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.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
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 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.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
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.
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.
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