Domestic Psychology

Monk quickie

// November 29th, 2009 // 1 Comment » // television

It’s the wipes.

yardwork

// November 28th, 2009 // No Comments » // Doug, fall, preschoolers

Doug spent yesterday and today blowing leaves. He blew leaves off the roof. He blew leaves off the driveway. He blew leaves from the front yard. He blew leaves from the back yard. He took the thick blanket of leaves that covered every inch of our house and yard and blew the leaves into giant piles. He occasionally tapped on the window and gestured for me to look at his work. I smiled and gave him a thumbs up every time. As he turned and walked off to work on a new area of the yard, Evan trailed a few feet behind him. Evan’s arms were filled with leaves that he was collecting from the giant piles and sprinkling everywhere that was lacking in leaves. Doug blew the leaves off and Evan tossed them back in the place where they belonged. When darkness forced them both indoors, Doug flopped on the couch and Evan flopped on the floor. Satisfied. And oblivious.

water critics

// November 27th, 2009 // 2 Comments » // preschoolers, sleep

Besides the ridiculous habit of someone having to sit beside Evan until he falls asleep every night, both Evan and his sister demand a cup of water at their bedside. I’m sure it’s because I allowed them to nurse themselves to sleep or something else I did wrong, but as with many things, this is not a battle I want to fight right now. Lately, the cup of water has evolved into something of a drink order.

Evan: “I need a cup of water with THREE ice cubes.”
Amy: “I need a cup of water with ONE ice cube.”

When you tiptoe back in their dark room and put the cup of water beside the bed, a tiny hand immediately grabs it. shake, shake, shake

“That feels right. Thanks.”

If you wait too long and the ice melts . . . it gets sent back to the chef.

Amy says:

// November 25th, 2009 // 2 Comments » // kid quotes

Amy: “I got an E+ on my book of school safety rules.”
Me: “That’s wonderful. What were the rules?”
Amy: “Umm, I can only remember one.”
Me: “What is it?”
Amy: “Never punch people in the face.”

old AND fat

// November 24th, 2009 // No Comments » // Doug, kid quotes, me

Noah: “It’s older than YOU? Wow! That’s really old.”
Doug: “You know that drink you like so much? They make a low calorie version that you really need to try.”

I will be sleeping in a tent in the backyard from now on. I hope the wireless is accessible from there.

Evan brought me a “flower”

// November 20th, 2009 // No Comments » // flickr

swim

// November 20th, 2009 // No Comments » // music, video

not so deep thoughts

// November 19th, 2009 // No Comments » // clothing, teenagers

In the moment of stunned silence that I realized Noah outgrew the clothes that fit him a few days ago, I briefly visualized Noah as a large green Hulk in tiny, tattered clothing. I wonder if the misunderstood Hulk would have been so cranky if he hadn’t been stuck wearing Bruce Banner’s pants.

no school left behind

// November 16th, 2009 // 3 Comments » // knoxville, school

When a very opinionated senior wasn’t entertaining me with his tales and ideas that made me grit my teeth (“You don’t need school if you’re going to pour concrete.”), I spent Saturday listening to people discuss the unacceptable graduation statistics in our school system. While we were separated into smaller groups based on each public high school, I suspect that every single group made the claim that someone in our group made. “We have to think outside of the box, because things that work in other schools, won’t work in ours.” The better statement would be what a wise teacher tacked on to that claim. “Each student has unique circumstances and needs. One size does not fit all.” That teacher voiced the one thing that everyone in our group could agree on as a solution. Every student needs a caring, supportive adult in their life.

Then, the invisible wall that keeps Knoxville from going from scruffy to shiny made its’ inevitable appearance. “It still galls me that we have kids who belong in other schools at our school. We are a community and those kids know they don’t belong in our community.” The hair on my arms assumed the porcupine pose, but I bit my tongue. Half a dozen high schools are a fifteen minute drive from my house. This is not MY school. These are OUR schoolS. Those teenagers strutting their feathers like peacocks at the mall, concert and party attend all of our schools. The teenagers committing vandalism, shoplifting and assault attend all of our schools. The teenagers excelling at academic and athletic competitions attend all of our schools. The teenagers adrift in the murky bog between childhood and adulthood attend all of our schools. The teenagers without the motivation, support or ability to graduate from high school, attend all of our schools. The drop-outs without literacy or skills to work have and will continue to affect each and every one of us.

If a student is enrolled in your school, they ARE a part of that community and anyone who thinks otherwise is a part of the problem instead of the solution. This feudalistic attitude about tiny geographic segments of Knoxville hurts our city and the people who live in it. Knoxville is too small for this us vs. them behavior. We have to work together to help every school. We have to embrace every student in every school. If you won’t even connect to the students in your own classroom because you see some of them as usurpers, we won’t succeed. If they are sitting there, they belong. If they live in Knoxville, they belong in ANY of our schools. Celebrate the fact that every student in the room is a student who still has the opportunity to graduate. Don’t pretend they are not a part of your community. Those students in that OTHER school are your community too.

pensieves

// November 14th, 2009 // No Comments » // me, people, relatives

Today, an 80-something gentleman talked and I listened. I occasionally spoke, but my words were just connectors that threaded the man’s stories together. He asked me if I knew anyone who could write a program to help him get his opinions on the Internet. I wrote blogger.com inside the front cover of the journal he was filling with notes. I hope that the grandchild, neighbor or friend he asks for help doesn’t discourage him. Not because I agree with his political and educational ideas. I don’t. That didn’t make them any less relevant or in need of archiving. I wish I had a written record of my grandparents’ stories and opinions. I should have chased them around with a video camera. So much history lost forever.

When you’re a child, it’s funny that old people sit around telling stories. What nobody tells you is that as you get older, the most innocuous sight, sound or smell triggers vivid memories that feel so real, you wonder if you’ve slipped through a wormhole. While it’s usually comfortable, familiar memories that make you smile, occasionally it is long forgotten memories that take your breath away like a cold, winter wind slapping you in the face when you first step outside. Memories that must be written, even if they are tucked away for the future. Memories that make the heart ache at the experiences and ideas that were never spoken, never written, never shared.

I have nothing but memories of my grandparents. All that remains of what should be a part of my history, are scattered, fragmented images. Even the physical things which were promised to me were determined to be more “appropriate” elsewhere. The absence of obvious relics doesn’t stop the ever increasing flood of memories. Memories that I lacked the clarity to see until now. When my grandmother took me to visit the woman in the iron lung, it wasn’t coincidental. It was a deliberate message for a pre-adolescent who was self absorbed and histrionic about a few years in a back brace. My grandmother’s visits there were a secret that she shared with me. I repaid her by forgetting it until she was long gone.

I was always told that aging robs you of memories. Nobody warned me that the opposite could be true. It might not be normal. Perhaps the dusty archive files being shuffled to the in basket are a sign of Alzheimer’s. Maybe it’s my own version of schizophrenia. Whatever it is, I like it. It fills my senses and leaves me with a sense of contentment.