood in the water.  Each of us grabbed a piece or two, clinging to it to keep our heads above water.  Mother was leading so she was the first reach the pebbled beach in front of the house.  The pebbles went all around the mansion, it was an island in the midst of water.  The line of trees stopped at the beach.  The white clapboards were covered in a film of green moss.  The house looked as if it had stood for a hundred years, even though I knew it had not been there when we started swimming.
    The door was open.  All the doors in the house were open.  I could see straight from the front to the back and out onto the stretch of water beyond the house.  Once inside the house we claimed it and spread out.  It was ours and it was huge.  My brothers and sisters invaded every crevice, exploring and making a racket.  The boys were using their driftwood as drumsticks on every surface they found.  Then they found the pianos.  There must have been one in every room upstairs.  The sound was deafening on the second floor.  I continued upstairs, past more open doors on the third floor.  I turned right down a passage with no windows.  At the end was a door, open of course, with stairs leading up.  I was confused.  I only remembered three levels of windows from the outside.  Was there a fourth floor?  I peered up the dark staircase.  There was a door at the top.  It was closed.
    The steps creaked under my feet, as many of the floorboards must have, but this time I heard it.  The passage and staircase muffled the din created by my brothers.  The air felt stuffy and stale.  I lifted my hand to knock.  But why?  Would there be an answer?  I put my hand on the knob instead.  Locked. 
    No other door in the house had even been closed.  I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.  Why was it locked and where was the key?  I realized there was a key hole so I bent down to look through.  There was an eye looking back at me! 
    After I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle my scream I realized a scream had come from the other side of the door as well.  I bent down again.  Light was coming through the key hole now.  The owner of the eye must have moved away.  I cautiously took another look.  There was a girl moving away from the door.  Perhaps a little older than me, but unkept and wild looking.  It was hard to understand her.  She was talking to someone.  I shifted positions and saw a woman sitting in a chair; a sort of maid or nanny.  She called the girl Deirdre and told her not to talk through the key hole. 
“There’s nothing there Deirdre” she said.  “What a story.  You must be imagining again.” 
Deirdre looked wistfully at the door.  “But I saw someone Greta.  There’s someone there.”
“No child.  There is nothing beyond that door.  It’s just a locked closet.”

Evidence of Things Unseen

The last post I did about not ‘doing’ Santa with my daughter (read it here) got a lot of comments (mostly on Facebook).  They were interesting comments from both sides of the subject.  Several comments talked of the kindness and generosity that Santa can embody rather than just being the creepy guy watching everyone and one doling out pressies, especially when looking at the life of the real St. Nicholas.  Another said “The difference between Santa and Jesus (religious faith in general) is that hopefully you’re seeing evidence of your beliefs every day.”  I liked this the best.  It’s so true.

Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Hebrews 11:1

Faith in Jesus is different because there is evidence; true evidence, not planted Elves on shelves.  And it is something I didn’t account for in my last post.  Here is an account of evidence in my life:

When I was 10 years old my family drove halfway across the country for a church conference called Warrensburg in Missouri.  It was a gathering of New Frontiers churches, a family of churches we were a part of.  I remember having lots of fun (okay, the road trip was mostly fun) and meeting with God in a very personal way.  I also experienced my first tornado warning and the cafeteria had soft-serve ice cream that you could do yourself.

A few years later I wanted to attend again, mostly because I was now a teen and could go to the way-cool teen meetings.  But my family wasn’t going.  Dilemma.  I started saving my money in the hopes that my parents would let me go without them, chaperoned by someone from our church who would be going.  It was a tall order: saving for a plane ticket, conference fee and spending money.  I probably needed about $300.  I saved Christmas money, birthday money, babysitting money, and I baked cookies to sell at my dad’s work.  (The entrepreneur spirit started early.)  All the money I collected was saved in a small tin bank, tucked in my underwear drawer.  I never counted it.  I just hoped and saved and begged my parents to let me go.

Then one day they called me over.  There were several people from our church going and one couple agreed to be my chaperones.  Dad had looked at plane tickets and found one for $210.50.  If I could come up with that money, my parents would pitch in and pay for the conference registration fee.
 
Nervously I went upstairs to count my bank.  Would I have that much?  What if I wasn’t even close?  Cookie baking only grossed $5 a day.  After you subtract money for supplies it didn’t leave me with much.
I slowly counted the money.
$210.58
What?  I better count that again.
$210.58
I had exactly enough.

The conference itself did not disappoint.  The fun of being somewhere alone, without the rest of my family was a perk; but the encounter with God was the highlight.  Growing up I was an introverted bookworm.  Still am if left to myself.  I didn’t like talking to people, mostly because I thought I would say dumb things, and I walked around looking at the ground most of the time.

After one of the evening meetings I was kneeling, face to the ground when I heard an audible voice: Look up.  So I did, and I saw lots of feet.  I put my face back down.  Look up.
Oh my daughter, look up;
You are the King’s child.
You need not be ashamed.
You were naked and I clothed you.
You are the King’s daughter.  A princess.
Look up! Lift up your face!
God spoke to me.  God spoke to me?  Me?  Personally?  You mean that thing about God knowing each of us intimately and caring for us deeply is true?  Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.
It took time for me to come out of my shell.  To be a bookworm who can look strangers in the eye talk to them.  To learn the art of initiating conversation with questions.  To feel that what I had to say was important because I had thought of it.  Sometimes I’m still learning.

I am a daughter of the King of kings.  I don’t always act like it.  At times I struggle to believe it.  But that doesn’t make it any less true.

Lift up your heads, O gates!
And be lifted up, O ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
The Lord, strong and mighty,
the Lord, mighty in battle!
Lift up your heads, O gates!
And lift them up, O ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
The Lord of hosts,
he is the King of glory!
Psalm 24:7-10

The Year I Got A Letter From Santa

I’ve never believed in Santa.  Not even for a moment.  Growing up we knew the stories, watched The Santa Clause in the theater with my Grandpa, read The Night Before Christmas, but I never believed there was a Santa.  It was just a story. 

The Christmas I was 7, we were at my grandparents house with aunts and uncles and cousins.  My cousins are younger than my siblings and I and on Christmas Eve we set out cookies, milk and carrots for the reindeer (for the first time in my life).  We read The Night Before Christmas and went to bed.  The next morning, before the chaos of 15 people opening presents all at once, there was the pause to see if Santa had eaten the cookies.  He had, and written a note back to the cousins which was suspiciously in my mom’s handwriting.  I loudly proclaimed this only to be shushed by my mom; your cousins still believe in Santa Claus she whispered in my ear.  Still believe in Santa?  You mean people actually believe in Santa?  Like, that he’s real?  Why?

Then there was the year I got a letter from Santa.  I didn’t mean to get a letter from Santa.  I meant to give my sister my Christmas list in a funny, creative way.  So I wrote it out as a letter to Santa, addressed the envelope to “The First Door On The Left Up The Stairs”, put it in the mailbox and told mom to have my sister get the mail.  My one mistake was not realizing the mail hadn’t come yet.  The mailman took my letter.  What did they think of the address?    Well, at one point the United States Postal Services didn’t throw out all those letters to Santa.  (All the ones collected since taking them to the courthouse in New York at least.)  In Dover, NH the letters to Santa were read and replied to, at least mine was.  About a week later I received a letter from Santa, telling me Mrs. Claus was doing fine and that he was getting the reindeer ready for the big night.  Also that he would try to get the things on my list and to be good.

I’ve been thinking about this letter recently, seeing as it is Christmas time.  This year my husband and I had to decide: are we doing Santa?  Cora is two and is getting so excited about Christmas.  I told someone we probably weren't going to do Santa.  Her response?  How will she have faith in anything?  I was shocked.  I pray daily that she will put her faith in Jesus Christ.  If I tell her Santa is real and the tooth fairy is real and Jesus is real, then someday she realizes Santa isn’t real and the tooth fairy isn’t real - how will that affect her faith in Jesus?

Needless to say, we have decided to not do Santa.  I point him out in books, she will learn the stories.  Someday we will watch Miracle on 34th Street.  But I don’t need her to believe Santa is the one bringing her the presents.  I want her to know the gifts are from her aunts and uncles, her grandparents, her great grandparents, her cousins, people who love her.  I read somewhere that telling children to be good so that Santa will bring you presents makes the presents conditional, they have to earn them, they have to deserve them.  But that is contrary to the very essence of gift giving.  We don’t deserve gifts.  We don’t earn them.  They wouldn’t be gifts then.  They would be reimbursement.
I give to my daughter because I love her.  I love her because she is my daughter.  Her actions don’t change that.  Giving gifts at Christmas is a symbol of the ultimate Gift Giver.  He gave us His Son not because we deserved it or earned it but because He loves us.  He loves us because we are His children.  We can never deserve what God has given to us.

Creating Montessori at Home

As a Montessori credentialed stay at home mom, it is hard to not bring in Montessori philosophy into our day to day lives.  I decided to go a step further and create some of the materials that are in a Montessori classroom to have in our home.  Many of the materials are too expensive for me to buy, and since we are sending Cora to ChildLight Montessori School next year, there really isn't a point to invest in them.  So I am doing homemade versions.  There are so many resources out there for homeschool Montessori (I follow this blog on Facebook) and many of the materials in a Montessori classroom are easily made with common items. 

Although I think Cora is ready for a few sandpaper letters, I started with homemade "metal" insets.  Metal insets are a series of ten shapes that include the (usually) pink frame and blue inset.  The shapes are: square, circle, triangle, oval, ellipse, rectangle, trapezoid, pentagon, curvilinear triangle, and quatrefoil (the one that looks like a flower).

An artsy shot

In the classroom, the child chooses one frame or inset at a time.  There is special paper cut to the exact size of the frame, 5 1/2 inches square.  There are so many lessons that are a part of the metal insets.  The child's sense of order is refined because the shape (frame or inset) is placed on a special tray with the paper and a certain number of colored pencils, in my old classroom it was a limit of three.  Once the child is done with a certain shape they must return it to the shelf before choosing another inset.  This material can be used to help the child learn and remember shapes by making a shapes book.  It is in the Language area of the classroom because it is a pre-writing activity.  The child is encouraged to form the shapes in a counter clockwise motion - as you form your letters in handwriting.

For my project, I saved enough cereal boxes to create 10 frames and cut out 5 1/2 inch squares.   Then I found this website with templates for cutting out the shapes.  I was glad I didn't have to free-hand it. 

I used the examples in my Language Curriculum Album to make sure the templates were the right size.

After drawing the shapes on my squares I used a craft knife to cut out the shapes.  I realized as I was cutting the cereal box may not hold up for very long, depending on how much they are used.  If I wanted them to last longer I might use a thin plastic, a quilting store usually has thin plastic for template making that would work perfectly.
Overall I am pleased with how they came out.  For Cora, they will be stencils to use during art time.

The “m” word

No one talks about it.  It is hidden grief.  Why?

If I haven’t told you, it’s not because I haven’t wanted to.  I’ve probably been in conversation with you.  The ‘m’ word on the tip of my tongue.  But how do you interject that into a conversation?  Where is the segue into “Hey, I had a miscarriage”?  What a conversation downer.  And then, how does the conversation move on from it?  I’ve probably tried to tell you, but the ‘m’ word just doesn’t come out very easily.

That, and the fact that in my stage of life if I say I have news, everyone automatically thinks I’m pregnant.  So I could preface it with, I have bad news, unfortunate news, sad news - still brings the conversation down. 

If I say it in an off-hand way you might think I’m over the pain and grief.  I’m not.  It hurts.  Still.
If I say it with lots of emotion and tears it might freak you out.  You wouldn’t know what to say because it’s not your experience.  What do you say?  I haven’t figured it out either.
 
So I am saying it the best way I can, the way I prefer, in writing.

At 6 1/2 weeks I saw the heartbeat.
At 6 1/2 weeks the heartbeat stopped.

You are gone too soon.  Before you had time to even be.  You were barely here and now you are not.
Emptiness where you should have been.
Sadness were there should be joy.
Something was wrong little one.  Perhaps things didn’t form correctly.  You will be missed little one.

You were my baby.  You are my baby.  You brought me joy.  I love you.  Good-bye.

July 16, 2013 - one on earth and one in heaven

“Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is more common and also more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden: it is easier to say ‘My tooth is aching’ than to say ‘My heart is broken.’”
C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain.

This is me saying my heart is broken but I am healing.

The Lord is near the broken hearted and saves the crushed spirit.  Psalm 34:18

Giving Concentration Room to Grow

Despite being a 'stay-at-home' mom we spend surprisingly few days completely at home.  Usually we run errands or see friends, and there is our weekly trip to the library.  But today we stayed home.  All day.  It was a nice break from running around, but I also noticed how differently Cora's played today than on days when a trip to the store breaks up the morning.

Her favorite question these days is: "What can I do Mommy?"  She will ask it as soon as I get her down from breakfast.  Often it is when I'm making a meal and I'll try to direct her to play by herself.

Today, I barely heard it.  After getting dressed said she wanted to do buttons.  (One of her new fascinations.)  So we pulled out her sweater with big buttons.  She stood with the sweater resting on a chair and carefully pushed the three buttons through the buttonholes.  She proudly showed me what she had done, then promptly unbuttoned the sweater and started again.  Nearly twenty minutes later she was still buttoning.  Eventually she lost interest and the sweater sat on the couch until the evening when she again stood with the sweater and carefully buttoned and unbuttoned it many times over.

It reminded me of the time we dressed and undressed her baby doll 6 or 7 times in a row.  We carefully lined up each of the eight snaps and after the last one was snapped she pulled them all apart and asked to do it again.  And when Cora was finished, Baby still didn't have her jammies on.

Why?  Why do children do that?  Repetition.  Dr. Montessori said the hand teaches the mind.  All the ideas and philosophy floating around in my head becomes reality when I watch my daughter.  Repetition and concentration.  How do you build your child's concentration?  Don't interrupt them.  I'm not saying the child rules the roost.  But if they are engaged in an activity (especially by themselves) and it is not harming anyone or anything, there is no emergency and you aren't trying to get out the door to a doctors appointment - leave them alone.

When I was a newbie teacher I would walk around the classroom touching the children's shoulders, 'checking in', asking how they were doing.  I thought I was being a great teacher.  Finally I realized I was interrupting them.  The child who is working hard to count beads to find out how much 8 + 5 equals will be thrown off by a touch on the shoulder.  He will forget where he was, perhaps have to start counting all over again and could become frustrated.

How will a child learn to concentrate if we (the adult, parent or teacher in their life) don't allow them time to work uninterrupted?  Even by the video camera to capture the cuteness.

There is another confession: I have interrupted Cora because I wanted to save the adorable.  It wasn't on purpose.  I try to be discreet, but as soon as she realizes I'm there and sees the camera her concentration is broken.

Today was a good reminder.
To step back, to just watch, just listen as she 'reads' to her Baby, to let her be.

The Curious Thing About Curious George

I took a break from blogging.  Grad classes have lots of reading and writing, which are hard to do when it’s not naptime or bedtime.  I decided not to return to teaching this fall so that I can be home full time with my adorable daughter, and yet I’m still busy.  I’m determined to write more though; and so I find myself back at the blog.  Here we go...

I read an interesting blog post (read it here) this week about teaching reading through the classics.  It was good.  It described how important it is to read to your children above their level so their vocabulary is expanded.  I totally agree and credit Cora’s large vocabulary to the massive (for a two year old) amount of books we read every day.

One of the book recommendations caught my eye, especially because it is one we have out of the library right now.  Curious George by H. A. Rey.  The original.  The first one written.  Unabridged.  Do you know the story?  It’s about a curious little monkey who lives with the man with the yellow hat, right?  Hmm, sort of.  See the book opens on George eating a banana in his natural habitat, the jungle, then the man with the yellow hat enters with rifle slung over his shoulder and decides George is cute and that he wants him.  The man with the yellow hat tricks George and into the bag he goes.  On the boat ride to the big ship the book even mentions that George was sad.

Then there’s the pipe smoking.  The man with the yellow hat smokes a pipe.  The sailors smoke pipes.  George smokes a pipe!  That’s right, Curious George smokes a pipe after having dinner complete with wine (though I suppose the glass could have been the man with the yellow hat’s, but even then...).

Move on to the telephone scene.  Why is the man with the yellow hat calling the zoo?  Is he selling George?  Does he go around collecting animals from remote parts of the world to sell them to the highest bidder?  You never know.  But George is ever curious and plays with the phone, accidentally calling the fire department.  When they realize there is no fire the fireman go berserk.  A fat fireman and a thin fireman catch George (I guess it’s teaching kids opposites).  So kids, what do you think the punishment is for accidentally calling the fire department?  A stern talking to?  A slap on the hand?  A fine?  Nope.  Prison.  George is thrown in prison.  But it’s okay, because he escapes when the big and heavy prison guard tips over the bench.  The rest of the book includes a misadventure with balloons, but nothing too bad, until George is reunited with his ‘friend’ the man with the yellow hat who takes him off to the zoo.

My how times have changed.  First copyrighted in 1941 the Curious George franchise has changed a lot over the years.  It is more politically correct, not pointing out the girth of fireman or portraying the man with the yellow hat as an imperialist.  The books are shorter too.  Older children’s books like this one are much longer and wordier than their modern counterparts.  (This book for example might be split into three books: Curious George is Abducted, Curious George goes to Prison and Curious George is Scared of Heights.)  In all seriousness, I don’t think the trend of shorter, simpler books helps our children, and I think it can hurt them.  Longer, wordier books aren’t always appropriate, but they are needed to expand the child’s vocabulary and to grow his concentration.  If only short books are read to the child, how will he learn to sit and listen to longer books?

I am not against this book.  It’s weird and strange, but I will not stop reading it to my child, nor will I abridge or modify as I am reading.  At this point, she is not asking questions about what is going on.  Someday she might, and then I hope we can talk about how times have changed.