Some Days Exist to be Askew

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I dreaded today even before it began. “Dreaded” might be too strong a word, particularly since there was no concrete reason for me to go to bed unsure I wanted to deal with the day to follow. The day is mostly gone. Nothing horrible happened. I’m just swimming in a sea of things-to-do. I have orders to file until the calendars come back from the printer. There are other orders which need to be shipped right away. The calendar needs a last few flourishes before it is done with the design stage of its existence. Those are my job. I was a volunteer for a 5th grade art class where half the kids were finishing a project involving multi-colored paint. The other half were part way into a project including drawing with white on black construction paper. Unfortunately the white colored pencils were no where to be found, so I applied a last-minute substitute of chalk. Smeary, smeary chalk. I love teaching concepts with a clear lesson plan. This time I was insufficiently prepared and it all felt chaotic. Then there was a child with an emotional crisis, a conference with a teacher, and we’ve yet to even tackle homework time. The good news is that the teacher agrees with me that grades are a unit of measure and not a life goal.

I think this evening may require cookies. Not because things are bad. They aren’t. Nothing in front of me is impossible. There is just a lot of it and I’m sleep deprived. Cookies will help.

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Casting New Light

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Kiki and Link both had a youth activity. Patch had an awards ceremony to attend and Howard planned to take him. This left Gleek and I at loose ends. I briefly considered taking Gleek along to Patch’s event, but it is hard to be ten and see other people honored when you are not. Also a big room filled with people is guaranteed to wind Gleek up into a high energy state and then there would be frustration with a high probability of scolding. I wanted for her to have something special, just for her. However I also knew that if that if I preempted all her homework, there would be stress in the morning. So we needed special and routine all rolled into one. Everyone else departed leaving Gleek and I alone.

I consulted Gleek to see what she would like to do. Or rather, I spoke at Gleek while she fiddled with a bean bag. She tossed it to me. On a whim I tossed it back. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. It must have been one of the earliest games in the existence of humanity, yet it was oddly satisfying because I was feeling mellow and not inclined to run around getting things done. The game was simple, but Gleek and I were together, facing each other, both of us giving the game our full attention. She began perfecting a two handed fling. I began catching and throwing with only my left hand. I’m not particularly dextrous with my left, so I loved that magic moment when my brain somehow calculated exactly where to place my hand so that the beanbag would thunk right into the middle of my palm. Then I could, almost casually, curl my fingers around it. Catch.

Our evening needed something simple, like the game of catch. Something that would slow down both Gleek and I, because we are both prone to running too fast for too long.
“Pioneers used to play with beanbags.” Gleek said. She has been studying US History with a teacher for whom the subject is a passion. Her class has been grouped into Indian tribes, then into European immigrants, and now into colonies. In the coming months she will live through bits of revolutionary war, western expansion, civil war, industrial revolution, world wars, cold war, civil rights, and near to modern day. Gleek has been thriving on this diet of history. I keep hearing random bits about how life was in the past. There is a longing in Gleek’s voice as she tells me these things. She admires these times when life was slower. I think because she struggles to slow down in the face of modern information overload.

Between one catch and the next I knew what we needed.
“We’re going to have Pioneer homework time.” I said. “We’ll turn out all the lights and do your math by candle light.”
Gleek’s face brightened into a smile. “I’ll go put on my pioneer clothes!” and she dashed to find her costume.

Candle light imparts a hush to the room it inhabits. The edges of the room were dim, so Gleek and I had to draw close in order to see the words on the page. Without declaring it to be so, both of us dropped our voices quieter. Subconsciously we only needed to fill the lit space, not all the way to the dark corners. Gleek worked her way through the math happily. She only paused once when she remembered the candles she’d made with her Grandma. Those were fetched and lit as well. In moments of conversation we determined that a Pioneer Homework hour also needed and accompanying Pioneerish dinner. My original plan of buying Wendy’s did not fit with candles. After the math was done we hitched the horses to the wagon (my van) and drove over to the market (a grocery store.)

Gleek swished her pioneer skirt as she carried her basket through the aisles of the store. Her apron was tied neatly around her waist and her bonnet dangled down her back in best Laura Ingalls Wilder fashion. We were both carrying baskets instead of pushing a cart because Gleek deemed this to be more historically correct. Pizza, hot pockets, and yogurt were all rejected as foods that a pioneer would not have. Gleek’s desire for historical correctness was sorely challenged by the display of oreo cookies, but history won. We reached the check out stand with Swedish meatballs (some pioneers were Swedish), broccoli, and a pumpkin pie for sharing. At the last minute a desire for bubble gum won out over history, but it was stashed away to be consumed later.

We came home to a dark house and re-lit the candles we’d blown out. Gleek read while I prepared the food. Then we ate it together. I warned Gleek that Pioneer time would be over when the others came home. I wanted to forestall potential conflicts. Kiki and Link blew in the front door with a draft of cold air. They were startled by the candles, but urged us to keep them. “It’s nice.” Link said. “can we do it again tomorrow?” Patch agreed when he came home. Snack and bed were accomplished far more quietly than usual. All of us responded to the change in lighting. It isn’t something we can do every night, but I’m definitely stashing the idea into my bag of tricks for future use. I could use more lovely candlelit evenings.

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Patch’s Multiplication

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Third grade means memorizing multiplication tables. This has been true since my own schooling. It was true for my three older kids. Now it is true for Patch. This particular scholastic challenge has been hard for him. He’s in a more academic program than my other kids were at his age. The measurement of this skill is very results-focused, five-minute tests of 80 problems each. Patch’s teacher offered a new set of markers as a prize for anyone who makes their way to 12s before Christmas break. Unfortunately Patch got stuck at threes for several tests in a row. He lost confidence and began to feel bad about himself and about school. He alternately declared that markers didn’t matter and cried because he didn’t believe he could earn them.

Presented with this situation, I had several choices:
1. Confront Patch’s teacher about her expectations, be angry with the requirements that were making my son feel sad and reject the system that imposed them.
2. Negotiate with Patch’s teacher to lower the bar so that he didn’t have to struggle so hard.
3. Step up my game and Patch’s practice to help him pass the requirements.

A conference with Patch’s teacher resulted in a combination of two and three. She would give him a little bit of extra time and a few extra mistakes allowed. I would work with him every day to help him be prepared.

We start with flash cards. This is a fairly standard method for teaching multiplication facts to kids. As I held up cards for Patch and he sometimes struggled for answers, I pondered how complex this seemingly simple task actually is. Patch looks at a card and his visual centers interpret the reflected light into an image. The language center of his brain translates that image into symbols which have concepts attached. Patch then has to access his memory to find the correct answer to go with the presented symbols. This memory then has to be translated into words so that Patch can speak the answer. All of this must occur in mere seconds in order to get through 80 problems.

I realized that we were practicing verbal answers, but that the test was written. We needed to be practicing that final translation step both written and spoken. I devised a writing game where instead of answering out loud, Patch wrote the answers on a white board. Then we printed out math facts practice sheets so he could take practice tests. I sat next to him as he wrote, glancing from timer to his pencil. Patch cruised along smoothly until the moment when his brain did not instantly supply an answer. Patch shifted in his seat, rubbed his eye, tapped his pencil. It was as if he was attempting to jog loose the memory by physical action. Sometimes these fidgets led to longer distractions. I once watched him spend a full minute with his pencil poised over a single problem because his mind went off on some tangent of thought.

It was so very tempting to switch to the angry option. We worked and Patch struggled. Threes forever. In the middle of one practice, Patch declared he hated school. My heart sank. I fumed at the seeming arbitrary measure of 80 problems in five minutes. I groused a bit to Howard outside of Patch’s hearing and he pointed out that the speed of recall was in indicator that the facts were stored in a permanent and easily accessible memory location. This was the point of memorizing the problems at all. I swallowed my grumbles and faced the next practice session.

It was that next practice session when everything clicked. Patch, who had routinely only been completing 40-70 problems in five minutes, sat down and rocketed through 80 in under four. “Wow!” I said and gave him a high five.
Patch smiled back at me. “I just found the right way to set my brain. I just told myself I could do it.”

Far more important than storing math facts in memory, Patch learned how to focus his mind. Someday there will be something he wants very much and getting it will be easier because he knows how to focus and persevere. The pattern continued through fours, fives, and sixes. We practice, practice, practice, it seems impossible and then click. It is easy. But even during the impossible-seeming parts we know that it will eventually work. Patch still does not rejoice when I declare practice time, but he heads off to school happy each day because he knows he can succeed even when the task is difficult.

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In the Space after Midnight

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My eyes were open, measuring the various darknesses of the room. When last I’d looked at the clock it had told me 12:45. Moments had ticked past since then, enough that I suspected the clock of reading 1 am. Howard shifted next to me. Gleek sniffled from the small kid bed on the floor. Her hand pulled my arm fractionally further over the edge of the bed. I was not the only one who’d had trouble with sleep. A transfer to my room and my hand to hold were enough to secure a ten year old into sleep. Unconsciousness was more elusive for me.

Gleek’s hand was rough against my palm. Hers was a hand much used for monkey bars and tree climbing. I’d felt the strength of her fingers when she first gripped my hand in the darkness. The grip became loose as drowsiness claimed her. In a moment I could let go, my final parental duty of the night complete. I held on for just a minute longer. Her hand was almost the size of my own. Some wisp of memory reminded me of the time when her hands were small and soft. It was long ago and while the memory of that little hand carried tenderness, I had no desire to re-traverse all the years and challenges which had led to her hand being strong. I let her hand slide softly through my fingers and rolled over to contemplate my ceiling. The lights had been out long enough that the glow in the dark stars had faded. All our bedrooms have stars on them, now aged to the point that many of them fly free of their own accord. It is not unusual for me to step through a darkened bedroom and spot fallen stars on the carpet. A stubborn few still stick to the ceiling, or so I assumed. I squinted my eyes, imagining that a few spots still held a faint glow.

Mostly I lay with my eyes closed and follow the tracks of the thoughts in my brain. They ran over the pre-order of calendars and financial calculations based upon quantities ordered. There were side tracks into Patch’s multiplication memorization, Kiki’s art project, and Gleek’s colony report. Their homework was not mine to do or to track. Yet I did. I was not sure how to stop myself from mentally marking when these things should be done and nudging my children if I thought the work should be progressing. Then, of course, I worried that my habit of unconsciously organizing would mean that they never learned to organize for themselves. I could spend days spinning myself in circles of parental failure. I was supposed to be sleeping. Drifting to sleep would land me on the shores of morning with more energy and a mind ready to tackle the challenges of the day. Sleep did not come.

I swung my feet softly over the edge of the bed and placed them carefully on the floor, off to one side of Gleek. I wrapped my robe around my shoulders and padded my way through the house. Our cat had indicated a desire to go outdoors just as everyone went to bed. Perhaps she was ready to come back in. I opened the front door quietly. The bolt clacked loudly in the quiet and then the hinges creaked.
“Kitty?” I called, my breath misting in the nigh frozen air. I pitched my voice low, wanting the cat to hear me, not wanting to disturb any human inhabitants of my house and cul de sac. All was still in the light of the street lamp. Only the glitter of frost on the fallen leaves seemed to lend motion to the tableau. I clacked the door closed and returned to my kitchen.

If not for knowing I was needed in the morning, I would have relished the silence of post-midnight. My people were present, nearby and safe, but they didn’t need anything from me. I’d assigned nothing to myself for that hour. Assignments wouldn’t return until 6:45 am. Part of me longed to just stay awake, to expand into the quiet, read a book, watch a movie. Instead I stretched my limbs, grabbed a snack, and returned to the warmth of bed. Sleep waited for me there.

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Kiki’s Church Talk

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The phone call came on an afternoon early in the week. Kiki was asleep when I poked her awake and handed her the phone. Then I stood there and listened because any time I serve as a telephone delivery service I figure I get to know whats going on. The shape of Kiki’s semi mumbled answers indicated that she’d been asked to speak in church. She’s had this type of assignment before and public speaking is not something that scares her, so when she handed back the phone we both proceeded through the rest of the week without giving it a second thought. It didn’t even get second thoughts it should have had. The next time we thought of it was when Kiki was greeted with “So, you ready to give your talk?”

I arrived in the chapel to see Kiki hunched over with her hands covering her face. She was mortified. This piled on top of other stresses in her life and seemed to show, once again, that she was doomed to fail in all her endeavors. The meeting conductor assured her it was fine and that she could just speak some other week. All Kiki could do was nod and try to hide her tears.

I watched her down the bench. The prelude music still played. We had two hymns, announcements, and a sacrament service between us and the moment when she was assigned to speak. Kiki probably had 20 minutes to prepare, if she could focus on preparation instead of mortification. As my daughter’s parent, I had choices. I could tell her that she would be speaking and had better scramble something together. I could tell her to let it go so that she could be properly prepared on some other day. Or, I could take the less active path, the one where I did not declare what she ought to do. I knew what I hoped she would do, what I thought would be best for everyone concerned. I hoped that she would, of her own accord, find the courage to scramble a three minute talk together from a scripture and the thoughts in her head. I wanted that for her, because to pull success out of apparent failure is a triumph. It is the sort of triumph which grants future strength and can never be taken away. I wanted so much for her to reach out and grab that triumph, but all I could do was point out that if she chose, there was still time.

The meeting began. Kiki still surreptitiously wiped tears as the opening announcements were read. During the first hymn I watched out of the corner of my eye as she opened a book and began to sing. I could not tell what thoughts were churning through her mind. I could not know what story she was making from the events of the day. Was she telling a story of victim hood: “why does this always happen to me?” Was she pounding out a story of failure: “I always forget things, why can’t I be better?” I hoped that her rigid posture was because she intended to seize her chance. During the sacrament service she opened her scriptures. I closed my eyes. Please let her have the courage to speak. Please give her the words to say.

The moment came. Kiki stood and walked to the front of the chapel to take her place on the stand. She spoke and her thoughts formed a coherent, amusing, uplifting talk. She spoke about things she’d learned in her seminary class. She touched on the assigned topic. She brought in an example from her own life. In the moment of crisis all these little preparations came together and combined to be the words she needed. It was a talk for which she thought she had been unprepared, but for which she was completely ready. In less than four minutes she was once again seated. This time she had her head high and was smiling.

After the meeting was over she came and hugged me. I hugged her back. She had found courage to reach for triumph. I’d found the strength to stand out of the way without knowing what the result would be. Both of us are more confident in the brightness of the future. It is well.

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Middlish sort of day

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I like days where I am high energy and focused. I also like days that are drifty and somewhat formless. I’m not so fond of days like today, where I have a vague awareness that I really want to be getting lots of things done, but somehow the hours escape me without any sort of measurable progress. I did manage to arrange for the freezer to be moved from our downstairs pantry into the garage, but then instead of pursuing the project by setting up shelving for the food storage, I…sort of wandered off to click my way through the internet a couple more times. I did locate some ideas that I may want to apply when remodeling my office, none of which are immediately useful. I read a couple of articles with interesting science information. I have no current applications for this information. I felt some vague guilt that my kids seemed to have breathed in the same unambitious air. They had a mythbusters marathon. I sometimes felt like I ought make them do something active, but the weather was cold, windy, wet. Gleek felt under the weather. Link had just returned from an overnight fishing trip. Most of all I couldn’t seem to find the necessary focus to insist on something else.

I wanted to be energetic today. I wanted to get projects done and clean my house. I wanted to make everything ready for the week that is coming. Alternately it would have been nice to have a truly relaxed vacation day, something refreshing and rejuvenating. I didn’t really have either one. It wasn’t a bad day. Nothing in particular went wrong. I just felt like I squandered the potential of the day I was given and I’m not sure why. Hopefully I can be more energetic tomorrow.

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Brain too full

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I’ve scribbled notes for at least three good blog entries in the last two days. Unfortunately every time I found a space of time which could contain writing, I arrived there with my brain all used up. Oh well. At least the postcards are done, the week’s homework is under control, and all the pieces for opening orders on Monday are in place. Onward.

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Merchandise and Gratitude

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For the last three weeks Howard and I have spent half our business meetings discussing merchandise ideas, merchandise pricing, probable merchandise sales, and sources for the right merchandise. These meetings were followed by fast email exchanges to refine designs and make orders. This week I can feel things shifting. The design and ordering is still ongoing, but now we’ve moved into the stage where merchandise is beginning to arrive. We have patches and mugs in our hands. Our re-order of dice arrived today, as did our annual thank you post card. Tomorrow we’re expecting some t-shirts. By Thursday we hope to open up ordering on all of these things. We want to allow people to bundle their purchases together and plenty of time for those over seas to get their stuff before the holidays. My next few weeks are all going to be about order management and shipping.

This afternoon I printed out the labels for our thank you postcards. We send one to every single address which ordered merchandise from us during the year. There were over 50 pages of labels with 30 labels to a page. This means that I have more than 1600 people to thank for the fact that we are able to pay for car repairs, medical bills, mortgage payments, and cartons of ice cream. Sometimes when I think about how dependent our income is on the good will of others I get stressed and scared. I can’t control how or when people choose to order from us. When I see this list of names, and start placing labels onto postcards, I begin to see names which have become familiar. Most of them have never spoken with me, nor I with them, but they still are a part of my life. I love the familiarity of recognizing names on the list year after year. Other names are new. Then I know that somewhere during the year someone found the comic and joined us on our adventure. These names make me happy too. Sticker by sticker, stamp by stamp, I move the postcards into the to-be-mailed pile. By Thursday I’ll hand them over to the postal service and they will begin to disperse to the far corners of the world. Cards from my hands are going to people in my town and to people in India, Croatia, Germany, Australia, Abu Dhabi, France, Spain, Canada, Italy, and every state in the United States. They will travel far, expanding my gratitude so that it has enough lift to carry me where ever I need to go. I love sending the thank you cards. It makes me happy.

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Things Which Help Me Be Happy

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Based on the experimental evidence from the last month there are some things I need to make a more regular part of my life to increase my happiness.

Spend more time with people who are glad to see me. This past weekend I got to see several people whom I like very much, but whom I have not seen in a long time. Each of them lit up and faced me with a smile to greet me. Spending hours talking over everything small and large was truly enjoyable, but that instantaneous glad-to-see-you reaction was an instant mood lifter. I could hear it in the voice of a friend I talked to on the phone as well. It made the self doubting voices scatter and find somewhere else to be.

Seek out more new things. Going to Antelope Island was marvelous. Going to the art museum with Kiki gave my brain all sorts of new thoughts to think. Even the trip to the dump was interesting and sparked new trains of thought. New experiences engage my brain and feed my creativity.

Teach more often. I’ve taught some art lessons in kids’ classes as part of a volunteer program. Preparing was fun, teaching was fun, and I walked out feeling energized. A local conference has invited me to teach next spring. My brain has been happily percolating plans to make those classes the best ever. I love teaching. I love the moment when I look out at the audience and can tell that my words have been interesting or useful.

Embrace my organizational talents. I plan and organize almost reflexively. Even when something is clearly not my responsibility or not my problem some part of my brain will latch onto it and think through how it could be solved or done better. This is valuable and essential in our business. Yet somehow I wanted to discount this gift. I wanted to be appreciated for my creative efforts not my administration. But pulling organization out of chaos is a huge creative act. When I see my organization as creative it becomes a soul-filling activity rather than a draining one.

Save money to fund dreams, not just fend off bills. I’m not really sure how I forgot this one. I used to do it all the time. In our early marriage every spare bit of money was put away so that some day we could afford for Howard to quit his corporate job. Then that dream arrived and all the money went toward making sure we could keep it. We have kept it, but I lost the habit of stashing money into savings. This meant that when an unexpected expense came finding the money to cover it required juggling and stress. Three months ago I decided I wanted to fund a family trip next summer. I started stashing money away for it. Last month I raided that stash completely dry to pay a medical bill and was grateful that dreaming had preserved funds which otherwise would have disappeared somewhere less important. Today I stashed away money for that trip again. I honestly don’t know if we’ll get to take the trip, but saving for it makes me happy. Having a financial buffer to pull from makes me happy. Either way I am less stressed. Saving money is a good thing.

Snuggle and hug the kids. I sometimes forget the power of touch. When I hug my children regularly fights are less frequent and less severe. Snuggling little kids is instinctive, it is easy to fall out of the habit when they get bigger, particularly when they are bigger than me. I can’t snuggle my teens, but I can pat a shoulder as I walk by. I can hug them before bed. I can remember to focus my attention on them when they need something. All of these things remind me that being with my kids is fun, not just a series of challenges which need to be tackled.

I’m not going to try to organize a systematic plan to fit all of these things into my life. Instead I’ve written them on a page in my River Song journal. Since I’m thumbing through that book at least a couple of times per week, I’ll keep running across the list. Bit by bit I’ll absorb and internalize these thoughts. Then they will naturally express themselves in my actions. I’m also watching to see what other things I’ve missed observing that make me happy. It is like a scavenger hunt where I compile the list as I go.

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My Closet and the Clothes in it

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After my post about Red Shoes and Wishing, someone pointed out that what I was trying to accomplish with a wish list might work better as a Pinterest board. So now I have a Pinterest account and I’ve begun slowly populating my pin boards with appropriate images. I’m not sure how I’ll use the site yet. I’m still in the being-confused-by-new-social-media-site stage. Fortunately that stage is now a familiar one and I’m confident that it’ll begin making sense as I use it.

One of the pin boards I created is called “wearing beauty.” I’ll be filling it with clothing I own, clothing I admire, and clothing I hope to own some day. It allows me to collect images of fashion in a way that lets me survey it at a glance. The red shoes go there, for example. It is already apparent to me that the board gives the impression that I dress elegantly every day, which is simply not true. Most days I’m wearing what I affectionately call my “mom uniform.” It consists of a pair of jeans, a solid color knit shirt, and either bare feet or socks. The shirt usually has stains or spills on it. My hair may or may not have been brushed that day. On cold days I accessorize with an old red terry cloth bathrobe and bright yellow fuzzy socks. When I’m headed out to run errands or do other out-of-the-house things, I’ll upscale to an unstained shirt, brushed hair, and shoes. These clothes are not fashionable, but they are supremely suited for their task. While wearing them I am able to get stuff done without fussing over my clothing. There is a beauty in utility. If I have some spare creative time I may see if I can find a way to represent my mom uniform on the Pinterest board.

For years the mom uniform was the only clothes I owned. Even my church clothes had a heavy emphasis on wash-ability, move-ability, and adjust-ability so that they did not interfere with the management of young children in an environment not particularly suited to them. But then I started having to make professional appearances. I was able to let that part of myself which enjoyed fashion wake up and start collecting pieces. These days I’ve got clothing ranging from formal wear to paint-spattered work clothes. Each category of clothing is useful to me, but I am constantly winnowing to make sure that the various clothing types stay in balance. Sometimes clothes which are too worn for professional clothes get moved over to the nice mom clothes. Nice mom clothes gradually become stained mom clothes. Some items get culled completely as they are no longer useful. The culling is critical to make sure that I don’t run out of space in the closet.

I do have a special category of clothes called “project clothes.” These are clothes which are not yet what they could be. Sometimes they need mending or adjusting, but other times I intend them as the basis for a full creative project. I can’t have very many of these, they take up space and are not currently useful. However project clothes are the hardest category for me to cull. I have to let go of how I imagine they could be. Sometimes I have to let go of a shiny possibility in order to make room for a useful necessity.

All of this makes it sound like I spend lots of time and money considering my clothes. I don’t. I buy new things a couple of times per year and most of my “new” things are second hand via a thrift store. Usually these shopping expeditions occur in the the nerotic pre-public-appearance stressful time where I become convinced that everything I own looks horrible. A couple of new items can stave off that feeling for about half a year. Hopefully my new Pinterest board will not prompt me to be more spendy, but will instead help me have a clear picture of how to spend money carefully on things I really want and can use instead of a closet full of project clothes which I have no time to fix.

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