Unplugging

In the spirit of the 19th century transcendentalists, I assigned an experiment to my juniors this past weekend. They were to go technology free - no texting, social media, computer/video games, or smartphone apps - for 30 hours. It was experiment in what Thoreau called "essential living," but I wasn't ordering them to become Luddites. Many homes buzz with the constant din of sound and picture so TV, radio, and phone calls were allowed.

What if we cheat? More than a few asked, eyeing me cautiously.  

So what if you do?
I paused. They stared back at me.

You'll have to come in Monday morning and look me in the eye and tell me you didn't cheat. 

Silence. Message received. 

Because this was a brand new project, I decided to join them. I was thrilled with the prospect of 'unplugging' for the weekend and not constantly checking email, social media, and responding to texts. The thought of being 'off the grid' was empowering. I could get through my day just fine without this aluminum rectangle. The morning proved me right. The house was cleaned, dishwasher emptied, laundry started, bed stripped, and I was out the door to run errands by 10 AM. It was going to be easy.

Though I explained my participation to my husband and family members, being unplugged had its share of frustrations for others. Because the reminders app on my smartphone was off limits, I wrote the grocery list out by hand for my husband on Saturday morning. We chatted about the week's grocery needs and I left the list on the counter. As we were off on our respective errands, my phone rang.

There's nothing on the grocery list, he said.
What do you mean?
I looked at the list on my phone, and there's nothing there.
That's because I made a paper list. I'm not using apps, remember?
<exasperated sigh> This is stupid.
I disagree, I said, smiling as I rattled off what items I could recall from memory.

The biggest advantage from unplugging was being present and in the moment. We celebrated Christmas Saturday night with my sister, who was home from Chicago. She was giving C a cozy coupe car and it was unveiled after we had exchanged smaller presents. Instead of recording the moment on video or snapping pictures like a papparaza, I sat and watched as C's little hand covered her mouth in astonishment as the car was wheeled into the livingroom.

Lookit! she cried. And I did. I didn't demand that she pose or urge her to look my way. I just watched.

For all the joy found in being present and relying on myself and not my phone, there were some struggles. Sunday dragged on. Normally, I get caught up on the week's news with NPR and the New York Times. Instead, I played with C and her new car, tackled some grading, and watched the clock.

While C fought her afternoon nap, I took her downstairs to listen to some Christmas music. I missed having CDs of Bing Crosby, Billie Holiday, and Dean Martin on repeat play during the holidays. Since Pandora was off limits, I cued up a few CDs, hit shuffle, and then play. Nothing. I switched settings and tried again. Still nothing. C sensed my frustration.

Get Daddy? she inquired, furrowing her little brow.
No, Mommy can figure it out. I tried a different remote. Still no music.
Get Mommy phone? 
I shook my head, not about to explain why we just weren't listening to music on my phone like we always did. Frustrated and mildly disappointed, we went upstairs. I realized we had never listened to music from the stereo, the way I had always listened to music growing up. For all C knew, music only came from phones  

Upstairs, I felt somewhat bewildered as I checked the clock and calculated how much longer it would be until I could start up the Pandora Christmas station and clean out my email inbox.Was I really this dependent on something I thought I could easily go without? Where had the independent spirit who roamed Europe in college gone? The girl who ordered EuroRail tickets over the phone and marched through Paris and Rome with only a Lonely Planet guide and a map? I couldn't even make a CD player work.

3 PM came and I logged into email and Facebook and scrolled through postings and messages. The mindless though comforting routine had resumed. There had been no breaking news, no major crises. After ten minutes or so, I was done catching up with what I thought I was missing. For the remainder of the day, my phone sat on the counter. Then something strange happened. Now that the 30 hours was up and I could use my phone, I didn't. That evening, I was wildly productive with the grading and lesson planning I had brought home to work on. I didn't have to abstain from the time suck that is social media and yet I did.

The experiment had been a struggle, but had been rewarding, too. I savored the memory of C's excitement when her toy car rolled into the living room, though I have no photos or video on my phone to share. The real-time conversation on Sunday morning with my sister over coffee was a rare treat. I had written a letter instead of an email, made a list by hand instead of a reminder notification. And the curious satisfaction of not checking my phone even though I could? There's no app for that.

talk to me

I'd like to think C is advanced for her age. She's 17 months old, but is currently working on the twos. I don't want to call them terrible. Trying, maybe, but not terrible. Granted, this has just started, so maybe in time I will come over to the 'terrible' side. 

Her vocabulary is limited, which is part of the problem. Her commands, questions, and exclamations all involve pointing and a grunt or whine. If I don't follow her request, the whine becomes a squeal, the grunt  an angry bark. I bought one of those 'teach your baby sign-language' books but got as far as "all done" and "more." I guess I just assumed that the words would come before the connection between hand gesture and noun.

C has a few words down: mama, dada, ball, more, na-na (for bananas), bowl, all done, and bye bye. She can get "Nally" out for our cat, Natalieportman, but has no exclamation for her grandparents or day care buddies. 

When her temper reaches its boiling point, she lets out an angry, disbelieving cough as if I could dare deny her a trip down the basement stares or another viewing of the "Gangnam Style" video on the iPad. The cough becomes a slow, windup whereupon she unleashes a fury that can only come from the frustrated and misunderstood.

"What do you want?" I ask, but to no avail. She points and stomps, sometimes at the very thing she has been denied. I keep calm, knowing that my reaction will only fuel her reaction. After a few minutes of screams and tears, she settles back down, distracted by a block tower or her plastic grocery cart. I've become a master of distraction when it comes to the toddler meltdown. Sometimes she gets what she wants; other times, she is able to get over her disappointment after a few minutes of wailing.

She's storing all these words in her head; I know she is. Right now it feels like she'll never be able to tell me what she wants, but I know one day the dam will break and she will unleash verbiage on her father and me that will make us wonder what life was like before she could talk. 

aqua-tot freestyle

C just finished her first immersion in organized athletics: aqua-tot swim class. Her father and I come from a long line of soccer, baseball, softball, hockey, and basketball playing. As youngsters, we were veterans of summer sport camps and youth leagues held in scorching heat and driving rains. Thankfully, swim classes were inside at the community pool where I teach.

Three days a week smack  in the middle of morning nap, we worked on our skills while Allison Schmitt, Ryan Lochte, and Michael Phelps were going for gold in London. We diligently practiced blowing bubbles (she prefers to drink the pool water), floating on our back (ok, she's floating on her back with head on my shoulder and I am standing upright, but still), front and back crawling, and kicking. The kicking she got the hang of, not so much the crawling. For the most part, the class had little structure. For 30 minutes, moms and babies and tots would splash about, practicing a few skills but mostly enjoying the water.

Despite the abbreviated morning nap, every time we walked onto the pool deck from the locker room, C instantly kicked her feet and made her excited "oooh ooh!" exultation seeing the water and the kids in the level 3 classes. She was pumped. Sure there were days when she was tired, days when she didn't feel like floating on her back, and that was ok. I had to believe that Allison Schmitt had days as an aqua-tot when she just didn't feel like practicing her front crawl and would prefer to rest her head on her mom's shoulder.

For her efforts during the three week session, C received a Certificate of Achievement and recommendation that her next class be...aqua-tot. She is demonstrating age-appropriate developmental skills in the water; as her fine motor skills increase she will make rapid progress. I put the certificate on our fridge. She's no 1-year-old aqua-phenom, but I doubt Michael Phelps was either.

macaroni n' cheese dance party

Friday is family pizza night. I call in the order and Himself picks it up on his way home from work. We eat off paper plates and C gnaws on bits of chicken steamed peas and carrots. We talk about our week. It's a nice way to welcome the weekend.

This Friday night, though, Himself made plans to golf at the Club. C and I were on our own for dinner. After a trip to the grocery store, we settled in for a 'momma and me' meal.

I had been meaning to try one of the "advanced" recipes in C's baby food cookbook. Once she was old enough for solids, I had diligently roasted veggies and steamed fruits for homemade baby purees. Blended smooth and poured into ice cube trays, the frozen servings were handy for lunch and dinner. But C had recently abandoned the purees of butternut squash and carrot-zucchini for finger foods: diced chicken, asparagus, even orzo. She was an independent eater. It was a sight to see her chasing peas and sweet potatoes across her tray, closing her tiny fist around a piece of chicken and shoveling it into her mouth.

Tonight, I woud try my hand at the mac 'n cheese recipe. It was a typical recipe - sauteed onions, flour for the rue, milk and cheese, nutmeg. Despite warnings about avoiding dairy until the first birthday, the cookbook labeled this meal as suitable for a 10 month old. So we gave it a go.

Stovetop mac 'n cheese had become a favorite of mine since I began experimenting in the kitchen after we got married. I preferred meals from scratch if I had the time. Meals from scratch always tasted better than something from a box. Once C had begun eating solids, my goal was to introduce her to different flavors and spices hoping she wouldn't become the picky eater I was as a kid.

As I cooked, we listened online to an Irish radio station online. It was nearly midnight in Ireland, so the playlist was geared toward the club crowd. Lots of techno dance music with thumping bass and electronic stylings. I remembered my semester in Ireland and the weekends at the disco. My friends and I would cram into a mini-bus that took us to the next village where we pushed our way into a crowded pub where the music shook the window panes and vibrated in our chests.

The music in my kitchen was a reasonable volume and I bounced my knees in a simulated dance. C's face spread into a gummy, two-toothed grin. She giggled. I stirred the milk and cheese to prevent it from scalding and bounced my knees some more. C crawled furiously across the hardwood, giggling away.

When the mac n' cheese was finished simmering, I spooned some into a bowl for myself. I spooned another scoop into a small bowl to cool on the counter for C. The electronic beats sped up and I sat down on the kitchen floor where C was playing. She put aside "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" and crawled over to my lap. I took a piece of macaroni from my bowl and held it out to her. Her mouth opened like a little bird, considering the new entree. She edged closer, pulling herself up to stand and steadying her wobbly legs as she held my forearm. Her mouth opened wider. I gave her another bite.

The next morning, Himself admitted regret in having missed family pizza night. I nodded, not letting on that I had been a bit put out initially. Lord knows I've fought him on golf before but realized it's not a fight worth having. We had a dance party, I told him. His eyes widened. We ate on the kitchen floor, danced, and giggled. Just us girls.

this is not a test

Assessments have become the newest buzz word for educators. Do you know your summative assessments from your formative assessment? How are you tracking assessment data? What kinds of student data are you collecting? What trends do you see in the data? The list goes on.

I can't assess the things that matter in my English classses. Did the boy who plans to enlist in the Marines after graduation realize that "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars" could easily be a conversation he has with a loved one some day? Did the girl who read "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" figure out that  real love isn't always a "bed of roses/and a thousand fragrant posies." There is not test that measures how poetry stirs the soul, especially if the soul doesn't recognize it is being stirred.

Reading comphrension seems to be at an all time low for many of my students. When I ask them what they think about what they have read, many stare blankly back at me. I can't teach high school students to be readers. If they hate reading at seventeen years old, there's little I can do to win them back. And there's even less a standardized test is going to do to make them want to read.

I can help them find something, anything in reading that resonates with them. It might not be an essay by Sir Francis Bacon or a sonnet by Shakespeare, but I want them to be affected by what they read. I want to force them to slow down and pay attention to the words, as difficult as those words might be. I want them to figure out what they agree with and disagree with - and more importantly why they feel the way they do. I can't test my students on their self-reliance and their independent thought, but to me, it's the area that needs more attention than writing conventions.

No test is going to show me how much my students grow. A lot of the time I'm not even going to see the growth. Yet, in some small way I'll know it's there.

big week

I'm no good at this blogging thing. Between teaching and keeping an 8 mos old dressed, fed, dry-bottomed...well, you know that goes. I've got my excuses for not posting more often but I don't feel like rolling them out.

But it's spring  break and instead of tackling the pile of research papers I have promised myself I would chip away at during nap time, I will post something on my long neglected blog.

It's been a big week. I haven't had to shower before 6 AM or hustle myself and the wee girl out the door at an ungodly hour. We've had our cereal in our PJs and danced to Beyonce in the living room. I've figured out creative ways to create pillow road blocks to our brand new army-crawler, yet she manages to get into places she's not supposed to.


On Sunday, we met Auntie Em in the city and went to the Shedd Aquarium. Caroline was introduced to penguins, otters, fish, frogs, turtles, sting rays, the whole deal. It was awesome. Probably more awesome for her parents, but I'd like to think it was awesome for her, too.

She had her first haircut yesterday. If I was a better blogging mom (which I am not, nor do I really aspire to be) there would be pictures and a weepy monologue about how my baby is growing up too damn fast. A hair cut at not quite 8 months old? Oh yes.The mullet was out of control and her Rod Blagojevich coif was getting too hard to sweep out of her face. Our little Samson cried, knowing perhaps that her strength as a beautifully hairy baby would be diminished by the shears of Lucy the stylist. Nevertheless, she has been groomed and is a better girl for it.

We went to the park today and Caroline learned the joy of swinging. The expression on her face as she threw her head back while I pushed is one that will get me through the last 8 weeks of the school year. There is nothing on the planet that's happier than this kid on a swing.

It's certainly a different kind of spring break. I had prepared myself to be overly frustrated with erratic nap times and fussy feedings, but being home with her makes the stress of work and the never-ending grading grind that much better. As crazy as it sounds, I find myself waiting for her to wake up from her naps so we can play on the floor or read together. And no, it's not because I don't want to grade. Ok, maybe just a little.

clawing my way back

Simply stated, I have never been this out of shape.
When I think back to my years of running (if I begin around 8th grade, we're talking 19 years here) I don't think I've ever taken this much time off from running. I always assumed when I got pregnant that I would continue running, eventually waddling, through the 9 gestational months. I'd even register for a few local 5Ks and conscientiously pace myself through 12 minute miles, stopping to drink water at each aid station along the way. I'd be that pregnant running lady.
But then there was a uterine hematoma detected around week 7. And the doctor said "pelvic rest" The terror of the first trimester, not knowing whether I would miscarry or not, was frightening. Each ultrasound and each little flutter of a heartbeat brought a sigh of relief. I could walk, which I didn't consider exercise, but no running. Ok, I said. No running. There were more important things now.
After the first trimester, I started to use an elliptical machine, simulating that running motion but without the jarring impact. I got up to 30-40 minutes, even into my third trimester. I felt as if I was actually in some kind of shape. I walked vigorously in those last weeks, even trekking a couple of miles through our neighborhood the day I went into labor.
Caroline was born on her due date, August 10, and four days after she was born, I managed to walk to the next block on our street and back. It felt like I had just finished a 10 miler. Of all the things I grossly underestimated about giving birth, it was the physical toll in those post-partum weeks. Getting up off the couch was a process. Standing up after kneeling on the floor was a challenge. My knees were arthritic, my feet ached as if I had spent all day in stiletto heels. Flights of stairs became my daily exercise.
I've run countless 5K and 10K races. I've run a sub-2 hour 25K twice. A year ago this weekend, I ran a half marathon, my last race before getting pregnant. Now I felt like I had never run a step in my life.
At 6 weeks post-partum, I decided to try running again. Out for a walk and pushing a stroller, I ran for a minute/walked for a minute for ten minutes. It was brutal. I was sore for two days. My family reminded me it would take time. It took me 10 months to make a baby, it would likely take that long to get back into the shape I was in before. While the marathoners in Chicago covered 26.2 miles on a beautiful Sunday morning, I was happy to run continuously for five minutes.
I kept up this routine on our morning walks, pushing Caroline in her stroller and watching her eyes flutter and her arms raise as she startled from the bumps and cracks in the sidewalk. Since my collegiate running career had ended, I had mostly run alone. Now I have a new running buddy.
This week, I reached a milestone: 15 minutes of straight running. Never before would I have considered this a milestone. Before, on a good day, I could cover two miles in 15 minutes. Now I'm just happy I didn't have to stop to walk.
It will take time. Slowly, I claw my way back. I look forward to hills, to an extra loop that adds five more minutes.When I used to zone out to make the last mile pass more quickly, I now pay more attention to my breathing, my turnover rate, and making sure the cargo in my stroller doesn't get too jostled. 15 minutes will eventually become 30, and then 60. Thanks to my new running buddy, I think I appreciate running now more than I ever did before.