Andrea's Poet's Corner

Evan Wants to Trade

2008-04-10T16:29:00.002-04:00

Evan and I were sitting outside playing with Moonsand, the messiest toy ever, and we were discussing the neighbor's dog, Emma, who was attached to a stake in front of her building, calmly watching her owner Al rake dog poo out of the lawn.

Evan: And what's that dog's name?

Me: That's Emma the dog.

Evan: Emma the dog.

Me: Yup.

Evan: Could I go over there to say hi to her?

Me, talking to owner: He wants to know if your dog is friendly.

Owner: Well, sometimes she is. She's still a puppy and isn't too used to people who live outside her house.

Evan: What did he say?

Me: Well, he said that it will take some time to become friends with Emma. She's a big dog, but she's still just a baby and she's very shy.

Evan: OK. I will say hi to her. Hi, Emma.

Me: Good job.

Evan: Hey mom, I have a great idea.

Me: What is it, Evan?

Evan: Mom, maybe you could leave to another town; and then my dad and my Grandma Marcie can get a dog for me.

Priceless.

Evan Sabotages my Attempt to be a Fun Mom

2007-12-12T13:49:00.000-05:00

Finally-- a beautiful winter day that isn't too frigid outside. When Evan came home from school today, I asked, "Hey, wanna play outside on the snow mountains with me? Maybe after we eat lunch?"

"YEAH!" was the enthusiastic reply.

So, after Evan ate lunch and watched a few Tom and Jerry cartoons, I started gathering up our winter gear. "Come on, let's go potty before we go outside."

"No, I don't wanna go potty."

"C'mon, Evan, you don't want to get your winter clothes all wet with peepee when we're outside."

"I'm not going peepee. I'm NOT."

"Yes, you have to before you play outside. I'm going to."

"No, I don't. I don't go peepee."

"OK, fine." I got my hat, coat, boots, and mittens on, and then went to find Evan, who was jumping on my bed and listening to classical music on NPR.

"Look at me, Mom, I'm dancing!"

"I see that. Let's go peepee and get ready to play outside."

"You have to catch me!" I try, mutiple times, and then give up. "Hahaha! Never to get me!" (That last one is his own version of "You'll never catch me.")

Finally, I get fed up. "Well, I'm going outside to play by myself. See you later." I grab my keys and leave the house. I just walk to the mailbox and back. I'm hoping that by the time I get back he will be so freaked out about being left alone that he'll want to come with me to play outside.

I go back in the house, and find Evan crying and coughing. "You can't go outside by yourself! I want to come!"

"Well, then, come play with me outside. Maybe we can find some Santa tracks. Maybe we can find some yellow snow where Marley the dog went peepee. Maybe we can see some Christmas stuff. Want to?" (I'm trying anything to get this kid outside. As I'm saying this stuff, I'm putting on his socks and boots, which he removes each time.)

"No! I want to play inside." He unzips my coat and pulls my hat off my head.

"Fine, Evan. What do you want to play? How about bowling?"

"No, no bowling."

"What do you want to play?"

"I don't want to play anything. Nothing."

"Nothing at all? How about a game?"

"NOTHING!"

"OK, well, I guess you can go in your room and sleep like a baby until you're ready to act nice to Mama and play outside."

"And go to get my bop!"

I find the bop, give it to him, and lay him down in bed. "And don't go anywhere, Mom. You can't go outside. STAY HOME!"

"God, you are so schizophrenic sometimes."

"I'm NOT a 'FRIENDIC'....."

I sigh and close his door. "Yeah, dude, whatever."

"You better not go anywhere! Mom! Mom! Do you listening to me?"

"Yeah, Evan, I won't go anywhere."

Sometimes three-year-olds are really really annoying. I'm trying to be a Fun Mom and Evan does everything in his wee power to sabotage it, which puts me in a bad mood. Why the hell did I spend money on snow boots (which are dreadfully ugly) if I'm not going to be able to use them at all? This is going to be a long-ass winter to be trapped inside, doing NOTHING, which is what Evan wants to do.

Thanksgiving highlights

2007-11-29T15:01:00.000-05:00

We spent the holiday weekend in Grand Rapids at our aunts' house. A great time was had by all: the food was splendid, and the company was very good, too.

However, the highlight of my weekend came on Wednesday night, when Angela, Evan, Aunt Janette, and me were playing instruments that Angela had brought on Evan's request. I was on the bamboo rattle, Evan was croaking out time with a wooden frog, Aunt Janette was on the "Hit Stix" (a weirdo toy from the 80's that my mom salvaged from somewhere), and Angela was on recorder.

While playing we discovered that Evan mostly liked "The Drunken Sailor" song. We played it over and over, at varying tempos. We played it over and over, substituting people's names --"What do you do with a drunken daddy, what do you do with a drunken daddy, what do you do with a drunken daddy, early in the morning!"

The best part came when we were about to launch into playing it again, and Evan insisted on counting us off: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5.... Break it down! TAKE IT!" We were all laughing so hard we could barely play.

Evan Comments on Size

2007-11-13T09:48:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, Evan and I went thrifting with my up-North BFF, Shana, whom Evan calls "Yellow Mama" (though we've never figured out quite why).

While we were combing the racks at Goodwill, Evan happened to notice a certain individual. What follows is an accurate approximation of his commentary:

Evan: Mom, Mom, why that person shopping here?

Me, looking around: What person, Evan?

Evan: That person, that BIIIIIG person over there.... he is so BIG!

Me, noticing a very rotund woman browsing the plus-size sweaters: Evan....

Evan: He can't shop here... he is too BIIIIG to fit in this shop!

Me: Evan, anyone of any size can shop at Goodwill...

Evan: But, no, he is too BIG for this shop! No clothes here will fit him!

Me: Yes, Evan, I'm sure she will find some clothes. Goodwill has clothes for all sizes of people, and that's why people shop here.

It could've gone on, had the sofa section not caught his eye. We made a beeline for that area.

Evan Goes "Tricky-Treating"

2007-10-31T22:07:00.001-04:00

This year Evan did get into the Halloween spirit. He wore a Batman suit, but not the cape or the mask, and had an eventful day of festive activities.

At school, they had a Halloween party and went trick-or-treating around the building. He decorated a great treat bag which looked remarkably like Frankenstein. I have decided to save it, because it's just so cute. I made it to school in time to hear the kids sing two Halloween songs, "Old Lady" ("There once was a woman all skin and bones, oo-oo-oo-oo; she went outside to take a walk, oo-oo-oo-oo; she went down by the old grave yard, oo-oo-oo-oo...") and some other one I don't remember. I remember "Old Lady" only because I used to sing that in music class as a kid.

One trip we had to make today was to the pulmonologist's office in Lansing. While that was some boring time in the car, he even collected a treat bag at the doc's office-- this one even had toys in it! Play-Doh! Stickers! Coloring book! Oh my!

Then we went back to Grandma Marcie's house and went door-to-door there, collecting yet more loot. The funniest incident of the day occurred there as well. What follows is an accurate approximation thereof:

Evan, knocking on the door: Tricky-treat!

The door opens, a woman with huge glasses, straggly long white hair, and one tooth in her whole face is standing there, proffering up a large bowl of candy: Well, Happy Halloween! And what's your costume?

Grandma Marcie: This is Batman, but he's off-duty, that's why he doesn't have his mask and cape...

Creepy Lady, laughing, her one tooth gleaming like a wet white dagger: Hahahaaahaha!!

Evan, mystified, and reaching for a treat: Look, his teeth are broken. See, Mom? See the broken teeth?

Creepy Lady, still laughing: Hahahahahahaaaa, that's OK... he's right!

Evan: See the broken teeth?

Me, very embarrassed: Yes, Evan, I do see....

Creepy Lady, still laughing: Aaaaahahahahahaha..... Happy Halloween!

Evan, as we're walking away from the door: Why his teeth look like that, Mom? Why his teeth were broken like that?

Me: I dunno, Evan. That's just how they look.

Thankfully then Evan spied another door with a pumpkin sign on it, and we were able to drop the subject of the Lady with the Broken Teeth-- who Evan had also called "him" instead of "her".

When he's older, I'll explain in detail how hard it is for the working poor to get proper dental care. And then I'll tell him how lucky he is to have dental insurance.

Evan Is Honest

2007-10-22T23:35:00.000-04:00

An accurate rendition of a conversation between my darling boy and I, in the JC Penney dressing room, while I am trying on-- against my better judgment-- a pair of black "dress" shorts (it's probably worth mentioning here that I haven't worn shorts since about 1999):

Me: Hmm, these are sort of cute.... with some tights underneath, and a belt?

Evan: Oh, Mama, you is not so pretty.

Me: You don't like these?

Evan: These are too short.

Me, looking in mirror at my ass: Yeah, I guess you're right...

Evan: These are not for mommies.

Lady in dressing room next to ours, who hears everything: Don't you just love taking your kids shopping? Nothing compares to their honesty.

Actually, I do love taking Evan shopping, because he is so honest. Scarily, he's often right about fashion. I don't know how he gets it, but he seems to just know when something is cute or not. Maybe he's a fashion prodigy.

So Anal Am I....

2007-09-18T18:51:00.000-04:00

.... that while rearranging some shelves in the kitchen, and reorganizing my cookbooks, I made sure to place the fondue ones between the French and Italian ones-- fondue being Swiss and all.

Also, all the Tenspeed Press ones together... first Mollie Katzen, and then some Mollie-Katzenesque knock-off titled "The Potato Experience" (which actually yielded some mighty tasty stuff).

Who occupies the place of honor? The First Lady, Nigella Lawson, and The First Irish Lady, Rachel Allen... with strong preference going to the second at the moment, mostly because she's not as pretentious.

Evan Defines Probability

2007-09-15T22:29:00.000-04:00

Evan and I were in the women's bathroom at the library Friday afternoon. After he'd washed his hands, he looked over and saw the sanitary dispenser on the wall. What follows is a very accurate version of the conversation we had:

Evan (recognizing that this is a machine you put money in, turn the handle, and something comes out): I want to put some money in there.

Me: No, not today. Your money is all gone.

Evan: What comes out of there, Mom?

Me: Special things just for Mamas come out of there.

Evan: No, no, that's not right.

Me: It's not? What does come out of there, then, Evan?

Evan (with utter certainty): Maybe it's crap. Or maybe it's treats.

Me (stifling laughter): You're right. It could be crap, or it could be treats.

That phrase, right there, captures just so much of life, doesn't it?

I Don't Like Beatrix Potter

2007-09-03T22:22:00.000-04:00

Lately Evan is pretty obsessed with reading a trilogy of Beatrix Potter stories every night before bed. These usually include some combo of the following: The Tale of Two Bad Mice; The Tale of The Flopsy Bunnies; The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck (who he insists is a goose); Squirrel Nutkin; The Tale of Mister Jeremy Fisher (which we call "The Frog Story"); or, The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.

I think his literature choice has more to do with the fact that the books are endearingly tiny, which makes it easy for him to carry the whole boat load all at one time and dump it on his bed, saying, "Let's choose these, Mama." And every night, I usually say something like, "Can't we choose something else? What about Marvin? Or how about Maisy?" (Those last two being Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now? and Maisy Cleans Up). But, I have to give in, and end up reading the Potter stories.

While I appreciate that Potter's characters are beautifully rendered; and that she probably invented a very novel thing creating animals who can talk and do laundry and all sorts, I don't think she's much of a story-teller. At the end of every Beatrix Potter story, my reaction is, "Huh?! What?! And only four of Jemima Puddle-duck's eggs hatched why? And you think Jeremy Fisher's roasted grasshopper would taste nasty why? And Squirrel Nutkin says what when you ask him to tell you a riddle why? And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle feels the need to pose as a laundress instead of just a hedgehog why?"

Worst of all, even Evan gets bored reading these stories, many times urging me-- "Turn the page! I said, turn the page!" well before I even finish reading the text on it. Why not take me up on one of my other suggestions, Evan?

Geez-- 3-year-olds!

What's Mad Like?

2007-08-26T23:33:00.000-04:00

One of Evan's favorite things to do with Mama is to "play babies." This means we round up all his favorite stuffed animals-- the ones he keeps on his bed-- which include, in order of importance: a once-light brown-now-grayish little bear with withered satin bow around his neck, given him by Auntie Lala; Auntie Lala's 2o-year-old Pound Puppy (whose polyfill is so disintegrated the neck flops about like a wet noodle) which he stole from her during a visit to my mom and dad's house; a trio of doggy hand-puppets-- a brown one, inventively called "Brown Dog", a gray one, called "Gray and White Dog," and a black poodle-looking one with curly hair, called "Jerry Curl." We also have a big fluffy black and brown dog, given Evan by my friend Sue, who originally bought it for her cats to sleep next to, which he calls "Mama's Dog"; a little gray and black Beanie Baby kitty, a hand-me-down pet from a friend's stepdaughter; and lastly, the precious new addition of a tiger, whom Evan named "FBI."

All the above description to say that when we "play babies" this means that they have conversations with one another, on a variety of topics, such as making how to go pee-pee on the toilet, how to help with the dough, which cars are hot cars and which ones aren't, etc. The other day, the babies talked feelings. Here's how it went:

Evan, with his arms folded across his chest, lower lip sticking out: Me is mad right now.

Mama's Dog: What's mad mean? What's mad like?

Evan: Mad is like... no play with friends, and no park, and no Farmer's Market, no shows, no play music, and no songs, and no DVD's, and no ride bikes, and no hot cars, and no dance, and no stories and no library...

Evan, changing expressions: OK, me is happy now.

Mama's Dog: What's happy like?

Evan: Happy is like laughing and having fun, and playing with friends in the park.

Mama's Dog: Yes, I'm happy, too.

Every day with Evan is pure hilarity. He gives me a lot of insight into many things!

Mom and Evan Talk about God

2007-08-16T13:14:00.000-04:00

Today I tried to have a spirituality-for-kids conversation with Evan while we were riding in the car to the Farmer's Market. It went sort of like this:

Me: Evan, do you want to say a little prayer to God for Auntie Lala so she'll feel better soon?

(Background info: my sister Angela just had surgery to remove excess adipose tissue from both her arms. Evan and I were visiting my mom and dad in Troy when she came home from the hospital.)

Evan: No. What's God?

Me: God is a person who lives in the sky. He helps people be happy...

Evan: And sad, too.

Me: Yes, God helps people be happy and sad; and safe and healthy. God lives in heaven, in the sky.

Evan: Mom, what's sky means? What's happy means?

Me: You know what sky means, it's where the moon and stars are at night; and where the sun and the clouds are in the day. And happy means something that makes you smile and have fun.

Evan: Mom, what's God means?

Me (trying my explanation again): God is a person who lives in the sky. He helps people...

Evan: There's no God here. Not in this car. I don't see any God.

Me: (just thinking of what to say here... and giving up)

Evan: And there's no God in that big truck, or in that little red truck, or on the street or on the road, or in that car that car that car. I don't see any God.

After that, I decided to put off talking about how God is a part of everything and everyone we see. Maybe when he's 5 we'll talk about that.

You can see this approach to talking about God failed.

The Horror and The Shame

2007-07-31T09:21:00.000-04:00

I used to have a close friend from the Czech Republic whose English was damn near perfect. She understood and used American expressions properly; she was also a very strong academic writer. All that aside, the girl didn't know how to use articles. This is because in the Czech language, there is no word for "the". It was difficult for her to comprehend the English (and maybe American) rule of when to use "the" and when not to. Consequently, she would say really funny things like: "I have to go to the work now," or, "I have to attend the Biology class."

I'm sure it didn't help her that many young Americans use the word "the" to emphasize something-- either for sarcastic effect, or to show extreme enthusiasm-- "He's the man!" "That's the bomb!" etc.
My friend's use of "the" put emphasis on the wrong things; but sometimes, these phrases could turn out strangely appropriate.

So, it is with my Czech friend in mind that I write this today.

Imagine: finally reaching the summit of the mountain-- you have finished the dissertation and are ready for the graduation. You have earned the title you worked so hard for. The title itself is stained with the blood, the sweat, and the tears. You expect to go forth into the world and get the challenging, dynamic, interesting job you're qualified for. You've sent out the 50th application, overflowing with the official documents.

You get the phone interview. You get the you-suck letter. You get the phone interview. You get the you-suck email. You get the phone interview. You get the you-suck email. You get the phone interview. You get the call from Human Resources. You start to feel a little bit of the joy: the semi-security of the one-semester temp job that puts off the financial ruin for a few months. You get a you-suck letter from them, too.

You feel like the crap. Worse yet, you're sure everyone else thinks you're the crap. And not in the awesome-dude sense, either. Just in the pile of stinking dung; the bowl-winder sense. The excrement sense. Your wife might think you're the crap. And your kid might think you're the crap, too.

And then you get the shame, which feels like the helium balloon deflated in your stomach. Try as you may, you can't yank the string and get it out. The shame affects the attitude and the relationships with others; the shame discolors the perceptions of the self and the world.

Q: How do you squeeze the motivation out of the shame?
A: Take stock of the love around you, and say, "I do not want to put this in the jeopardy." Let this love be the match that lights the proverbial fire under the ass.

And know that this year, even if you don't get the job, a job is OK.

Kiss My Ass(ets)

2007-07-07T15:25:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, when I was home in Troy, I went out for a very nice long walk. The sun was shining; it wasn't hot or humid (as it too often is this time of year); and the birds were chirping away in the sky. I was wearing my usual exercise-wear: black workout pants, tank top, tennis shoes, and-- only because I wanted to keep the sun out of my face-- a baseball cap.

As I walked down the street, lines for a poem floated in and out of my mind. I repeated them to myself, making an effort to remember them. I was rudely knocked out of my reverie when some dumb Joe Blow-- driving 60 mph down a 45 mph road shouted something out the window of his beat-up white pick-up. "NICE ASS!" he yelled.

I wondered briefly, of course, if he'd yelled at me. I've always felt that while I have an adequate figure that I do work some to maintain, my rear end is a little too wide and too flat-- and unclothed, I think it's worse. Well, I looked around, and saw no other walkers, so I concluded that, yes, that choice compliment had been reserved especially for me.

The fact that the man noticed my butt was testimony to the fact that one can see a difference in my body: the fact that I've been working out 4-5 days per week, pretty hard, since the beginning of May.

And yesterday at the gym, while walking on an incline of 1o on the treadmill, my marathon-running friend came over and said: "Your ass looks really awesome."

Positive reinforcement makes people vain. Especially this person.

Evan Hearts TV

2007-06-28T08:44:00.000-04:00

Evan came home pretty bored after spending a week in Troy with his cousins, Lincoln and Ada. While visiting there, he had more time-outs than he's had in an entire month-- this wasn't because he and Lincoln were doing anything terribly bad, but rather because when in each other's company their ability to listen and follow directions decreases by at least 85%. Example: when playing "cleaning" in Grandma Patty's laundry room, Aunt Amy told them, "Boys, keep the door open if you're going to play in there." What did they do? Looked at Amy, and then slammed the door in her face. Amy put Lincoln in a time-out, and Evan volunteered himself to have one, too. The rest of the week continued in much the same manner.

Since we've been home, Evan's basically wanted to have "bop, babies, and a show." This means he sits on his blue couch, holding his dearly-beloved baby bear and Pound Puppy, watching whatever happens to be on Nick Jr., sucking on his pacifier. It's a cute sight, but I don't want him to veg out all the time. So, I'll usually turn off the show after awhile and suggest playing something together, like music, or hot cars, or art. He'll usually go along with whatever activity I suggest. This wasn't the case yesterday.

Evan asked, "Mom, I see a show?" so many times that I finally replied, "No, Evan. If you ask to see a show again, I'm going to throw it in the garbage." Smart kid that he is, he stated, "No, Mom. It's too big." He then went on to identify several other reasons why I couldn't throw out the TV: "It's too windy, Mom. It's too wet outside."

What can I say? He's pretty observant, and makes some really valid points.

I'm hoping attending Summer Camp will cure some of this emphasis on wanting to watch TV.

The First Farmer's Mkt. of the Year

2007-06-07T12:43:00.000-04:00

Well, today opened the first Farmer's Market Thursday of the year. At 10:00 AM, a whole bunch of mommies bring their kids to the park to play and shop. Evan chose to buy a $5.00 boquet of wildflowers; and I bought some rhubarb, a quart of strawberries, and a bag of fresh spinach.

Evan found a new girlfriend, a curly-haired three-year-old blond named Kate, who he chased all around the playground, his little arms outstretched, yelling, "Hug! Hug!" It was truly brilliant.

It's one of those rare summer days-- hardly any heat or humidity, and still all sun; so I know we have to get back outside before the wrath of July flashes down upon us with the heat fires of hell.

Off to Kroger to return the pop bottles, which is one of Evan's favorite jobs.

Como se Llama....

2007-06-02T22:47:00.000-04:00

While browsing through CM Life this week, I noted quite an interesting opportunity listed under "Weekend Events". A Llama show. To be held at our very own Isabella Co. Fairgrounds. Free admission.

Yes, Detroit-based readers, you did read that correctly. Llamas. In these here parts, people actually own animals such as llamas, on their tremendous acreages of land, and they show them as one shows a classic car in a Shell parking lot during the Woodward Cruise. And they get prizes and medals and blue ribbons for things like hairiest llama; funniest llama; llama with best personality; llama with best smile; llama most likely to succeed; llama most likely to live in a house with 7 kids and a white picket fence; etc.

So, this AM, after coffee and breakfast and shower, I packed Evan up and we headed to the fairgrounds to see the llamas. He wasn't terribly thrilled about it initially; in fact, he even said it was "too dark" for him underneath the barn enclosure (which it wasn't dark at all); and the only way I was able to lure him into the mix was point out a booth where one could buy llama-themed merch, such as llama stationary, stickers, stuffed toys, blankets, and so on. Evan chose 4 charmingly homemade llama stickers (someone designed the picture, and then printed them off on their computer); and I bought a winter scarf that better damn well be part llama, it being bought at a llama show. (As a suburban girl, I succumb easily to the charm of homemade things-- as I bought the scarf, I thought, "This is made of llama." Fact is, I wouldn't know if it wasn't-- it could be possum, or goat, or even beaver-- I'm going to tell everyone who asks that it's llama, based on purely anecdotal evidence and very uncritical reasoning).

Anyway, my impression of llamas was pretty good. They seem like gentle and tame animals. Less hyperactive than dogs and more interesting than cats. They have Snuffleupagus-looking eyelashes, and cute pointy ears. Their hair looks pettable: something like Cree Summer's 'do from her first few seasons on "A Different World". If Evan asked for a llama today, I might've said yes.

We were only there about an hour, but it was a very interesting and random hour. It was, as I see it, an experience that isn't likely to be repeated in suburban Detroit, unless you go to the zoo. It's wild country up here, folks. Believe it or not.

New Picture!

2007-05-30T23:28:00.000-04:00

How hot is this?

30, 30, 30.... and dirty, dirty, dirty (sung to the tune of "Rawhide")

2007-05-22T22:06:00.001-04:00

Is it still plagiarism if I admit that I stole the above title from the card my MIL made me for my birthday? Do I owe her any royalities? Or could I just have another grandbaby for her as payment?

(No, readers, don't go getting any crazy ideas. I'm definitely not pregnant.... and not really aiming to be real soon, either.)

So, how was my 30th? Did the curtain of the temple rip from top to bottom; and did the earth shake and split in two? No. I still feel like pretty normal person.

I had 8 girls over for cake, chocolate truffles, and champagne (we had four bottles, and went through a conservative 3). I opened some fabulous presents-- including a cigar box purse with an owl bejeweled on it; a bottle of Jameson; a handmade ceramic bracelet; some assorted gift certificates; etc.-- and I did it all while wearing the leopard-print shoes I bought in Chicago a few weeks ago.

Then, most of us went out dancing at a very trashy place (there aren't many places to go dancing here) where we were the least trashy of the crowd. The music wasn't that good, but we had a good time people watching and dancing to the songs that didn't suck. There were only 3 that didn't: "Like a Prayer," "You Shook Me All Night Long," and "Sweet Caroline."

I got home at 2:30 AM, ate a bowl of cereal, visited with my sister and friend who were up for the weekend, and was in bed by 3:00 AM... only to be woken up again at 6:15. (Thank God my sister offered to watch Evan so I could go back to bed!).

(There are pictures-- none incriminating-- which Andrew will eventually post here).

It's Very Rare: A Story of How One Class Made Its Own Community

2007-05-12T20:27:00.000-04:00

One of my classes this semester was an all-male Life Skills course. Life Skills is a class reserved (and required) for first-semester freshmen who fail out of university and want to come back to attend winter semester. The purpose of the course is basically to train them to do all two things they failed to do during first semester: work and study. We also cover topics like goal-setting, life-planning, time management and study strategies, etc.

When I tell people I teach a course like this, I'm often met with pretty confused remarks. Often I hear: "I didn't even know they let such low-functioning people into college. How did they even get here to begin with?" I can't answer that question, of course, since I don't work for Admissions. So my reply is usually something like: "Even if it ends up that they don't succeed academically, in my class, it's my job to make them feel like they can." I really believe that, too. I value each and every one of my students as individuals-- that's why I know everyone's name and also a bit about each one-- hobbies, hometown, etc. Attention to details like these can really make a big difference in a Life Skills class. My class this semester formed a very close bond to one another... they even asked to do their final project in groups-- I allowed it-- and when I said, "OK, choose your groups," they said, "No, you choose them. We don't want anyone to feel left out if they get chosen last."

On exam day, the groups were to present their final projects. The exam period started at 10:00 AM, and by 10:45, all of the groups--but one-- had presented their work. They had been waiting for their third man to arrive, and he still hadn't. We were discussing what to do about it when the fire alarm went off in the building. We all vacated the building (there was no fire) and during that time outside, his group members called him and reminded him that he needed to get to class ASAP. Once we were back in the room, he still hadn't arrived. The course policy is such that if you miss the exam period and don't complete the final, that you fail the class. The missing man's classmates began a discussion:

Student 1: Andrea Devenney, what are we going to do? We can't let him fail! Can you imagine how much that would suck after working all semester long?

Me: Well, I don't know what to say. He must know the course policy... clearly the rest of you do. His group members have called him and he still isn't here.

Student 1: We can't let him fail!

Me: His group will have to go without him, I think. We've waited awhile already. If he hasn't come yet, he isn't coming.

Student 1: We have to go get him!

Me: What?

Student 2: I know where he lives...

Student 3: Can we?

Me (baffled): Are you guys serious? You're going to pick him up?

Student 1: Yes, yes!

Me: Uhhh, I guess.

(The whole class, with the exception of myself, walked over to this missing kid's dorm room to wake him up and bring him to class-- thus ensuring that he completed the final project, and avoided failing the course.)

In a Life Skills class, this isn't the type of responsibility or concern one typically witnesses from one's students. Most often, it seems they care mostly about themselves. I was really in awe of my students that day. I feel like there's a lot to be said for their actions-- they were acting concerned, involved, and responsible. We should all go the extra mile--once in awhile-- to help each other succeed. That's what being a Student of Life is all about.

VT

2007-04-18T12:49:00.000-04:00

There's a lot being written about the horrible tragedy that occured Monday at Virginia Tech. Details are emerging about the victims-- I heard this AM on the radio that one was a civil engineering student from my hometown of Troy. And even more details are emerging about the gunman, who has been described as an extremely withdrawn and depressed loner, an English major whose violent poems scared classmates and professors.

I feel terrible for the victim's families, and all the students, staff, and faculty at Virginia Tech. Last night, I went to a mass for them at our campus Catholic church. The priest's sermon defined the Christian response to tragedy: and that is, to love. He said it's not our role as Christians to figure out why suffering happens, that instead, we need to combat the effects of suffering through acts of love-- through reaching out to others in a very desperate time of need.
I think that's a really great message, and one we all should keep in mind in the next few weeks, as this terrible story unravels more.

As much as I feel for the victims and their families, students, staff, and faculty-- I also feel for the gunman's family. I am certain this is not the accomplishment they had in mind for their son. I'm sure they had high hopes for him, as any parent has for their son or daughter: we all want our children to be successful and feel fulfilled in all aspects of life. I am sure they will be asking themselves, for all eternity, what motivated their son to commit such a vile act. I'm sure at some point, they might even blame themselves-- maybe wondering if they loved him enough, if they should've parented him differently, etc. I hope they'll eventually come to peace with the fact that there probably wasn't anything they could've done for him.

Sometimes people are just really really disturbed... and beyond the realm of help, even from loved ones. These kinds of people are hardwired to eventually do something awful, it's just a question of what and when. I think the gunman was probably this kind of person. In a way, I feel kind of bad for him, too-- he must've felt very helpless, not in control of his emotions, his decisions, or his life. Maybe doing something like this was an attempt to control some aspect of his fate.... though I guess we'll never know.

We must look after each other.

Some Evan-isms

2007-04-10T15:26:00.000-04:00

Here are some funny (and a little weird) things my kid has said lately:

1. Andrew and I were sitting out on the front stoop, watching Evan run up and down the sidewalk. We were marveling at how ugly the neighborhood looks at the end of winter, grass all brown and littered with decomposing dog shit; rubbish collecting in the bushes, etc. I turned to Andrew and said, "Looking around at all this makes me feel a little white trash."

Evan's response: "No, geen." (As in, no, don't be daft, mom, we're not white trash; we're green trash.)

Uhhh, OK.

2. Evan, standing by the side of my bed at 5:30 on a Friday morning: "No ghosts."
Me, thinking he had a bad dream: "There aren't any ghosts. It's still night. C'mon, you have to go back to sleep." So, I change his diaper and rock him for a minute, and he sleeps until 9:00 AM, when we have another conversation.

Evan: "Where's dad?"
Me: "Dad is sleeping in Mama's room."
Evan: "Dada is a ghost."
Me: "Oh, really?"
Evan: "Yes, Dada is a ghost in my house."

Come to find out that Andrew checked on Evan at 5:00 AM, before he went to bed; and Evan was in that sleep state where you're awake enough to be aware of movement and noise, but still asleep. He must've been aware that Andrew looked in on him, but it was really pretty creepy.

3. Evan, at a speech screening to help determine what his needs are at a language-intensive summer camp he will attend, looking at a picture of a horse jumping over a fence: "See the poop?" points at the brown ground underneath the horse.

Speech therapist: "No, I don't think it's poop. It's the ground."

Evan: "No, no; it's poop. See the poop?"

How can you argue with this type of insistence? It's not possible.

Summer plans

2007-04-09T13:10:00.000-04:00

As the semester is winding down, I find myself winding down as well... though I'm probably winding down a little too much. I am struggling to stay on top of my grading-- this is because I'm having trouble maintaining a positive and engaged attitude toward schoolwork. Even worse, I am annoyed by my own apathy.

I'll get it together. It's my goal to have two sets of papers graded by finals week. I can do it if I put my mind to it.

I think.

To Adelaide

2007-03-03T23:34:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the world: Adelaide Scarlett Mendenhall, born March 3, 2007, 8 lb. 8oz., 19". Proud parents are Amy and David; prouder still is big bro Lincoln!

To Adelaide

Adelaide, Adelaide breakfasted on marmalade
and washed it down with lemonade.
Silly girl: left the bed unmade
and went for a walk in the shade.

I hope to sing this to her in June, when she becomes more of a little rosy person to me, instead of just a rosy lovely idea.

A Parting Thought...

2007-02-28T12:25:00.000-05:00

Well, it's the last week of classes before Spring Break. Some lucky students are off to tropical destinations, some are going to work, some are just going home to hang out with family and friends.

Other students, namely my Life Skills students, had these types of plans for Spring Break (these are all approximations of actual responses to the question, "What are your plans for Spring Break?"):

1. "Nailing sluts." (That one got so much laughter from the class that a few had tears in their eyes. I wasn't very amused, and at first ignored the comment but shot that individual a disapproving look, as if to say-- shut up, jerk-- until it came up again, and I had to say, "Gentlemen, that's enough. I don't want to hear it again.")
2. "Drinking." (My response: "I hope you have a DD.")
3. "Hopefully not getting arrested." (My response: "You better not call me to bail you out. I won't help you.")

I sometimes feel like smacking all of them. But, they also really make me laugh. I think I'd be sending a mixed message if I whacked each of them but laughed maniacally while doing so.

Mmmmm.... math

2007-02-19T13:17:00.000-05:00

I have been and always will be horrible at math. When I explore the reasons why, though, it really doesn't seem to add up... I can (and am generally willing) to work hard at things; I am a practical person who likes definitive answers-- though I like to ask "how" and "why" on the road leading up to said answer; I am willing to try something a few times to get it right...

Does all mathematical intelligence stem from natural ability? I think there's a difference between math knowledge and math talent (which must stem from some special chromosome I lack)-- I really only need the former to succeed in life and in my career, so I cultivated none of the latter. It's possible that the development of math talent is connected to environment, as well.

In elementary and middle school, I had some really crap math teachers. One was given to wearing pastel colored polo shirts and torturing us with stories about tennis (oh yeah, and he was a total prick); another was a red-haired, glasses-wearing, smoke-breathing dragon who used to show us episodes of some mathematics-based PBS show (also a total prick, BTW). My learning experiences in their classes was not first-rate, as the only reason people like those described become teachers is to get summers off.

High school was the opposite-- I had some great math teachers who were dedicated, patient, and truly gifted-- shouldn't my math talent have been nurtured and spilled forth with teachers like that? No, I still got C's and D's.

It's possible I wasn't always bad at math. It's possible that I became that way, through caring only just enough about it to get by. I had one math class in all of college, and that's all I needed to get where I am now, in my cushy (haha) job as temporary faculty here at CMU. I worked my ass off to get a "C" in College Algebra.

Math seems like it should be pretty easy, at least on that somewhat-remedial level. Why would I only earn a "C", even after going to tutoring almost every day? I mean, I did my homework religiously; I attended every class, on time; I attempted all extra credit problems, etc. I think one reason I only got a "C" was because I didn't care about Math in the right way-- that is, even though I did all the work, I was fine with just passing and that's it. I created an average environment in which to achieve, so average is exactly what I achieved.
It probably would've been unrealistic for me to earn an "A" in Math, but I probably could've gotten at least a "B-" with a better attitude toward the subject.

Why all this writing about Math? I don't really think about my math history much, and nor have I ever written about it. Exploring the idea came from what I observed as I walked down the hallway to my office the other day-- classrooms full of bored-to-drooling freshmen, doodling anything but equations in their notebooks. How I feel for their poor instructors, who earnestly attempt to help these kids make sense of positives and negatives, and x = whatever... without much response or interest on the part of the students. I teach the same kids, but in subjects without definitive answers, so while the product of my job is a little different-- the teaching issues I face are the same.

Many students care only about "just getting by." They want to put in "C" effort, but expect (and believe they deserve) "A" grades. I guess that's one difference between myself as an undergrad and those I teach at present: I realized that I earned my "C" and didn't expect any more than that just because I'm a nice person. I felt entitled to that which I set my sight upon, nothing more and nothing less. (I imagine now I could've graduated with a far higher GPA if I'd set my sights just a little higher-- Algebra included.)