Small student

Henry's off school today, so he came with us to ART 251: The Twentieth Century, which Michael and I team-teach. Today's topic was Surrealism. He gave each student a handout at the beginning of class, then went and sat in the front row and took out his pencil and his blue book. (He loves blue books: he can write his name on the front and make lists or stories or "how to's" inside.) Michael started off the class with a discussion of Miro, and Henry's hand shot up; he took it pretty well when Daddy didn't call on him but gave the other students a chance to participate instead. Then we played some surrealist games: exquisite corpse, frottage, and "latent news." Henry joined the exquisite corpse group writing surrealist poetry and read his aloud when it was his turn. Then I lectured on Elsa Schiaparelli. At the end of class, when I told the students I'd see them Monday, he said: "Mom, can I come Monday?!"
I wish all my students were so eager!

Sick, sick, sick... and then glee!

Oy, we've been sick. Here's the organ recital:
It's been about two weeks all told, with all four of us visiting the doctor at one time or another and at least two mis-diagnoses. First Agatha had a bad cold. Then after five days, she developed fever and some diarrhea. I assumed it must be an ear infection or other secondary infection after the cold; the doc said her chest and ears were clear but thought it must be a sinus infection, and the diarrhea was simply due to the runny nose. So she started on amoxicillin. The next day, I started feeling bad, developing fever and body aches. Since I didn't have a cold but had had a freak allergy attack the day before, I wondered if I might have a sinus infection, too. After dragging at work for a morning, going home feverish in the afternoon and suffering terrible chills that night, the next day I went to doctor, who swabbed me for strep throat. Which, it turns out, I had! At least, I had the bacteria. I had no sore throat or sinus infection, just the upset tummy and fever and chills. But the doc surmised that what was making both me and Agatha sick. Michael had also started feeling poorly, so we thought maybe he'd be coming down with it next. Indeed, over the next day, his fever started, and he started on amoxicillin too. Meanwhile, none of us seemed to be really improving. In fact, the antibiotics were just making the diarrhea worse. Henry came home from school feeling poorly and I rushed him to the doctor, having been just waiting for his turn to develop strep. But he didn't have it, and the doc thought he just had a cold and sent us home.
After another day or so, Michael was still feeling horrible and we were beginning to suspect that something else was going on. He went back to the doctor who now decided we had a bacterial infection from raw milk. She gave Michael and stool sample kit and a second, more powerful antibiotic. He brought that home we sat and looked at it, and looked at each other. That didn't make sense, either; what we had was clearly contagious, not conveyed by contaminated food, since we were developing it in sequence. And it wasn't responding to antibiotics, which meant it was probably a virus. In fact, we decided it was probably the gastric virus that's been going around all our schools lately, and that we had just been fooled by its emergence after a cold (Agatha) and by the presence of strep (me) and by absence of vomiting in all of us. We all got off the antibiotics, canceled out of all our activities and obligations for two days, tried to keep to our beds as much as possible, and ate nothing but BRATY foods (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast, yogurt). It was slow progress, but every day we felt a little better. By now, about three weeks after it all started, we're all pretty much back to normal. Henry's the toughest of all of us: though he had it too, he never developed a fever or missed school or even complained much.
What a joy to feel healthy and energetic again! And what an intense relief to see the kids back to their normal, healthy, non-whiny, happy selves, too. Yesterday Henry had a big day: Michael picked him up from school early so that he could attend the printmaking demonstration that Michael and an artist colleague were doing with Michael's students. Henry's been getting really interested in printmaking and has carved his own wood block recently. Michael said he loved it and had to be restrained from being a know-it-all in front of the college students. Then the two of them went to a bowling birthday party. Meanwhile, Agatha and I had a girls' night at home: we ate toast with Nutella and (for the first time) watched a regular TV show together on the sofa-- an episode of "Glee." It's hard to put into words the joy of having such a daughter. She is my sweetest, dearest, most delightful companion.

Church

My new year's resolution this year, 2012-- the year of the dragon!--is to work on my spiritual growth, and to that end we have been attending church since Sunday, January 1st. I announced this to Michael on December 31st, and somewhat to my surprise he was eager and interested to join in this with me. So Michael and the kids have been coming too. We're attending the Unitarian Universalist church, which is the obvious immediate choice for so many reasons-- being the most liberal and accepting of denominations, it is accommodating of a person with so many doubts; some of our friends already attend there, so it seems comfortable; it has a beautiful building; and it is little more than a stone's throw from our house.

I have to credit yoga with opening me up to spiritual experience. The quieting of the mind that happens after vigorous physical activity has been a revelation. My natural inclination to be critical and analytical and intellectual has been honed by years of training, and turning the volume down on that part of my mind has helped me open up to other modes of perceiving the world, to be more peaceful and connected to others. The presentness of yoga has also been a gift: the idea that the past self is truly gone, and there is only the now. Thinking about this deeply can be transformative. Whatever I would like to be, think, do-- do it now. So I am.

I have also come to see the wisdom of the old saying about consistency being the hobgoblin of little minds. That I don't believe everything is no reason to believe nothing. That I see flaws is no reason to avoid it altogether. Walk the path, learn, and see where it takes you-- that's what I'm trying to do.

Besides wanting to become a better person and to grow, I also want to serve, to help the community more, and the church provides a structure for doing that. One realization of the last year has been the extent of our privilege, especially now that we are sending Henry to an elite (for Lancaster, at least) private school. It's taken me a while to adjust to the idea that we and our children are not really "average" anymore; we're well and truly the insiders, the ones with all the opportunities. If we are going to have all these privileges, we have to take more seriously our responsibility to give back.

It's a cliche to begin attending church only once you have children, and I partly resisted going because of this. But remembering the idea of presentness helps extraneous concerns like this melt away. And I do want Henry and Agatha to have a framework for thinking about the big questions of life. Even more of a stumbling block was the fact that my favorite yoga class occurs on Sunday mornings! So I have to miss it to go to church. Bummer. I'm trying to make it up at another point during the week.

So far, so good. Agatha goes to the nursery, which is a well-equipped preschool room where she can play and dress up and eat applesauce. Henry has gotten up his courage to join Sunday school-- or Faith Development Classes, as they're called there-- the past two weeks, and likes the crafts and songs. Actually, Henry took to the whole thing immediately, like a duck to water. Our first morning, he was first in line to place his stone in the dish of sand to mark a joy or sorrow. He sings heartily along with all the hymns, and wonders when it will be his turn to light the chalice. The boy loves ritual! Michael and I both love sitting in that beautiful space, hearing wise words, and singing in community. I know there's been some drama and conflict in the church, though I don't know the specifics, and I don't really care to know right now. It might not be the right place for us forever, but right now it is a new source of peace and contentment in our lives.

Holiday round-up

The Clappers came for Thanksgiving...

And the Texas Rausers came for early Christmas...

And the then Pennsylvania Rauser-Clappers had a quiet and relaxing holiday. Wait-- who am I kidding?!?! There're a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old residing here. Christmas was a high-stakes affair. Henry in particular seemed consumed with anxiety for much of December, with a quite-visible internal struggle alternately to express and to master his strong desires for stuff. I decorated our stairwell with garland and dangling Advent presents on little ribbons. It was so pretty, but I'm not sure if it added any daily joy or wonder to our household. As Michael put it: "Advent presents: Something to fight about every SINGLE day." On Christmas Eve, Henry rehearsed how it would go the next morning: he'd stay in bed till 6 am, then come into bed with Mom and Dad, and wait till Agatha woke up, then we'd open our stocking presents, then we'd have oatmeal and "do our morning routine," then we could open one gift every hour till they were gone. This idea was another of his strategies to demonstrate his control over this crazy holiday, when all normal rules seem to be suspended. (We didn't, of course, do this; we opened all our presents right away like normal people.)

We did have a very nice holiday, season, though, high-strung children's occasional tantrums aside. We had many lovely invitations to parties and dinners with friends. We got beautiful, thoughtful gifts in the mail from Tim & Kirsti, Grace & Jim, and our dear friends Eric & Meg. On Christmas Eve, I made a special midday meal of chicken, sweet potatoes, and this amazing French pastry (the Paris-Brest!), and then in the evening we had pate and cheese at Mom's house by the fire. On Christmas Day we ate turkey and stuffing at Mom's house. We did LOTS of crafting, including a whole village of five gingerbread houses. (Then at a family New Year's Eve party last night, the hosts gifted us with MORE gingerbread house kits! I think seven houses is enough for one season, don't you? I have gotten pretty good with the pastry bag, though.)

Quiet wonder and peaceful reflection are not the way to celebrate Christmas with little children. But as I said to Michael on Christmas Eve, after we'd tucked in the kids and I'd stuffed their stockings and put Agatha's new scooter under the tree: truly, happiness is being the parent of a 6 year old and a 3 year old on Christmas Eve. It is a great joy to provide for them, to create sparks of amazement and pleasure, to feed their imaginations and cause them to think about hope, surprise, and light amid the darkness. We are so greatly blessed to have one another, and we celebrated that these past few weeks, as we try to every day.

Report Card

Last week we got Henry's first report card-- our first-ever as parents. First, the degree and specificity of feedback was amazing. There were eight categories (literacy, writing, science, art, music, PE, etc) and within each category, there were between six and fifteen individual grades, on a 1 to 4 scale. There's always something deeply fascinating about hearing about your child from someone else. At our teacher conferences in the past, I've always been starved for information and evaluation of my child, just to have an outsider's perspective. I don't know many children intimately, so my two define the norm for me. Preschool feedback generally seemed diplomatic and bland, and so I didn't get a strong sense of perspective-adjustment from that. If you had asked me to evaluate Henry's strengths and weaknesses, I would have said he's very physical and sporty, he's smart, and he's not too musical or interested in art. (One thing I do remember his toddler teacher saying, when he was two, is that he enjoyed all the activities in the classroom except painting. She was surprised to learn that his father was a painter!)

Now, for the first time, someone-- many people, actually, since each different specialty subject has a different teacher-- has graded my child's performance and abilities. And what do you think he's good at, at least right now? Well, overall he is doing very, very well, and we're very proud of him. But his strongest special subjects (outside reading and math) were music and art. He got high marks for accuracy in singing (have they heard the tuneless renditions of 'This Land Is Your Land' I get every day?!?), and special praise from the art teacher. They also do art projects in the regular classroom, and his regular teachers noted his careful, precise work as well. His two worst subjects, on average? Science and PE. In PE, he's not so good at the throwing and kicking skills. And the only item for which he received a "1" (which basically indicates complete cluelessness) was in the science category: drawing a conclusion from evidence.

Oh, the shame!

On reflection, of course, this makes perfect sense: while we have a crafts table in the living room, permanently stocked with art supplies, Henry is not enrolled in any organized sports. Of course he's good at art; our norm for artsiness is just probably far outside the social norm. (The failure at drawing scientific conclusions is harder to explain away; you can bet I'm ordering a science kit for Christmas!) Despite our sturdiest self-delusions, then, we are raising not a sporty polymath with a sharp analytical mind, but a little clone of ourselves: artsy, craftsy, very fit but not skilled at any team sport, creative and a good leader but not so good at observing the facts of the natural world, and a little high-strung with a tendency toward perfectionism.

Whose report card was this, anyway?

Oy yoy YOY yoy yoy

Those of you who knew Ruth Rauser will recognize the title of this post!
Mommy feels a bit under siege. This is so both at work and at home. Despite my complete and utter reasonableness, people are not doing what I want. Imagine! Wherever I turn, people small and large, seem to be standing in front of me with their hands balled up in fists, on their hips, saying, "No!"

After a blissful fall of sibling love and cooperative play, we've entered a new phase-- I hope short-lived-- of constant bickering. They are both at fault-- Henry baiting his sister or instantly coveting and taking over whatever she's playing with, and Agatha, less subtly, just screaming at the top of her lungs or pounding her fists on his back when she thinks I'm not looking. Sniffles make it worse, because people are sick and grumpy. Tuesdays are hard, because Agatha stays till 3 pm at school those two days and thus does not nap. By 6 pm tonight (a Tuesday), I had had it. It was bedtime.

Agatha protested. "I'm hungry!" (We had just eaten lentil soup, salad, and bread.) This is a common stalling tactic, and we've developed an accommodation where I bring her a small bowl of nuts and dates in bed, which she eats while we read a story. It's just naughty enough to make her feel like she's had a victory. But tonight when I did that, her tantrum just continued. "This is NOT what I want!" After unsuccessfully trying to talk with her, I left the room and returned the bowl to the kitchen. She followed me, screaming and crying.
"You did NOT bring me what I wanted!"
"What did you want?" I asked in a neutral (I hoped) tone.
"I'm only going to say it ONE TIME. I said it ONE TIME, and you didn't bring it to me!"
This went back and forth for a while. Finally, she admitted, "I don't KNOW what I want!"
"We can continue to talk about food for two more minutes, and then it'll be bedtime," I said. "If you'd like to request any food, now is the time."
"I want YOU to tell ME what I want!"
"Okay!" I said brightly, "you want... some walnuts!"
"No, cashews!"
"We don't have any cashews. We have walnuts."
"Okay, walnuts!"
"I'll bring them."
"No! I don't just want ONE THING."
"How many things do you want?"
"I want SEVENTY-EIGHT things!" (78 is her favorite number. This afternoon she asked me how many fingers she was holding up. Although I answered three, the correct answer was 78.)
"I don't have 78 things. I have dried cherries, though!"
"YES, dried cherries! AND... a prune!"
"Okay!" I answered. "Walnuts, dried cherries, and a prune!"
"AND... a fig!"
"All right, four things: walnuts, dried cherries, a prune, and a fig."
I think everyone needs a vacation.

Jerome the Gnome

 Tiny books written by Jerome the Gnome, with a tiny folder to put them in

Yesterday after school Henry was full of gnome lore. A few weeks ago, his class went on a field trip to "Gnome Countryside," which sounded kind of lame to me but is apparently a major touchstone for the kindergarten experience. He was thrilled by the little folders left behind by the gnomes that were the same design as the ones they themselves use in their writing workshop! It seems that the gnomes also inhabit their classroom. Henry said sometimes their little toolboxes are left in the class, with tiny pencils in them. I grew fascinated, in spite of myself. Pretty soon Henry had installed himself at the craft table and was making a gnome's writing folder for a certain gnome: Jerome the Gnome. The folder has a "green light" side for works in progress and a "red light" side for finished works. He made a tiny alphabet chart with a tiny picture illustrating each letter. And then he wrote books-- miniaturized versions of the books they compose at school, with the same page design. But these were books from Jerome's perspective. The first one was "Gnome Countryside," which told the tale of how the gnomes heard a lot of noise and hid in their house-- hiding out from the marauding kindergarteners outside.  The second one was "Writing, by Jerome," which showed the gnome at his writing workshop, writing a story. It was a boy writing a gnome's book about a gnome writing a gnome book. The next Don deLillo?