That religion thing...

My husband and I are in an interfaith marriage. That is to say, I was raised Jewish and he was raised Christian. I went through many of the traditions of Judaism and I even enjoyed some of them. My bat mitzvah was a wonderful event. Once it was over, however, I chose to cease my religious studies and didn’t reconnect with organized religion until my college years. My husband, well... Let’s just say he’s anti-religion.

Faith, however, is a different subject entirely. There is a grand assumption that faith and organized religion are inherently connected. I disagree. In my opinion, attending a service in a religious building does not necessarily give you faith. Alternatively, a lack of presence of organized religion does not mean that an individual lacks faith. In my humble opinion, the two exist independent of each other, with the possibility of coexistence.

I am a prime example of strong faith with little desire for organized religion. I have always had faith, a generalized sense of certainty that everything would eventually work out, either by my good choices or some form of outside intervention. When I was pregnant with my twins, I found myself in a state of serenity and happiness. A little back ache? No worries… came with the territory. I was having my babies. My feet a bit swollen? Who cares? My babies were healthy. I was unwilling to complain. I simply KNEW that it would all end well. And it did. (Well… despite a few bumps, a significantly early arrival and an extended NICU stay…)

My husband fell victim to the wealth of the internet, looking up every problem that can occur in a twin pregnancy. Unbeknownst to me, he spent the entire pregnancy in a mild to medium state of concern, never quite resting happily in the low grade stress of anticipating your children.

I sometime wonder if those with faith handle stress and distress more effectively. If you feel certain that all will end well, it’s easier to relax.

Growing up, I found myself drawn to religious environments, even if I wasn’t fully dedicated to the complete message being delivered. I spent 2 years in a private high school, and we attended chapel a few times a week. The chapel itself was a beautiful room, with gorgeous stained glass windows, well situated for ideal flow of sunlight. Cloudy days were hypnotic, with a wonderful “fuzzy light” filtering through the shadows of the room. The “sermons” discussed friendship and community, and were rarely pure religion. Being a music person, I loved the hymns. They FELT good to sing.

When I have traveled overseas, visiting cathedrals was always a favorite activity.

When I became a staff member at a Jewish camp, years later, I expected to tolerate the daily morning service and other religious elements during the daily routine. In reality, I loved it. They were kid led, so they were down to earth and grounded to real life. Kids don’t do lofty or arrogant. It’s awesome.

The best, however, was the dancing. The dining hall (on rainy days) or the basketball court (on nice days) became a dance arena for Israeli dancing. And wow, was it a party. I had never seen religious music have that effect on a room. Being a dancer, I was in heaven.  

My children started preschool this fall and we enrolled them in a Jewish preschool. We didn’t actively search out a Jewish school, or even a religious school, but we found ourselves there when we researched the schools that were in our price range with our interests. Our second choice was a church preschool and it was second choice because it was a very new program, less well established.  Being a teacher, I wanted a well established learning environment for my children. Overall, we found that religious preschools were more spiritual, took more opportunities to teach core values. That was important to us.

So what does that mean?

I’m not entirely certain, to be totally honest. At the moment, we are content to raise our kids on family holidays (because the family is the focus) and give the preschool a chance to infuse some religious values into our kids. In the future? Who knows? I look forward to seeing how it unfolds, with complete faith that it will turn out well, the way it is supposed to.

Regaining your magic...

When I was a kid, everything was magical. Probably because I didn’t understand it, but that’s not the point. The point is that I found it to be magical, wondrous and overall exciting. Every day was an adventure.

Then I grew up. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. Saying it that way makes it sound like it happened all at once, and that’s not the way it works. We just begin growing up and lose some of that magic along the way. Perhaps it’s because we gain more knowledge and understanding. The amazing becomes logical, understandable. And for some reason, something we understand is less likely to wow us. That’s tragic.

When I graduated college and went out into the “real world”, I took an enormous leap into adulthood, and I didn’t quite land squarely on my feet. I landed on one foot, on a rock, and then wobbled a little before I fell into the grass and got back up again. Unshaken by a few bumps and bruises, I took off again on a weaving and unsteady path. I got some great views from above and I ran into a few dead ends, forcing myself to turn around and go back. I even landed in a few rivers and ravines. Overall, not a bad trip.  Not sure I would repeat certain stages, but no real regrets.

But in the process, I gained an enormous insight into “real life” and my “real self” and much of that beloved magic just slipped away quietly. I didn’t even notice, really, I was too busy surviving, being an adult. Until I had kids. And then I began to notice the magic of the world again.

Let me explain.

1-    I’m no scientist but I have a decent idea of why an airplane flies. Something about velocity of speed, shape of wings and air resistance.  I’m close anyways. And even if I’m wrong, I’m right about one thing. It’s not magic. But my kids LOVE airplanes, especially my son. When he was little he called them “birds”. He would see an airplane and squeal “bird!!!!!” with total glee. Now he squeals “airplane”, but no joy has been lost. And even when I’m alone in the car, I find myself watching airplanes with wonder. They really are fantastic, even if they’re logical.

2-   Toddlers love to build things and knock them down. It helps them understand the process of doing and undoing. Building with blocks is a prime example. They build the tallest tower they can and then “baam”, they knock it down with joy. Then they giggle and build it again, repeating the process.  I know all about how things are built and I understand why some towers stand while others fall. Regardless, the sound of an enormous tower collapsing is a thrill. I don’t even have to pretend when I laugh with my kids. I actually enjoy it.

3-   Picnics on a beautiful day. Can anything beat it? The sun is shining and you’ve found a shady spot under a beautiful tree. There’s a gentle breeze and lots of yummy food.  I recently took my kids to a local park and had the wisdom to think ahead, pack a lunch that I left in the car. Oh, and I remembered a blanket. Go me. When the kids had finished playing, we went to the car and quickly pulled out the supplies. PB and J sandwiches, juice boxes, chopped up fruit…  Anyone who tells me that moment wasn’t magic wasn’t there. I assure you, it was magical. The air felt perfect, I couldn’t have planned it better if I had tried. When my kids think back on their childhood, they are ten times more likely to remember that day (that unplanned, inexpensive day) than any fancy day we have planned for them. I have no doubt.

So I charge you, all of you, to find that missing magic you have lost. It’s what I do every day now. And don’t tell me you haven’t lost it. You have… Maybe it just left so quietly that you didn’t see it go. And when you find it, DO NOT bring it to where you are. GO TO IT! See where it takes you. Trust me. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.

The relativity of time

A lifetime ago, I was single and working in a daycare center. As I was walking down the hall, towards the end of the day, a little girl from the 4 year old classroom stopped me with a slightly forlorn look. “What time is it?” I told her it was 4:30. “Oh”. She responded. Then after a brief pause. “How long till my mom gets here?” I asked her what time her mom came to get her. “5:00” she stated. “Great” I told her. “Then you only have half an hour!”.  “How long is that?” she sighed. 

“Well”, I said. “You know how there are long cartoons and short cartoons?” She nodded. “30 minutes is a short cartoon.” Her whole face lit up. “I can wait that long” she proclaimed, and skipped into her classroom, pony tail bouncing.  

Time is relative. Always has been. Always will be.  I could have told her that 30 minutes is how long you have to sit in a dentist’s chair, but that would have made her wait feel like eternity. But it would have been accurate too.  They way we feel time is so dependant of how we feel about the manner in which we pass that time. So how long is time, really?

Our wedding was approximately 6 hours long, and it went like a flash. I loved our wedding. I feel like I must have blinked for too long because before it knew it, it was over. So much fun and so worth the hours of planning it required. 6 hours can also be the length of a school day when you have 4 tests or an eternal day of meetings that seemingly accomplish nothing, bar giving you a splitting headache. That day, as we all know, does not go by in a flash. It drags and pulls, wreaking havoc on its path. . By evening, you feel like you lived 2 days, not one.

Today has felt somewhat eternal, and (as I write this during their nap time) I have only had the kids for 6 hours, the same length of time as our wedding. My son has rash/bumps that we thought might be chicken pox so I had to take 2 kids to the doctor, only to find out that he is teething, has a sore throat common to the start of the year and a myriad of bug bites I can’t explain the origin of. Hmmm… Guess I just got paranoid because one of his classmates had it. Add to that the fact that my daughter is teething too and has been whining incessantly for days now.  We have not been sleeping well, thanks to our little lady bug and I am exhausted from the start up of a new semester and house guests.

I took my little angels out for pizza to celebrate the benign diagnosis, and that went well. Getting them back in the car with 2 hands, two kids, a diaper bag and a leftover pizza box was less than smooth and efficient.  I could actually see my car but couldn’t get there for almost 5 minutes.  Perhaps distance is relative too.

Suffice it to say that my nerves are a little jumpy right now. Time is dragging.

But I know, with absolute certainty, that when I look back on the time period that encompasses this day, I won’t remember this. (Unless I read back on my blogs, of course). I will remember how tempestuous and sweet my daughter was. I will remember that earnest pout my son puts on when he has a “really big” problem. I will remember the glee on their faces when their pizza arrived for lunch and the vigor used to consume said pizza without fuss, mess or complaint. They even took turns eating off each other’s plates and giggling. So they can share when they want to. Interesting.

I will remember how lovely kids are when they were 2, how innocent and funny.  I will also remember the struggles, but not with the clarity of the current moment. Time, that wonderful relative entity we all ponder, will erase the bad and maintain the good.

Maybe that’s on purpose? Maybe it’s simply our way of unconsciously protecting ourselves from our less than perfect memories?  Whatever the reason, I’ll take it.

Seasons of change...

I love the seasons. That’s probably why I have no urge to move to California. Sure, I have fleeting desires to be one of the bikini clad women all year round, especially when it’s freezing cold in the middle of January. But then I hear reality. Even if I did live out in California, where the sun shines all year round, I don’t have that waistline and I don’t wear bikinis. Oh, right. And once you start thinking more realistically, it’s hard to stop.

I love the seasons for many different reasons. I firmly believe that seasons are exactly as long as they should be. When summer comes, the heat feels glorious and sleeveless shirts are a sign of heaven. By September, all I want is a cool breeze and a pair of long jeans. When winter hits, I can’t wait for a winter wonderland to descend and by the time spring arrives I’m tired of my ski jacket. Somebody or something planned really well. At least by my standards.

A few days ago, fall finally hit. And wow, was it due. We had just survived a few weeks of massive stickiness and I was sick and tired of sweating.  The first morning of heavenly fall, we were headed out for a playgroup outing but we couldn’t leave just yet without arriving really early. The kids didn’t quite understand that concept and were getting antsy, asking to go for a walk. They were already dressed in jeans and sweatshirts, looking totally adorable and so very like toddlers. Hmmmm… I loaded the car and let them play on the driveway until it was time to leave, hoping the compromise would settle their need to run.

I was invisible as they ran around giggling, heads turned into the cool breeze, smiles radiating. And with all that free time, I got to thinking about the last time they were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. Last year. And how small they were back then. And how much more they know now than they knew then.

The other reason I love the seasons, beyond simply enjoying the change in temperature and overall environment, is that they mark time. You take out the shorts your kid wore last year and they don’t fit any more. The pants they wore last winter are now capris. That’s how you know how much they’ve grown. Otherwise, you simply lose track in the hectic nature of the day to day.

There have been periods of time in my life that felt stagnant. Where I found myself striving for a change that I simply could not force into reality. At those times, the seasons felt distressing. I would watch the snow melt or the leaves turn red and be forced to admit that another season was arriving without the desired life changes I so yearned for. I would recognize that my optimism for change might not bear fruit and feel crushed by the enormity of that realization.

During other times of my life, watching the seasons turn has been a thrill. The ending of an old job that led to a new and more fulfilling one. A new class. A resolution to change something that was in my control. The recognition that this season, my kids would be able to enjoy the world just that little bit more.  Run in the leaves or play in the snow.

It’s amazing, the power of time. It has no concrete form and yet it yields enormous influence on our thoughts and behaviors.

I’m not going to blink, at least not too often. I don’t want to miss too much.

A world of personal space

I would never survive in Korea.

Before I go any further, and find myself in danger of sounding judgmental, allow me to clarify. I teach international adults and my local area has a HUGE Korean population. I also have had the pleasure of making many wonderful friends, some Korean- American and some fully Korean, giving me further insight into Korean culture.

Over the past few years, I have become positively fascinated by the complexities of Korean culture.  And wow, is it complex. The traditions, the honor, the determination. And the expectations. Anyone who has read up on the concept of the “Tiger Mom” can only imagine the expectations. True, that mom is Chinese, not Korean. But it’s a similar situation, albeit from different cultures and not identical. (Wait, all Asians aren’t the same? No way!!!) It’s no wonder the Korean students are known for excellence. From what I have seen, anything less is rarely tolerated quietly.

I have intimate knowledge of the everyday life of my dear friend, who is Korean- American. Her life suits her well, and good for her that it does. If it didn’t, it would kill her or put her in jail for murder. Family, everywhere, all the time. And I mean ALL THE TIME. No break. No one week visit. Nope… they are officially moved in. And the ones that have not moved in have some significant expectations of how they fit into her life and what she owes them. Sometimes I envy her and sometimes I pity her. With all due respect… I don’t want her life. I’ll take mine, thanks. Here’s why.

“Free” babysitting:

With two young kids, I can only dream of going to the bank alone, and going WITH the kids qualifies as a true nightmare. The supermarket is hard enough and no quiet is expected there. But the bank? No friggin’ way. She, on the other hand, can leave her kids with a family member and go run errands all by herself, consistently. She can run out when they are sleeping because somebody is always there.

But there’s the catch. Somebody is always there. To question. To advise. To question.  (Did I already mention that one?). To give input. To talk to her when she would prefer a moment of precious solace. To ask something of her at the one moment she might have been able to sit down for a cup of tea. Her house is not hers. Not really… so is the babysitting really “free”?

“Help” in the house:

Ahhhh…. The famous quandary. When I evaluate the quality of help received, it’s sort of like thinking about a boat in a storm. (Isn’t life at home with young kids really a storm anyways?) A certain amount of water is bound to come aboard, it’s inevitable. When you bring another person on board, the whole equation changes. The boat is heavier and it rocks differently, based on where people choose to stand/sit with the new arrangement. More water comes on board. In my mind, the real question is this.

Does this person bail more water than they bring in?

I guess the answer to that depends on what you tolerate well, or not so well. Personally, I prefer my own chaos with my own solutions. Don’t mess with my mess. I may not like it exactly the way it is, but I like it less once you’ve pushed it around, rearranged the piles.  At least now I know which pile to look in.

My friend doesn’t have this luxury. With all the family that “helps” her, there are many opinions on how to make the house and child raising work. She does not, frequently, have the final word although she is the one who ultimately picks up the pieces.  That would kill me.

“Respect” for “elders”:

I love my parents. I find them to be wise and smart. But I don’t always agree with their opinions on life, especially regarding child rearing and discipline. The fact that they raised two kids doesn’t mean they know best for my kids or my life as a mom of my young kids. Accordingly, sometimes they need to be reminded to back off and let me do my parenting job. As a full fledged American woman, I KNOW that I have that right. If something my parents are doing conflicts with my values and routine, I can tell them. It’s MY house. MY kids. Right?

My friend doesn’t have that luxury. Her life is so intertwined with that of her parents that who controls what is a very fuzzy line. Finances get all mixed up, so even if “who’s paying” was the answer, it wouldn’t be that simple. She benefits from this arrangement, but she also suffers.

My life is not easy, but it’s on my own terms. My chaos is my chaos. While I certainly owe many people many things, these “debts” are not the central element of my daily “budget”. Most of my “symbolic money” is unborrowed and I can live with that. I may live somewhat simply, but I prefer it that way.

Like I said, I would never survive in Korea.

Learning to talk...

My kids are talking. And wow… are they talking!  This isn’t entirely new, but it’s hit a level that I find remarkable. It’s like they have been accumulating opinions since birth and are now in the amazing process of putting words to their desires.  It’s pretty exciting, actually, from multiple perspectives.

As their mom, this stuff is exciting for me. I love watching them become more independent and powerful. Ok, most of the time… sometimes I just wish they would lie down, roll over and comply. Especially when I’m in a hurry. But most of the time I find it fascinating.

Secondarily, I observe them from a professional perspective. After all, I am a language teacher and a HUGE language geek. I’m not sure which one came first, the profession or the geekiness. Sort of like the chicken and egg conundrum. Never to be solved. Oh well.

The other day I was playing with my kids. My son loves trucks and he picked up his favored dump truck. “Big truck”. He exclaims. Yes, it is a big truck, I agree. “Yellow truck” he adds. Yes, it is a yellow truck, I agree. He pauses, thinks. Then he says. “Yellow, big truck”. Yup kiddo, it’s both yellow and big. “Big, yellow truck” I affirm/correct, smiling proudly. He grins back. “Yellow, big truck”.  Then he runs off, ecstatically, exclaiming “vroom vroom, beep beep”.

My daughter loves dresses. (It’s one of her few, and new, girly passions) Some days if I put her in shorts and t-shirt, she objects bitterly. She pulls frantically at her t-shirt screeching, “Wear dress on”. “You want to put your dress on? You want to wear your dress?” I ask, correcting delicately. “Yes, wear dress on!” She puts on her wonderful GINORMOUS grin of victory.

I think it’s fair to say my corrections went unnoticed.

My semester is starting up and we had our traditional start of semester meeting. As a side note, I love these meetings. I have worked at many different educational establishments but none have compared to the way this school runs meetings, both in reality and in concept. They are not meant to be wasted time, yet they are not meant to be rushed either. They are efficient, thorough and intellectual. I love it. I leave these meetings with an extended to do list and a million essential questions swirling in my head. Now that’s what I call intellectual stimulation.

This particular meeting was especially engaging for me. My level of interest may be somewhat augmented by the fact that I have been solely at home this summer and totally void of academic and professional thought. Simply reentering the world of academia may have been enough.

That said, I really liked this meeting.  Many topics were touched on, but I was intrigued by the discussion of language correction. It seems that experts are now studying error correction and have determined that one significant barrier to improvement is that the student frequently does not notice their mistake or the teacher’s correction. Interesting…  Maybe they don’t always hear what we were trying to say.  (This could apply on so many levels its frightening… anyone need a thesis topic?)

We, as a faculty of educators, are attempting to overcome what is commonly called the plateau effect in learning.  Beginners typically make decently quick progress to intermediate. Intermediate level learners frequently make decent progress to low advanced. Once they hit low advanced, however, the progress slows considerably. Sometimes it even stops entirely. It’s a hard place to progress from.

We’ve all seen it. The native speaker of another language who speaks English pretty darn well. We understand them well, rarely ask them to repeat themselves and can chat with them enjoyably. But as you listen to them, you hear noticeable grammar errors that probably wouldn’t be tolerated in a professional workplace. You see spelling errors that a professional boss would cringe upon seeing. You hear word choice that is just “off” enough to cause momentary confusion or possible cultural misunderstanding. And this person has likely been at this stage for a while.

I’m not judging, mind you. As a learner of languages I have sympathy for these learners. Actually, it’s more like empathy. I have been that student, both with French and Spanish. I could party like a rock star or even have a vaguely profound conversation.  But could I function at the doctor? No, not really. Not easily. Could I deal with creating a new cell phone account? Maybe… but it would be sweat inducing.

So, what’s my point?

My point today is somewhat vague. My goal is not to provide an answer, but more to open a question. Really open it up, take it apart and give it a good examination. Here are some of the questions I ponder.

1-      I wonder how much of my frustration comes from attempting to communicate a point to my kids and believing incorrectly that I have been understood. I also wonder if that frustration is limited to home, or does it extend to my classroom? Is it even limited to adult/child conversations?

2-      I wonder how much correction is too much. When is the correction time sensitive and beneficial? When is it “too much”, either developmentally or emotionally?

3-      And, finally… How does our fascination with accuracy impact how our children/students see their progress? My kids were overjoyed at the end of our conversations, despite having made errors. They had won something, accomplished something. Where does real confidence come from? The belief of success or being entirely correct? Maybe a little of both?

We live in a world where the term “Tiger Mom” is commonly understood (Check out http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html if you need more information), where many American students don’t have a basic foundation of education and overall world knowledge and some of the more regimented/traditional countries are finding themselves without creative thinkers. We live in a world where cheating is rampant due to increased pressure to perform and students are being asked to balance more than ever before. It’s no longer good enough to do well, enjoy yourself and work hard. You have to be football star (feel free to substitute sport of choice) and an A student if you are aiming for the Ivy League.

Maybe we all need to evaluate ourselves and our actions based on how we answer the above questions.  Even if we all answer them differently, we might act in a way that is more authentic to ourselves. Make us better parents and educators.  

The other side of the desk...

My kids are starting preschool. Next week. Yikes… really?

Don’t panic! I won’t bore you with the endless details of the existential realization of my kids growing up. I already did that in a previous blog.

The preschool has a back to school night, before the actual class begins. That was last night. So there I was, among many other parents much like myself. Wait, hold on. Freeze frame. Me, the parent? Of preschoolers? When the heck did that happen? Did I blink for too long?

I’m not the parent. I’m the teacher. I’ve been the teacher for years now. All those back to school nights and such, it’s been ME giving the presentations, not listening to them. Am I on the wrong side of the desk? It feels much more different than I imagined.

Years ago, a wise fellow colleague of mine and I found ourselves in a parent meeting from hell. Mom was furious about something she perceived us to have done, or maybe not done. Whatever the details, she was seriously peeved and not letting it go. My colleague and I both saw “clearly” that her daughter, the student in question, had not done what she needed to succeed and there was little that we could have done differently to help her, without actually doing the work for her. Clearly, we were not seeing eye to eye with mom.

I thought mom was nuts, off her rocker. Did she expect her daughter to get private lessons? My colleague just shrugged and said something to the effect of “it’s complicated”. She is a mother herself and she had experienced the complexities of parenting. I had not yet been blessed with this wisdom. While she did not believe this mom’s anger to be justified on the logical level, she could empathize with the emotional component.

A few weeks ago I sent an email to my twins’ future teacher. She had initiated contact with us and I was replying to the email address she had used.  I filled a page with a myriad of questions, none of which were actually essential until weeks from now. When she replied that my questions would be properly answered in the paperwork that would be arriving in a week or so, I realized. I was acting like THAT PARENT.  You know what I mean… THAT PARENT that needs everything answered immediately. THAT PARENT that doesn’t quite comprehend that his/her kids are not the only ones in the class.

Oh crap… time to back up. I don’t want to be THAT PARENT.

As my kids delve in the world of school and education, I will have to remind myself that my view of their life outside the home is simply one perspective. The teachers will have their own view on what is “really happening”, as will the kids.  

So much to think about.