Easter dress, 3 weeks late

I love sewing dresses for Alice. She is still so small I can buy the expensive fabrics - but I only need 3/4 yd! Especially if, like this year, I hem the dress extra short to show off the eyelet on her Hanna slip.

This one: Ralph Lauren celery linen, made my own bias tape for armholes with every inch of the scraps, cut the skirt on the bias, and added the little beaded flower trim which claimed to be machine washable - and has survived very well.

Total spent on dress: $13

Relief

I was much more nervous than G. He was calm, sitting through nearly an hour of older kids playing. When it was his turn he took the stage, exchanged smiles with his accompanying guitar player, and played away. His songs were the simplest ones we heard, he was probably the youngest kid there, he certainly has been playing the least amount of time, (he didn't even know any songs at Christmas!) but it was beautiful. He knew he played his songs well, and that was what he'd worked for - doing the best he was capable of. I think he actually thought it was fun.

Conquering the Chart

Yesterday, after two weeks of daily hour-long practice sessions, we crossed off the last box on The Chart.
378 songs over two weeks. (Well, 3 songs 378 times)

The fiddle competition is Saturday morning, we are all ready.
I can only hope that G will come out of all this with at least a smidge
of satisfaction and motivation after all the work he's put into it.

I'll be sure to add pictures and an update on Saturday.

dressing up is dead, here

I think it is Disney that killed dressing up.

As I can recall, dressing up once involved putting on old clothing. Scarves or anything with a flowing texture, old high-heeled shoes with leather so worn the shoes creased flat, bridesmaid dresses that had turned slightly yellow with stiff lace. Dressing up was completed by one very important element: the leap a girl's imagination had to make in order to turn a pile of dusty old clothes into a princess. Maybe this is the root of my self-esteem issues! Always imagining a princess but seeing crusty lace. How could I ever truly believe I was a princess with reality staring back from the full-length mirror in the hall? A Miss Havisham more like!

If the trade-off is having a daughter act like mine does these days - I will have the crusty lace back thank you. Gone are the days of needing a leap of imagination. These days, you want princess - you get princess. No mind-bending required. You can be any Disney princess - simply a step in and three velcro strips away from an exact replica of Sleeping Beauty. She doesn't have to dream of being a princess, she is one. And seriously, she puts that thing on and I realize that Disney's lame attempts to talk about how princesses are about kindness (blah blah) are completely lost on our little royal. She has the "Why am I subject to the poor service of such incompetent help?" mentality. Once the garb is donned, the only things she says are some variation of the following (you will have to imagine the shrill shrieking tone)
"Where is my crown?"
"Fix my pretty shoes!"
"My crown is falling off, not on right, pulling my hair, etc. Come fix it right this second!"

It is Anastasia and Drizella, not Cinderella - that passive, kind to animals, slave.

I think if you aren't wearing Sleeping Beauty's dress you don't really expect the scarves to fit the way you expect your pink jeweled tiara to fit.

fiddle sticks!

G is participating in a fiddle competition next Saturday afternoon.
I will spare you all and not delve into the battle that this preparation has been against all his underachieving therefore perfectionist tendencies. If I could not be grateful for the incredible blessing of sanctification this is for him - he would certainly be quitting the violin! Or I would be quitting my senses, my very sanity.

One aspect of preparation is The Chart. The Chart requires that he play all three of his pieces (the required hoedown, waltz, free piece) 9 times each day and mark the appropriate boxes. So, even on Saturday when The Chart was new to us - by about repetition #4 there were tears, doom and gloom, and (sorry to say) some very stern frustrated lecturing involved. (read: yelling, empty threatening. I didn't say the sanctification has been limited to him!) I am pleased to say that our meetings with The Chart have gone relatively smoothly since the first go-round. Granted we are more in the, do what we have to to survive and get through it without having to go right to bed mode. Tonight's session involved the last five repetitions of the hoedown morphed into an all-out jam session with Dad on guitar, Mom on mandolin, G on violin playing straight through five times.

When we finally made it through all the songs, I leaned toward G (having on my mind to drive him right out for ice cream for making it through Day 4 with The Chart) and said, "Maybe we should go for treat." His response, "I don't have much of a sweet tooth Mom, but I have sweet eyes. Can I stay up and watch American Idol?"

Underachievers Anon

I bought a book the other day in the hope that it would help me understand my son, and I met myself.

I think that it was last year at this time when I stood in my kitchen one morning and was hit with the following epiphany: It was not going to be possible to do all the things I want to do in this stage of life the way I want to do them. This was my list:

1. Keep house clean.
2. Feed husband and family well (meaning making good, healthy meals regularly)
3. Keep self fit
4. Spend time with kids in activities both educational and extremely exciting.
5. Be good friend to all friends.

Not a smidge unreasonable, right?

At that time we were eating out more than I can admit and still post this with any shred of dignity. The house was so dusty I had to sit down on the sofa quite gingerly so as not to aggravate my allergies. I was letting the daughter watch more TV than I would allow myself to watch - but I was exercising every day and lifting weights and strength training and feeling great. Everything else was a mess.
The cycle reversed as the home situation became impossible to ignore any longer. I stopped exercising and we all ate better, the house was not any better but I spent time with daughter (after the 2 weeks of TV withdrawal symptoms she experienced).
And so I have cycled through and around in any variation of some things ignored completely, some things done well, and a constant nagging sense that I was not measuring up to what I should be able to do as a mother with a daughter in preschool two mornings a week and a son in school full time and no other gainful employment.

Simultaneously, I have been in the midst of a long (years long) decision process as related to G's educational future. (Well, for next year at least) I have done countless hours of research about homeschooling and curriculum. I have talked to elementary teachers that I know and trust. I have talked to G's teacher that he has had for two years now. The husband and I have discussed it at long, long length. I have bored many friends talking through my thoughts aloud. I have been at a long standstill lately, so fearful of moving forward and deciding anything final.

I wandered through the bookstore on Friday, children both at school, and I had another epiphany of sorts. I was having difficulty moving forward with this decision because I don't really know my son that well. I don't understand him, his mind, the way he learns - him related to education well enough to take on doing it myself.

There have been these fragments of realization throughout Kindergarten and 1st grade - he struggles with some aspects of dyslexia. Although he has catapulted into the world of readers at this point, he definitely has some phoenetic processing difficulties. Rhymes and sounds of words do not process in his head the way they should. He does not remember words of songs easily - rhyming endings do not prompt him as to the next line coming. He has difficulty organizing details and information. These things, in a certain form of direction or to-do lists, overwhelm him into inaction and frustration as indicated by his backpack stuffed full of crumpled papers, his desk stuffed full of papers, his mind stuffed full of snippets of information.

His parent teacher conferences are like time warps for me. I sit and as his teacher begins to trace her finger through his marks, through his math work and writing journal; I am a child again. I remember the same words, repeated about me year after year, average grade after average grade. "Jessica is such a bright girl, her grades and effort are not what they should be considering her abilities. She is often calling out in class, talking to the students around her and distracting her classmates."

I feel small as I hear my son described this same way. I feel the helpless shame all coming back. I want to do better for him. I know how it feels to feel as if speaking out or talking to friends nearby is absolutely impossible to resist. I know how changing the teacher's or parent's perception seems so impossible that applying myself to the daily busy work feels useless in light of a larger, looming, unattainable goal of approval. Making the other students laugh is easy, immediate, feeds a desire for acceptance, makes him feel better about himself. I understand it. I understand him, in part.

I am out of time in the bookstore and as I hurry out a book catches my eye.
The Unmotivated Child
Willing myself to buy it, despite what I could save buying it from Amazon, I am already reading it in line.

So, he's an underachiever. He knows that he is capable of the work, but sees no reason to perform well through the daily desk work. He doesn't view his work as a reflection of his capabilites, doesn't want to be judged for what he produces, and therefore avoids truly investing in anything that could be subject to scrutiny (read: criticism). He is insecure of his position among his peers and seeks to please them primarily, driven by their acceptance and approval to a better self-image. Education does not factor into his survival mechanisms at all. He is driven by his peers. Learning is inadvertant, accidental, something he tolerates because of the socializing opportunities he is afforded. Oh, he does enough to get things done, avoid punishment, or earn extra play time - but doing anything to show what he is capable of is not considered. He doesn't care that each little paper adds up to a picture of him as a student.

But, what I really learn is that I am an underachiever. I have always had an inkling that this was the case; but back to my list. I wanted to do everything perfectly, or it wasn't worth doing. How can I make this huge decision to homeschool my underachieving son - when I am my own mess of underachievement? How can I risk epic failure with something so important? I was only a senior seminar from finishing my MEd and still doubt my competence to spend a year teaching my son 2nd grade? Do I have a shred of self-confidence?

I know that doing parts of my list, imperfectly, is a worthwhile venture. It is the point. Parenting imperfectly is still worth doing despite the days that feel like epic disasters. It is the point. G is a big picture, an entire life that I get to be a big part of for a time. The real question is, fear of failure or imperfection aside, what are the details worth persisting through with him? What is the point?

Eggs!

Six adults, five kids, 57 eggs to dye

A. monopolizes the pink:

Learning that we need to use a spoon to remove the eggs from the dye:

G. waits patiently for the egg to darken:

Good Friday

from The Temple (1633), by George Herbert:

a portion from The Sacrifice.
O all ye who passe by, behold and see;

Man stole the fruit,but I must climbe the tree;
The tree of life to all, but onely me:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
Lo, here I hang, charg’d with a world of sinne,
The greater world o’ th’ two; for that came in
By  words, but this by sorrow I must win:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
Such sorrow as, if sinfull man could feel,
Or feel his part, he would not cease to kneel.
Till all were melted, though he were all steel:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
But, O my God, my God! why leav’st thou me,
The sonne, in whom  thou dost delight to be?
My God, my God ------
                                              Never was grief like mine. 
Shame tears my soul, my bodie many a wound;
Sharp nails pierce this, but sharper that confound;
Reproches, which are free, while I am bound.
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
Now heal thy self, Physician; now come down.
Alas! I did so, when  I left my crown
And fathers smile for you, to feel his frown:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
In healing not my self, there doth consist
All that salvation, which ye now resist;
Your safetie in my sicknesse doth subsist:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
Betwixt two theeves I spend my utmost breath,
As he that for some robberie suffereth.
Alas! what have I stollen from you?  Death.
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
A king my title is, prefixt on high;
Yet by my subjects am condemn’d to die
A servile death in servile companie:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
They give me vineger mingled with gall,
But more with malice: yet, when they did call,
With Manna, Angels food, I fed them all:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
They part my garments, and by lot dispose
My coat, the type of love, which once cur’d those
Who sought for help, never malicious foes:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
Nay, after death their spite shall further go;
For they will pierce my side, I full well know;
That as sin came, so Sacraments might flow:
                                              Was ever grief like mine? 
But now I die; now all is finished.
My wo, mans weal[th]:and now I bow my head.
Only let others say, when I am dead,
                                              Never was grief like mine.

Maundy Thursday

Leonardo da Vinci:
The Last Supper (1)
oil and tempera on plaster, ca. 1495/98
Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan



Christina Rossetti

St. Peter once: ‘Lord, dost thou wash my feet?’—

Much more I say: Lord, dost thou stand and I
At my closed heart more rugged than a rock,
Bolted and barred, for thy soft touch unmeet,
Nor garnished nor in any wise made sweet?

Owls roost within and dancing satyrs mock.
Lord, I have heard the crowing of the cock
And have not wept: ah, Lord, though knowest it,
Yet still I hear thee knocking, still I hear:
‘Open to me, look on me eye to eye,
That I may wring thy heart and make it whole;
And teach thee love because I hold thee dear
And sup with thee in gladness soul with soul,
And sup with thee in glory by and by.’

Entry into Jerusalem, revisited

G's attempt to recreate Giotto in paper mosiac.
(Not quite completed yet, however.)
Tearing small bits of paper and gluing them individually
has been a time-consuming diversion for Spring Break.
(If you click on the image, you get a very large version)

Art Appreciation, Palm Sunday

Giotto ca. 1267 – 1337

Entry into Jerusalem

fresco (200 × 185 cm) — 1304-06
Cappella Scrovegni (Arena Chapel), Padua

Dinner, Palm Sunday

The DH (darling husband) got a surprise email from an old high school friend who he last saw nearly 12 years ago. Being the gregarious, outgoing fellow he is - he invited this old friend, his wife, and their 2 young children for dinner. My only restriction, the wife doesn't like Mexican cuisine.
Menu for the evening to follow - capped off by (thanks to the spring-signifying drop in price of a half-flat (6 pints) of strawberries) mounds of sliced strawberries tossed with a little turbinado sugar and grated lemon peel on brown sugar shortcakes and whipped cream. (Just a little dollop the DH whipped by hand. Did you know it's faster to whip cream by hand than with a mixer?)

It was a very nice evening, catching up all those years. The back and forth stories (we have been through an unbelievable amount together in the last 12 years!) that everyone has told to others so many times. The awkward moment where DH annouces how he despises Disneyland. (that always manages to offend someone here in SoCal) Our bonding moment occurring near the end. Alice was sitting near their son, Brandon, watching Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang - and we noticed they were holding hands. I commented to her about it and she replied, "Because I yuv Him!"


Grilled Chicken, Red Onion, & Mint Kebabs
Greek Salad
Flatbread (from Trader Joe's) brushed with olive oil, sprinkled with sea salt, warmed in the oven
Gigantic deep purple grapes
Strawberry Shortcakes with Brown Sugar Biscuits (this is the recipe I referred to, but modified quite a bit. Omitted white chocolate stuff, mint from the strawberries, no white sugar - only 2T of turbinado. Made the shortcakes as is.)
a white wine

Art Appreciation, Day 3

Peter Paul Rubens:
The Adoration of the Magi
oil on canvas, 1617-18
Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon

Art Appreciation, Day 2

Titian:
The Crowning with Thorns
oil on canvas, ca. 1570 - 1576
Alte Pinakothek, Munich

17 And they clothed him with purple, and platted a crown of thorns, and put it about his head,

Art Appreciation

Eugène Burnand:
Peter and John Running to the Tomb
oil on canvas, 1898
Musée d'Orsay, Paris

No Child Left Behind

That is, as long as you aren't learning English as a 2nd language, poor or otherwise disenfranchised, or disabled in some way. In that case - whatever.

I promise the political posts are simply coincidence and will stop as soon as it ceases to peeve me royally. In California we employ a little testing system called the Academic Performance Index. All the students in all the public schools (K-12) are given a standardized test for each grade level and the state comes up with a score that they use to measure a school's performance against the rest of the public schools in California. A score of at least 800 is considered passing. Also, they publish these scores in the local paper so you can read about and feel better than everyone else or worse than everyone else. Or good enough, I guess.

Now, this is great for (and I read through the detailed scores on their website for all the schools in our district) the schools with the highest number of wealthy white kids. For example, the desired school in our town for elementary students is Mound. Mound scored 960 (which is very,very high) - but of 377 kids who tested there less than 50 were non-white, poor, ESL, and/or disabled. None of these statistics were considered numerically significant enough to even separate them out of the main score. They did consider the white students score of 962 worthy of noting on the website. Nice!

Next, Serra Elementary - school to my niece and nephew. They tested 361 kids for a total score of 854. But here they have 120 non-white students who scored 805 as a group, 97 poor kids who scored 793, and nearly 60 ESL or disabled kids who were not considered numerically significant. (Notice, it's not about kids or learning - but about the math) The white students (238), as a group, scored 874.

So, between 2 schools with comparable attendance - a school where about 30% of kids are either non-native English speakers, economically disadvantaged, and/or disabled (kids who need assistance taking the test are counted as a failing score and this is added into the total, seriously) - and a school with 15% of kids in these categories (Mound was counted as having 1 ESL student) - are lumped together under one number and printed up in the paper like a competition. It's ridiculous.

G's school is such a mishmash of badly gathered data - hardly worth repeating. Loma Vista is the district magnet school for any students along the spectrum of hearing or sight disabilities. Therefore, 15% of 247 kids tested at G's school are disabled and counted as failing because the assistance they needed to take the test. That 15% doesn't even include another 25-30% of the students who are poor or ESL. They had a total of 834 and 879 among the 170 white students.

What's my problem? I guess it's the way schools with higher percentages of wealthy white kids are being advertised as the strongest academically - when this is not necessarily the case - and stronger students, with more involved parents are being driven to the same school. Then what?

He Was Dull in a New Way

and that made many people think him great. Samuel Johnson (1709-84)

"I don't care what people say. I like George Bush as President. I do, I like him. At least he has conviction.
People always want to blame things that go wrong on one person, but it can't be that simple. All this is Bush's fault? I couldn't even look at that slimy Bill Clinton."

Tuesday mornings I volunteer in childcare at our church's Womens' Bible Study. Perhaps it is seeing me in a church setting that indicates I would commiserate with such a sentiment - as expressed by one of the mothers this morning during pick-up. I nodded slightly, more of a reflex than a response. This conversation seems years old, tired, moot even. (If we could agree on moot, which I doubt considering neither of us see the topic as having a final assessment as uncertain.) I did find it difficult to believe that she could think this, so strongly, after everything that has happened. In the moment I discovered only one thing, I am so weary of politics. I am so tired of the circular discussion around liberation, deception, conviction, religion... on and on. When I didn't respond at first she pressed me further. "I am afraid for any minority Democrat (by this I am guessing she meant woman or black?) who might be elected, you know, because of assassination." Our pastor's 19 year old daughter works with me and here she piped up, "Yeah, I guess, considering Republicans are more likely to have guns." To this the mother replied, (to this teenager directly) "Well, are gang-bangers more likely to be Republican or Democrat?" She looked puzzled, I barely managed to stifle my guffaw. Oh, the list of problems with that question, line of thinking, ugh. It is so long my brain practically imploded on the spot and I could muster only a weak, "They probably don't vote." This is the problem with these discussions. Not to sound too condescending, although I do, it is a bit like trying to reason with a young child. Reason and logic and facts have no home here - only party lines, feelings, self-protection, and a very limited grasp of truth. Nowhere to go but another dead end where we end up debating whether the liberation of Iraq as an end (if we can say that anymore) justifies whatever brought us there in the first place.

Another Birthday

This morning I scrutinized my face in the mirror. I bent as closely as possible and, holding my breath to keep from masking the examination in fog, looked at my skin. It was only last August when I observed my face closely like this and saw no lines or wrinkles or anything to betray that I was no longer in my late, late 20's. (Ok, early 30's.)The second half of 2006 and first fourth of 2007 have been a veritable onslaught of death among family and friends, serious sickness among family and friends, house burning down, thousands of miles of travel in two or three days, exhaustion as I parent my strong-willed son with his tempest of an emotional life and my 3 year old daughter who simply must be a princess or pretty at all moments. I am a wife and housekeeper here. A daughter, sister, friend, neighbor on two coasts. I don't say these things for sympathy - simply stating the way my life is set, for now. The chance to be these things, to people I not only love, but like, is a privilege that brings me immense joy in every waking moment.
All these people to care about have taken their toll this year. The moments of overwhelming worry and concern. The nights lying awake, so close to or so far from hurting friends or family. As I looked at my face, I saw them very clearly. The fine lines, permanently showing and stretching a path down from my eyes. It is almost too much joy and sadness to contain inside my person. How can there be anymore years? I suppose becoming more forgetful helps with mental space. By next year perhaps I will have forgotten last year. I already have forgotten what I had for breakfast, this morning. So, there's hope on that front.
I am glad, today, that I was born and that I know all of you and that we have all been in this together. I know we won't mind it in each other, as we all grow old.

It also struck me that my parents are not that much older than me. That was a weird feeling.

Twilight Zone

Last night at Bunco - the room of 12 ladies was in it's one silent moment of the evening. The last round had been played and we all hunched over our score cards, tallying the final numbers. There was a new woman, a visitor to our group, sitting across from me. She suddenly asks me, "Do you have a sister?" "Yes," I say very slowly - thinking that, as usual, I look a lot like someone somebody knows. "Is her name Sarah?" A close friend of mine is sitting nearby and she gasps, a loud gasp for a quiet room. I say, too stunned to address the shocking coincidence, "Yes I do. She lives very far away though, so it is unlikely we are thinking of the same person. Have you lived somewhere else?" Turns out she has always lived in Ojai and has travelled very little and I look a bit like a Sarah who does home parties in Ojai. I am guessing that if this woman saw me with the Sarah I actually look quite similar to, she would not think I look much like her Sarah anymore.

It made me wish my Sarah did home parties in Ojai... but not for her sake.