Rox and Roll

Homework: A Play, with a Point

The Play

The Characters: Petunia, 11, 6th grade; Dash, 6, 1st grade; Mama

Act One:

Dash: "Mama, am I supposed to have Math homework?"

Mama: "No."

Dash: "I think I'm supposed to have Math homework.  The teacher is sending home math packets in my Friday Folder."

Mama: "That's right, the teacher is sending home Everyday Math homework sheets in your Friday Folder, but they're optional, and we're not doing them."

Dash: "Why?  Some kids are doing them and even handing them in, and sometimes the teacher mentions it."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama Does say: "Do you want to do math homework?"

Dash: "Not really."

Mama: "Okay, then, I'll check in with your teacher about that, but I also want to tell you that we're doing math when we play Monopoly City -- that's counting money -- or Yahtzee -- also counting.  When you grab the measuring tape at Ikea and measure things, you're doing math.  When we're working on your numismatism (side note: he loves that word)..."

Dash: "All that's math.  I get it.  So what's the deal with the homework?  Some kids need to do fun math instead of homework math I guess."

[end scene]

Act Two:

Mama: "Petunia, I'm going to back to school night!  Sitter Man is here.  See you in a few hours!"

Petunia: "Alright, Mom, I just started my math homework."

Three, almost four hours later:

Mama: "Thanks sitter man, I'm home!"

Petunia emerges from her room, bleary-eyed: "Mama, I'm still doing my math homework."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama does say: "I think I'd better take a look... (looks)... Umm, Petunia?  On each of these days, you're supposed to pick one of three assignments to do.  And since this syllabus covers the whole week, it appears that you've done every assignment on every day until ... wow, half of Thursday."

What Petunia does say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

Followed by: "Why don't they have a class on 'how to read a syllabus?"

Followed by: "Whooo-hooo!  I won't have any math homework all week now!"

Followed by: "And now I need to go to bed."

[end scene]

*****

The point

I am a bit disturbed that my son, Dash, at age only-6, and in only-1st grade, is feeling some kind of homework pressure.  Perhaps I could choose to look at it as him just "noticing" that kids are turning in work; but, from his facial expression, I could see that it was causing him a bit of anxiety.  He thought he was not doing something that he was supposed to be doing.  Even though the homework is optional, he's noticing that kids are doing it -- and that's bothering me.  Are parents billing it as "fun" to their kids?  Or, more likely, knowing my school, are they selling it as academically important?  The kids, according to my son, have a sense of accomplishment as they wave their little papers around saying "I did my homework!" -- so, in turn, my son is not getting that sense of "hey, I did something to please the teacher" and, thus, has all of the awkwardness that comes with that when one is only-6.  Since I was a vocal opponent of this math curriculum when it was adopted in 2009, I feel pretty awkward about it, too.  I feel like trying to engage the teacher in a discussion about it risks being interpreted as my ongoing defiance about the program instead of my concerns about the tenor of the classroom when it comes to optional work. In the end, I'm not really sure how I'll resolve that, but I do know this: I will not buy into academic competition when my son is 6.  He will learn reading, writing, and arithmetic, and, as mentioned above, there are some ways we supplement that work (Monopoly, etc.) that he doesn't even realize.  But there are parents sending their kids for math tutoring in 1st grade.  I put my foot down.  And, also, @#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!

When it comes to Petunia, my commentary is more general.  Wow, does she ever have too much homework.  She's hitting her stride when it comes to math now, and she's figured out how to read the syllabus, but there is so. much. to. organize.  Binders and books and papers and files and sports equipment and gym clothes and one very cumbersome trumpet.  The Guv is bothered that she's not biking to school, and I'm trying to invent a UHaul bike trailer, 'cause that's how much crap she takes back and forth.  I finally bought a second math book (used, $16, whoo-hoo!) to leave at home, but that doesn't take care of the rest of the stuff.  When I was in 6th grade, I had little if any homework, a desk in which I kept my papers, and I didn't change classes.  Petunia has two lockers (one for books and such, one for gym) and changes for every class.  Her backpack is too heavy with no signs of lightening.  Perhaps because she's in private school, she has 2x the homework any of her public school friends have -- AND, unlike them, she doesn't get a packet on Friday that she can start doing over the weekend (apparently, that Friday Folder thing continues for public school kids, and the work in it isn't "optional" later on).  So she lugs stuff after sports practice (her self-proclaimed "release") every day at 5:15, all the way to my car, 'cause it's too heavy.  They have four no-homework days per year.  She is living in a halfway place, perfectly balanced between being happier than I've ever seen her at her all-girl school and more stressed than I've ever seen her or than any sixth-grader should be.  I wonder: is it worth it?  She'd say yes.  The reasons we put her in this school, most especially the all-girl thing, are still the most important ... but I have to wonder: is this much homework at age 11 necessary and important -- or possibly detrimental to her overall wellbeing, even if she's not staying up to do four hours of math per night as she already once did? 

I have no answers, just a bit of vexation, for I've heard that the bigger kids get, the bigger their problems get, and I'm having an inkling of that from both kids.  Somehow, without all of that work they're doing, starting "optionally" in 1st grade, I still ended up with an Ivy League diploma on my wall.  I didn't have much academic stress, ever, and I'm not that much smarter than them, if at all. 

As their mom, I can say "no" to the optional work, and I can make Petunia turn off her light, go to bed, and encourage her to not see grades as the be-all and end-all (and make sure that we're reflecting that in our reaction to bad ones) ... but no matter how much I do for them, I wonder: how did we get to this point?  Is it good for our kids?  And how would we ever change it now?  Are there schools out there (middle school and high schools, esp.) that have NO homework?  Do those kids get into Yale too? 

Something seems very wrong, here, with this homework business.  I smell a rat, or a ruse, and I suspect the problem is not with our kids at all and maybe not even with their teachers but with Other Parents making their kids do more, better, faster, higher-level, etc.  That scares me more than the federal deficit or war or poverty or hunger because here is something we can control, and we've made it it's own out-of-control thing.  How do we get back to an age of reason?  Is it too late?

Eleven

Today, my daughter, Petunia, turned 11, though we kicked off the celebration yesterday at 9:17 p.m. PST, which is equivalent to 12:17 a.m. EST, which is when she was actually born.  (Follow that?)  That 17 minutes made the difference in my ability to stay in the hospital with her a whole extra day, so I'm pretty glad that I was on EST then.  Since that was my first baby, I wanted that extra day of hands-on help from a lactation consultant, especially, and I'm grateful for it, even though Petunia was nearly two weeks overdue and should've been home already.  And come home, she did, on September 26, to a tiny little one bedroom apartment in New Haven, Connecticut, where she lived her first nine months smack dab in the middle of us -- the Guv, a b-school student, and me, a b-school admissions officer, and about 200 of our closest friends who were always holding Petunia. 

Now, I have a theory on the effect of that crowdsourcing of child-holding on Petunia's nature: it made her love the world.  She never has friends who are just like her.  She has friends from every walk of life, of every color, of every faith, of both sexes, from every imaginable kind of home, from all around the world ... friends who are rich, friends who aren't, friends with disabilities, friends to whom she's their only friend ... she just loves people.  And she loves them for who they are, for all the good things they have inside them.  And she'll find that good in just about anybody.  She even finds that good in people she shouldn't, but I'm probably never going to try to fix that because I don't think that's a broken thing.  If I add up all of those 200 people who were holding her for her first year of life, I can see what they gave her: the man who really wanted to be a dad, who carried around Purell in his shirt pocket just so he'd be ready and clean if she came around (even though I was never that disciplined about carrying Purell myself!), gave her the sense that people that weren't family could care for her.  The girl who had never held a baby before, who was so nervous when she held Petunia -- Petunia helped give her confidence, and she gave Petunia the sense that not knowing your way is okay sometimes.  The coworker who I really wasn't sure whether or not s/he liked me (I have to be ambiguous here) was among the first to show up at my house with food for me and gifts for her -- showing Petunia that help can come from unexpected sources.  All these people together, and many more, taught our whole family that it the best way to raise a child is in a village.  And in that village, we were all loved -- but most of all, Petunia was.  She was everyone's baby, and she was all good, all easy, all smiles.

And she has stayed exactly the same for 11 (actually, beginning the 12th!) years. 

Our first family village is back in New Haven this weekend, celebrating their 10th b-school reunion.  The Guv opted to stick around here in NorCal, not wanting to leave Petunia on her birthday, even with her blessing.  I'm bummed for him -- for all of us, actually, 'cause those are some good friends -- but I know they understand.  But to that village, I offer a humble note of thanks, because they are part of what made our kid what she is today.  I appreciated the many gifts they gave to our family that year.

And to the kid who, due on 9-11, arrived 13 days late, on 9-24, I offer these special thoughts as she embarks on her 12th year of life:

Petunia, never forget that you are part of something bigger than yourself.  You are growing into womanhood and, with that, developing some skepticism, even some cynicism at times, about some big topics like war and government and what "rights" are fundamental for people -- and how those views vary from person to person.  You're coming to realize that there are a lot of things on which people don't agree, and some of these may be Big Things.  You may feel you have to make a choice or take a side -- and, with that, it may feel like your Village is not so Whole after all.  But, actually, I hope you'll go back to the Village from which you came to pick up on those simple lessons: people can be from very different walks of life, but they can still hold you, they can still feed you, and they can still help you to find your way on this crazy path of Life -- even if they're very different from you.  What makes those differences okay is your acceptance of them, which is something that has always been central to your life.  In this world that is divisive, you are inclusive.  It is a real blessing for you and for all who know you.

As you embark on your 12th year, my wish for you is simple, though it is actually a very Big Wish for a pre-adolescent: just be who you are, for who you are is a beautiful young woman who brings so much happiness to her Village.

Love you - Mama xo

 

So, the thing about parenthood ...

Someone recently told me that I'm not writing enough about my kids anymore.  Yeah, so, about that ... two words: Middle School, and one more: Dash.

When I think back to 6th grade, it was the last grade of elementary school where I lived, not the first year of junior high (which, where I live now, is called middle school).  So it wasn't a big deal, except for me, because my parents sent me to a Catholic school across the river that year.  It's not that I'd been rotten or anything; my siblings were in school there, and it was an opportunity to be in a different social situation.  It was also an opportunity to eat the world's best grilled cheese and tomato soup on Fridays as well as an opportunity to realize how very un-holy nuns can be.  (I know, God strike me down for saying that, but, really, they actually did rap knuckles, including mine, once, for taking out my retainer without permission.) 

So, anyway, besides my being in a different school whose motto was "grilled cheese with a side of corporal punishment and Eric spitting out the sacrament and learning what a visit from the holy spirit really meant" ... 6th grade wasn't such a big deal.

But now, Petunia has started middle school, at a new school -- at a new all-girls, seriously academic school -- and whooo-eee, do I miss Sister Mary Beatyoulikeadrum, 'cause that was easier to deal with than this homework.  And sports schedule.  And "Mom can I study in the library 'cause I want to be gone from 7:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. everyday" schedule.

Petunia is happier than she's ever been in her life.  She's working harder, and I actually heard her say the words, "I don't know why, but I'm actually excited to do my homework tonight!" last Thursday.  There must be something in the water at that magical school, or maybe that's the place on which Hogwarts is based.  Anyhoo, she's happy, she's working hard, and she's gone.  G-o-n-e.  When she is home, she's working, and if we squeeze in an hour of family time each day during the week, we're lucky.  It is what it is.  She's growing up, quite well, and she even has a weekly grilled cheese and tomato soup lunch without the side of yardstick across her knuckles.  Girl doesn't even know how lucky she is.

As for that other kid, the dementor Dash, there is First Grade.  He has the teacher he hoped for, declaring her "the nicest."  But he pretty much hates it.  He's reading Harry Potter at home; he has no patience for Chrysanthemum.  He does not feel he needs to write, or write neatly, because, as Petunia has shown, in 6th grade, he'll have a laptop.  So who cares about his stupid penmanship?  He's going to be an archaeologist someday and needs to know hieroglyphics.  What is the point of first grade, anyway? He's not thrilled to be there, and he's also not eating his lunch, again.  Since the school day is longer than it was in kindergarten, when he could eat a Luna bar and be content, this is a big deal.  It is an even bigger deal because some little asshole girl told him that Luna bars are made from luna moths, so he's been eating bugs for a year.  Since he can't take almond butter with honey -- total peanut and tree nut ban in effect -- he's been experimenting with starvation.  One day, he'll eat a cheese roll; the next day, he'll declare the same thing inedible.  Then he'll eat plain ravioli; the next day, nothing.  It's a stop-and-start experiment that is failing.  On the "nothing" days, he comes home angry.  As I sit him atop the kitchen counter, forcing him to remain there until he's eaten a healthy mini-meal, he screams things at me like, "Mom, you're ruining my happy life," or worse, "I won't starve to death, and I'll prove it."  (Oh, but he will.  He is the kid who would rather starve than eat, and we're sooooo not going there.)  After he finally does give in to ingesting a modicum of food, twenty minutes later, he finds me (usually curled up in a ball in my closet hiding from his fury) and apologizes.  "Must've been hungry," he says, as he hugs me.  "Love you mom."

So, the thing about parenthood, is that it's hard.  In times like these, it's hard to write about.  To my friends who have not yet entered preadolescence, to my friends who don't have a child with an eating disorder (which is what it is), they don't get it.  I get useless advice like "just make him eat."  Or "have you tried...?" which sometimes leads to a great suggestion but, usually, is just someone trying to prove me wrong -- that, actually, my child does eat enough to live, even if it's only a few things, not understanding that he won't even eat those few things consistently so, therefore, it actually is a crisis.  Every other day.  And that's hard.

Parents of newborns?  You have it easy.  Your colic, witching hour, sleepless nights ... that's the easy stuff.  Just wait until they grow up and you have bigger problems.

See why I haven't been blogging?  It's not nice for me to say that.  And frankly, it's not nice to my kids, who are both, in the end, doing wonderfully.  Petunia is happy, and Dash thinks he's going to Hogwarts in sixth grade.  I'm just very, very tired and in need of a week in Hawaii with no one demanding anything of me except the pool boy, wondering if I'll have a pina colada, a lava flow, or a strawberry daiquiri.  Decisions, decisions...

So that's my parenthood update for this week.  Another one is coming soon, because oohhhhh boy, Petunia is turning 11.  I can't handle the truth. 

Where's that daiquiri?

Marking ten years, for Todd

For the past five years in which I've been blogging, I've offered up 9-11 tributes here on Rox and Roll.  In some ways, these posts are the hardest to write, since we lived in the greater NY area and saw, smelled, and felt the devastation of these attacks from too close-by.  In other ways, these posts write themselves, for I just let myself share what I'm feeling a little more freely than usual. 

This year, much of what's in my mind to share are snapshots and bits and pieces, not so much of the Towers falling but, rather, of friends -- and not so much of friends who perished that day, but of friends whose lives were changed forever, many of whom I saw at my high school reunion earlier this summer.  Beyond the indescribable horrors many living friends saw that day, there are little things, like the voice of my friend calling, the one who worked on the 80-somethingth floor, telling me she's alive -- and the voice of another friend, calling to ask the fate of that one who lived as well as that of another who died, and the silence that followed.  I can close my eyes and hear those conversations in my head as if it were yesterday, not a decade ago, and if there's one thing I know, it's that I'd never wish those phone calls on anyone -- and, that day, I had dozens upon dozens.  I was home with my baby, and everyone knew it.  I was the listmaker, the tracker of lives, and every last phone call was the same, "do you know?"

Do you know?

Over the last decade, I've had friends who stayed in New York out of a need to prove that they can survive there, friends who left in fear, and friends everywhere in between.  We've had family stay on their same block smack dab in the middle of the single most diverse zip code in America (that would be Brooklyn, 11218).  We moved away for work, but we still do the same thing every year on 9-11: we go to the beach.  We do this because I drove to the water, ten years ago, as the horrors of 9-11 were unfolding, to get away from my ringing phone, to take in some peace in something concrete and beautiful.  The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and that never changes.  There are rip currents and hidden dangers, but the tide doesn't sleep.  It comes in, it goes out.  I breathed with the tide that day, in, and out.  It was all I think many of us could do: just breathe.

A decade has passed since 9-11, and, unfortunately, I don't think a single day has passed without my remembering every feeling I had that day.  I doubt a single day ever will.

I also am attuned to every feeling I've had since.  I'm a person who needs to fundamentally believe that people are good and that we live in a just world, I can't help but wish that the tragedy of 9-11 hadn't given birth to war abroad as well as domestic battles that pit crosses versus mosques.  I've heard more hate in the past decade directed toward "others" than I've heard in my life -- hate directed at some of my friends, just for being born Muslim.  It is sometimes very hard to bear the amount of hate that came out of that day; hate has no part in its legacy.

Fortunately, our alma mater started a scholarship fund in honor of our lost friend, and the legacy of a boy from a hardworking single mom in New York going to prep school and a fine college then ending up working atop the world, at Cantor Fitzgerald, can be remembered through the recipient of his scholarship: another kid given a chance.  And each year, what I hope for that kid is that he sees a day when people aren't judged by the color of their skin, or by their creed, but by the content of their character -- something Martin Luther King Jr. called for decades before these attacks, in a time when those who were black, like my lost friend, were held to a different standard, just like American Muslims are today.  It's just not right, and we owe my friend, and his scholarship recipient, and each other (in general) better than that. 

Thus, this year, I offer an affirmation from the United Presbyterian Church, the church of my childhood, based on Dr. King's teachings:

I refuse to believe that we are unable to influence the events which surround us.

I refuse to believe that we are so bound to racism and war, that peace, brotherhood and sisterhood are not possible.

I believe there is an urgent need for people to overcome oppression and violence, without resorting to violence and oppression.

I believe that we need to discover a way to live together in peace, a way which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of this way is love.

I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. I believe that right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.

I believe that peoples everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education and culture for their minds, and dignity, equality and freedom for their spirits.

I believe that what self-centered people have torn down, other-centered people can build up.

By the goodness of God at work within people, I believe that brokenness can be healed. "And the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, and everyone will sit under their own vine and fig tree, and none shall be afraid."

I offer this post in memory of all of those affected on 9-11, and especially in memory of Todd.  Friend, rest in peace.

Back to School Recipe(s): The Easiest Pulled Pork Ever (and what to do with it)

My daughter Petunia and I love love love pulled pork, but, I confess, I'd never actually made it myself until this week.  Since Petunia just started middle school and is overwhelmed with the giant step up in homework, activities, and everything else, I thought I'd try to make it for her as comfort food.  (Don't get me wrong: she's very, very happy in her new school -- just very, very busy, too!)  I scoured the internet for recipes, and I didn't find any that were just right -- so I made one up from "best practices," greatly simplified.  I am not so experimental with meat -- plainly, it costs too much if I screw up! -- but felt like this would work.  I'm glad I went with my gut, because I came up with:

The Easiest Pulled Pork Ever!

Ingredients:

• A 3-pound pork shoulder butt: yours might be labelled pork shoulder, or pork butt, but, trust this farm girl, it's all a reference to the lower part of a pig shoulder (also known as pork blade shoulder butt), which is actually called "shoulder butt" for short
• One sweet onion, sliced in rings (optional; I just like some cooked sweet onions with my pulled pork)
• One 12-ounce can or bottle of root beer (I used Virgil's)

Directions:

• Lay half of the onion rings in the bottom of a slow cooker (crockpot).
• Place the pork shoulder butt atop, fat side up.  (There's always one side that's fattier.)
• Place the rest of the onion rings on top and around the sides.
• Pour the rootbeer over the roast.
• Set your crockpot on high for four hours.
• Then turn it down to low for four-six hours.  (Alternately, you could set it on high for an hour, then turn it down to low until dinnertime, 10-12 hours later.)
• Remove the meat from the cooker; turn cooker to "keep warm" setting if you need to keep the meat warm for a while, or turn it off if you're going to eat right away.
• Through a colander, dump out the liquid (don't retain it).  Place onions and whatever tiny bits of meat remain in colander in a bowl to serve alongside the pork.
• Scrape off any remaining fat from the pork and discard.  (Most will have melted away.)
• Using two forks, or even your fingers, shred the meat.

THAT"S IT! 

Serving ideas:

My family made several meals out of this. 

Meal One:

• Shredded meat heaped on a plate with toppings on the side: cooked onions, cole slaw, barbeque sauce (we used Organicville, a new brand at Whole Foods, which is gluten-free and very good)
• Baked golden potatoes: I stab small golden potatoes with a fork all over, rub them lightly in my hands with olive oil and a tiny bit of kosher salt, and microwave four of them at at time on a plate ... my micro has a setting for "baked potatoes," so it times itself (about 5 minutes).  You'll know they're done when a knife passed through them like butter.  Because of the olive oil and salt, we often eat these plain, or with a small dollop of butter or drizzle of olive oil.
• Peas: We've been loving English peas, which we hand-shell at the table and eat raw

Meal Two:

• Pork tacos: microwave corn tortillas under a damp paper towl for 30 seconds; fill with warmed pork, guacamole or sliced avocado, and chopped tomatoes or pico de gallo (we often skip the cheese ... they're flavorful enough without it, and it just adds fat and calories; I'd rather the kids get calcium by drinking skim milk)
• Mexican rice: I confess, I bought it at Mi Pueblo, where I also bought the guac and salsa
• Muskmelon slices: The kid who eats veggies wanted a break from greens, and this yummy thing came in our CSA box ... it took care of a fruit serving and felt like dessert (which we don't eat every meal, so that's a good thing!)

Meal Three:

• Pork melts: One piece of bread (I use spelt, since I'm wheat-allergic) topped with pork, barbeque sauce, and a very light dusting of Kraft 2% shredded cheddar cheese, toasted in a 350-degree oven for about 15 minutes (this varies widely, so check in about 10 minutes) ... alternately, warm the pork first, and broil for < 5 minutes.  (I dislike broiling -- too hot!)
• Baked potatoes (again)
• Veggie crudite (also known as cleaning out the fridge!): baby carrots, broccoli, celery, tomato wedges

And that's it.  Next time, I'm going to make ropa vieja -- which is spicy shredded beef with many more ingredients, so it won't make my back-to-school list!  (But if it's good, I'll post the recipe.)

Bon appetit!