It is the time of year that parents everywhere hear the words that bring joy to their hearts: Back To School!
The days of lax schedules and sleeping in are drawing to a close. The dog days of summer are giving way to class schedules and school projects. Soon I will again hear the dulcet tones of the school bus stopping at the bottom of the driveway. I never imagined that would be music to my ears.
If someone had told me 20 years ago how excited I would be to see bins full of pencils and spiral notebooks lining the aisles at Walmart, I would have thought they had sniffed one too many Sharpies. It's the same feeling I used to get when I saw the words "shoe sale." These days I would drive past 10 shoe sales just to make sure I get hold of those fifteen cent folders at Target.
Funny how your priorities change as parents. When childless, I would plot and plan how to save enough money for my dream car. Now I spend the latter part of my summer scouring sale flyers for the best deals on binders.
I used to think I was become boring, but I now realize that as parents, we become realistic. Car seats simply don't fit in the back of a Mustang convertible. That Prada bag simply would not function the same stuffed with diapers and wipes. And who needs to spend money on a Versace blouse when they must send their children off to school with Crayola supplies rather than--God forbid--some generic brand of crayons which will cause them to be made fun of and scar them for life, resulting in thousands of dollars spent on therapy.
So as I run amok between retail outlets in search of the gel ink pens and mechanical pencils my daughter cannot live without, I remind myself that the house will soon be quiet and structure will return to my days. I will--in some small way--miss the sounds of video games rising from the basement and the lovely tones of my daughter's cell phone as she receives her 30th text message of the morning.
In the meantime, I need to hurry up and get to Kmart. Rumor has it there is a huge sale on highlighters.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Ain't No Cure For The Summertime Blues
The end of summer vacation is approaching. In a way, this is a good thing as it coincides with the yearly end of my sanity and patience.
I have actually managed to keep the bickering and boredom to a minimum this summer. It may have preserved some of my faculties, added a few days to my life and resulted in fewer gray hairs. I wonder, however, what has it done improve the quality of my kids' free time.
Summer vacation today is not the same as the carefree, sunny days of my childhood when children went out to play after breakfast and you only saw them at mealtimes and bedtime. Even though it is a vacation from school, today's breaks are not necessarily a vacation from learning. Since many education experts have warned about the "brain drain" that occurs during summer vacation, I have always felt compelled to keep their minds engaged during the long school breaks.
It used to be we did workbooks each day. This was about as fun for my children as watching paint dry. This summer we tried a different approach. Following Sean's stellar performace during the first year of middle school (we are still thanking the powers that be that he actually passed everything), he is enrolled in a learning center this summer for math and took a chemistry class at our local planetarium.
We also decided that Shannon should take a "test run" for some classes she will be taking online this next school year through Michigan Virtual High School. She decided to try learning Latin.
Their chore list has also grown this summer to include lots of yard work and even more household chores. They also both volunteered during our church vacation bible school. Shannon has also picked up a couple of new babysitting clients.
Athough I make a huge effort to keep them busy, like most parents today I also spend the far too much time prying them away from cell phones, computers and video game controllers.
The days when gangs of children roamed the neighborhood on summer days are long gone. Only two of Shannon's friends live within walking or biking distance from our house. None of Sean's friends are nearby. Telling them to "go outside and find someone to play with" has never worked at our house unless you could befriend a squirrel.
When they were younger, I could send them out to play on the swingset, sandbox or other variety of outdoor toys that littered our backyard. This would generally occupy them for a long period of time. Although we now have more "grown-up" toys like a pool and a trampoline, this will engage them if they alone for about 10 minutes.
I find it alarming that they are willing to spend hours texting and communicating on Facebook, but are reluctant to invite friends over and actually hold conversations face to face. If I have learned anything this summer,it is that technology is starting to take a toll on personal relationships.
In a way I feel bad trying to structure their vacation time so much. My parents never gave me hours worth of chores, insisted I do volunteer work or made me do math problems over the summer. Sometimes, I feel like the Adolph Hitler of summer vacations.
But as I think back to those school breaks of my childhood, I think my four siblings and I spent more time bickering during the summer than playing together. My poor mother probably locked the doors once we went outside in the mornings just to keep her sanity intact.
I try to remember that summer is not only a time to unwind and relax, but also a time to learn and grow through new responsiblilites and opportunities. And we always make sure to make time for "the fun stuff" like scout camp, spending the afternoon at a local beach or going to the movies.
Perhaps I am not doing them a disservice by insisting on a balance between fun and responsibility. After all, they both seem to have grown and matured a little this summer. They may complain about the workloads, but in the end I am sure they are grateful for the structure in their lives.
I, too am grateful that the household has seem to run more efficiently and the choruses of "I'm bored" have lessened this summer. I am even happier that I have not lost too many brain cells refereeing arguments over whose turn it is to play the Avatar game on the Wii.
At my age, I don't have that many brain cells left to lose. And I can certainly think of better ways to lose them.
I have actually managed to keep the bickering and boredom to a minimum this summer. It may have preserved some of my faculties, added a few days to my life and resulted in fewer gray hairs. I wonder, however, what has it done improve the quality of my kids' free time.
Summer vacation today is not the same as the carefree, sunny days of my childhood when children went out to play after breakfast and you only saw them at mealtimes and bedtime. Even though it is a vacation from school, today's breaks are not necessarily a vacation from learning. Since many education experts have warned about the "brain drain" that occurs during summer vacation, I have always felt compelled to keep their minds engaged during the long school breaks.
It used to be we did workbooks each day. This was about as fun for my children as watching paint dry. This summer we tried a different approach. Following Sean's stellar performace during the first year of middle school (we are still thanking the powers that be that he actually passed everything), he is enrolled in a learning center this summer for math and took a chemistry class at our local planetarium.
We also decided that Shannon should take a "test run" for some classes she will be taking online this next school year through Michigan Virtual High School. She decided to try learning Latin.
Their chore list has also grown this summer to include lots of yard work and even more household chores. They also both volunteered during our church vacation bible school. Shannon has also picked up a couple of new babysitting clients.
Athough I make a huge effort to keep them busy, like most parents today I also spend the far too much time prying them away from cell phones, computers and video game controllers.
The days when gangs of children roamed the neighborhood on summer days are long gone. Only two of Shannon's friends live within walking or biking distance from our house. None of Sean's friends are nearby. Telling them to "go outside and find someone to play with" has never worked at our house unless you could befriend a squirrel.
When they were younger, I could send them out to play on the swingset, sandbox or other variety of outdoor toys that littered our backyard. This would generally occupy them for a long period of time. Although we now have more "grown-up" toys like a pool and a trampoline, this will engage them if they alone for about 10 minutes.
I find it alarming that they are willing to spend hours texting and communicating on Facebook, but are reluctant to invite friends over and actually hold conversations face to face. If I have learned anything this summer,it is that technology is starting to take a toll on personal relationships.
In a way I feel bad trying to structure their vacation time so much. My parents never gave me hours worth of chores, insisted I do volunteer work or made me do math problems over the summer. Sometimes, I feel like the Adolph Hitler of summer vacations.
But as I think back to those school breaks of my childhood, I think my four siblings and I spent more time bickering during the summer than playing together. My poor mother probably locked the doors once we went outside in the mornings just to keep her sanity intact.
I try to remember that summer is not only a time to unwind and relax, but also a time to learn and grow through new responsiblilites and opportunities. And we always make sure to make time for "the fun stuff" like scout camp, spending the afternoon at a local beach or going to the movies.
Perhaps I am not doing them a disservice by insisting on a balance between fun and responsibility. After all, they both seem to have grown and matured a little this summer. They may complain about the workloads, but in the end I am sure they are grateful for the structure in their lives.
I, too am grateful that the household has seem to run more efficiently and the choruses of "I'm bored" have lessened this summer. I am even happier that I have not lost too many brain cells refereeing arguments over whose turn it is to play the Avatar game on the Wii.
At my age, I don't have that many brain cells left to lose. And I can certainly think of better ways to lose them.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Goodbye, Zak
Last week was a very sad time in our household as we had to say goodbye to a very dear friend, our 13-year-old black labrador retriever, Zachary.
He was diagnosed in April with a defective heart valve after I took him to the vet with some breathing problems. There was nothing that could be done to correct the problem save an expensive surgery he would likely not survive. However, our vet said that with a limited activity schedule, he had seen dogs live for several years with this condition.
Happily, Zak did well for awhile with only short periods of exercise. Up until the day he died, he could still enjoy a quick game of catch and a short walk.
On the evening of July 21st, he suddenly had great difficulty breathing. Our vet met Cliff and Shannon at his office and gave us the bad news: Zak's lungs had filled with fluid and his oxygen levels were decreasing. He was in congestive heart failure. There was no more he could do for him. The decision was made at that time to put him to sleep.
The hardest part is that Sean and I--who were not home at the time--were not there to say goodbye. Our dog was suffering and there simply was no time to wait for us. I listened on my cell phone while our vet put my dog to sleep.
Sean has taken it particullarly hard--his dog has been his constant companion since he was a baby. We have photos of one-year-old Sean toddling through the house with his blanket and stuffed elephant, Blue, in his hands, his binky in his mouth, and his faithful dog close at his heels.
Zak was as loyal and devoted a dog as anyone could ask. He was far too friendly to be much of a guard dog--we used to joke that if anyone broke into the house he would make them a cup of tea and help them load up their van. But he was always up for catching a tennis ball, a walk to explore the neighborhood, or a ride in the car whether it was for a trip to our cabin or a visit to the vet or dog groomer.
Our constant companion for over thirteen years, the journey from the rambunctios six-week-old puppy to the old, mellow dog was far too quick. The memories with which he left us will last a lifetime.
As a labrador retriever, Zak would eat anything that would not eat him first. When he was a puppy, he would constantly get into my garden and eat the strawberries. I badgered Cliff to fence in this area, a job which he kept putting off. He was finally convinced to take on the project the day Zak ate about thirty red and green cherry tomatoes and threw them up all over the family room.
From that day on, the only thing he would not eat were tomatoes. One Thanksgiving holiday weekend, we were travelling back home from Pennsylvania and left an 18-inch turkey sub in the van with the dog while we stopped at a rest area. By the time we returned to the vehicle, the only thing left were the wrapper and the tomatoes.
He was such a gentle soul he would not even hurt another animal. He discovered a nest of baby rabbits in our yard once and did nothing but carry one in his mouth until I convinced him to drop it. He did the same thing to a very wet bird he found once during a rainstorm. His one passion was chasing squirrels and chimpmunks. He never had a prayer of catching them, but that did not stop him from enjoying the chase even in his final days.
The irony of his passing is that the Monday before he died, my book club met to discuss a book called "Good Dog. Stay" by Anna Quindlen. The book is about the life of her black labrador retriever named Beau and what she learned by watching him from his puppyhood until his passing at age 15.
Quindlen says that the life of a good dog is like the life of a good person, only shorter and more compressed. From watching Beau grow up and grow old, she learned to take every day as it comes, live life to the fullest, and to simply roll with the punches. Sometimes, Quindlen says, and old dog can teach you new tricks.
Zak not only lived a full, happy life in his thirteen years, but added fullness to our lives as well. Through him, I have learned to find joy in every day, take time to enjoy the beauty of nature that surrounds you, nap and play whenever possible, and--every once in awhile--drop whatever you are doing and chase a squirrel.
Goodbye, dear friend. We miss you and will never forget you.
He was diagnosed in April with a defective heart valve after I took him to the vet with some breathing problems. There was nothing that could be done to correct the problem save an expensive surgery he would likely not survive. However, our vet said that with a limited activity schedule, he had seen dogs live for several years with this condition.
Happily, Zak did well for awhile with only short periods of exercise. Up until the day he died, he could still enjoy a quick game of catch and a short walk.
On the evening of July 21st, he suddenly had great difficulty breathing. Our vet met Cliff and Shannon at his office and gave us the bad news: Zak's lungs had filled with fluid and his oxygen levels were decreasing. He was in congestive heart failure. There was no more he could do for him. The decision was made at that time to put him to sleep.
The hardest part is that Sean and I--who were not home at the time--were not there to say goodbye. Our dog was suffering and there simply was no time to wait for us. I listened on my cell phone while our vet put my dog to sleep.
Sean has taken it particullarly hard--his dog has been his constant companion since he was a baby. We have photos of one-year-old Sean toddling through the house with his blanket and stuffed elephant, Blue, in his hands, his binky in his mouth, and his faithful dog close at his heels.
Zak was as loyal and devoted a dog as anyone could ask. He was far too friendly to be much of a guard dog--we used to joke that if anyone broke into the house he would make them a cup of tea and help them load up their van. But he was always up for catching a tennis ball, a walk to explore the neighborhood, or a ride in the car whether it was for a trip to our cabin or a visit to the vet or dog groomer.
Our constant companion for over thirteen years, the journey from the rambunctios six-week-old puppy to the old, mellow dog was far too quick. The memories with which he left us will last a lifetime.
As a labrador retriever, Zak would eat anything that would not eat him first. When he was a puppy, he would constantly get into my garden and eat the strawberries. I badgered Cliff to fence in this area, a job which he kept putting off. He was finally convinced to take on the project the day Zak ate about thirty red and green cherry tomatoes and threw them up all over the family room.
From that day on, the only thing he would not eat were tomatoes. One Thanksgiving holiday weekend, we were travelling back home from Pennsylvania and left an 18-inch turkey sub in the van with the dog while we stopped at a rest area. By the time we returned to the vehicle, the only thing left were the wrapper and the tomatoes.
He was such a gentle soul he would not even hurt another animal. He discovered a nest of baby rabbits in our yard once and did nothing but carry one in his mouth until I convinced him to drop it. He did the same thing to a very wet bird he found once during a rainstorm. His one passion was chasing squirrels and chimpmunks. He never had a prayer of catching them, but that did not stop him from enjoying the chase even in his final days.
The irony of his passing is that the Monday before he died, my book club met to discuss a book called "Good Dog. Stay" by Anna Quindlen. The book is about the life of her black labrador retriever named Beau and what she learned by watching him from his puppyhood until his passing at age 15.
Quindlen says that the life of a good dog is like the life of a good person, only shorter and more compressed. From watching Beau grow up and grow old, she learned to take every day as it comes, live life to the fullest, and to simply roll with the punches. Sometimes, Quindlen says, and old dog can teach you new tricks.
Zak not only lived a full, happy life in his thirteen years, but added fullness to our lives as well. Through him, I have learned to find joy in every day, take time to enjoy the beauty of nature that surrounds you, nap and play whenever possible, and--every once in awhile--drop whatever you are doing and chase a squirrel.
Goodbye, dear friend. We miss you and will never forget you.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
No Pain, No Gain
Each New Year's Day, I come up with a list of resolutions for myself. This year, I decided I want to challenge myself physically.
In additon to trying to keep my girlish figure, I am discovering muscles I never knew I had. Mostly because they hurt.
I have taken several Zumba classes this summer in addition to my usual pilates class. Apparently I am not the only one who has made this resolution because the class is filled with overwieght, middle-aged women with a few 20-somethings sprinkled in. You have not lived until you've seen a 200-pound, 50-year-old woman bouncing around to the music of the Black-Eyed Peas.
After a few years of competing in mostly five kilometer races, I have also decided to walk the 10-mile race in the Crim Fesitival of Races this summer. I have joined a training group that is--you guessed it--moslty middle aged people.
Why is it that we suddenly wake up in our forties and decide a change is necessary? We certainly could have been doing a better job of this in our twenties and thirties, which would of course head off the need to lose all that extra weight once our 40th birthday rolls around.
One reason is that families and jobs keep us so busy in our younger years that we don't have time worry about expanding waistlines. Once the kids are more independent and our careers are established, we then realize our figures rival that of Shamoo the Killer Whale.
It doesn't help that television shows, commericals and magaine ads blast us with models and celebrities with perfect physiques. I've never seen the show "Jersey Shore," but the cast was on the "Today" Show not long ago. One of the male characters actually has a named his abdominals and calls them "The Situation." I thought that was interesting because we have a nickname for my husband's abdominal muscles as well. We refer to them as "Missing In Action."
Even my husband, however, has caught the middle-aged fitness bug. He recently began jogging and hopes to lose at least 30 pounds.
Getting in shape at any age is a laudable thing, and I applaud all those who take steps to live longer, healthier lives even if they do get a late start. Just make sure you visit your local Costco or Sam's Club first and stock up on the Motrin.
And to all of those 20-somethings who run circles around us in the park, a word of advice: Stay out of my way or I will hit you with my cane.
In additon to trying to keep my girlish figure, I am discovering muscles I never knew I had. Mostly because they hurt.
I have taken several Zumba classes this summer in addition to my usual pilates class. Apparently I am not the only one who has made this resolution because the class is filled with overwieght, middle-aged women with a few 20-somethings sprinkled in. You have not lived until you've seen a 200-pound, 50-year-old woman bouncing around to the music of the Black-Eyed Peas.
After a few years of competing in mostly five kilometer races, I have also decided to walk the 10-mile race in the Crim Fesitival of Races this summer. I have joined a training group that is--you guessed it--moslty middle aged people.
Why is it that we suddenly wake up in our forties and decide a change is necessary? We certainly could have been doing a better job of this in our twenties and thirties, which would of course head off the need to lose all that extra weight once our 40th birthday rolls around.
One reason is that families and jobs keep us so busy in our younger years that we don't have time worry about expanding waistlines. Once the kids are more independent and our careers are established, we then realize our figures rival that of Shamoo the Killer Whale.
It doesn't help that television shows, commericals and magaine ads blast us with models and celebrities with perfect physiques. I've never seen the show "Jersey Shore," but the cast was on the "Today" Show not long ago. One of the male characters actually has a named his abdominals and calls them "The Situation." I thought that was interesting because we have a nickname for my husband's abdominal muscles as well. We refer to them as "Missing In Action."
Even my husband, however, has caught the middle-aged fitness bug. He recently began jogging and hopes to lose at least 30 pounds.
Getting in shape at any age is a laudable thing, and I applaud all those who take steps to live longer, healthier lives even if they do get a late start. Just make sure you visit your local Costco or Sam's Club first and stock up on the Motrin.
And to all of those 20-somethings who run circles around us in the park, a word of advice: Stay out of my way or I will hit you with my cane.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
R.S.V.P.--Response So Very Poor
I discovered recenlty that the meaning of the phrase R.S.V.P. has changed. I was taught as a child that it stood for "respond so very promptly" I have come to understand that it means "reply sort-of, verification pending."
We had a 16th birthday party for Shannon last week with R.S.V.P by a certain date. Almost half or the people either did not respond or said they will "probably" attend.
I wonder if these people realize that "probably" means that you have to count them as attendees, and when they "probably" do not show up, you are stuck with the extra cost of covering them. Shannon invited 22 people to her pool party, and only eight friends actually came.
Granted, there were some legitimate excuses: one friend got stuck out of town, another had to leave early for camp. But to simply not show up or give a wishy-washy response is just one of those things that would make Miss Manners' head explode.
It seems customary--if not acceptable--to give a non-committal response. This to me is an insult. It's like saying "I will come if I have nothing better to do."
What really irks me is the people that commit to coming, then at the last minute decide they have a better offer. Someone Shannon thought was a close friend did this to her the night before the party, and she was devastated.
I have uncovered a couple of codes that will tell you if people think you are as exciting as watching paint dry. They are:
1. "I will have to see what else is going on." Translation: you are boring and if I get a better offer I am on it faster than a dog can pounce on a dropped hot dog.
2. "My grandmother passed away (for the sixth time)." You can get away with this excuse exactly twice. When you lose track of your fibs and your relatives start passing away more than once, you are either a bad liar or have one screwed-up family tree.
3. "I want to come, but I just can't seem to get out the door." Translation: I would rather sit on my couch and watch a "Gilligan's Island" marathon than drag myself to your snooze-fest.
As I feel I am becoming an expert on party etiquette, I will be conducting a seminar--or maybe it's a support group--for the chronically boring party host. We will cover topics such as "Getting party attendees without begging" and "Discover your inner party animal." Details to follow.
Just make sure you R.S.V.P.
We had a 16th birthday party for Shannon last week with R.S.V.P by a certain date. Almost half or the people either did not respond or said they will "probably" attend.
I wonder if these people realize that "probably" means that you have to count them as attendees, and when they "probably" do not show up, you are stuck with the extra cost of covering them. Shannon invited 22 people to her pool party, and only eight friends actually came.
Granted, there were some legitimate excuses: one friend got stuck out of town, another had to leave early for camp. But to simply not show up or give a wishy-washy response is just one of those things that would make Miss Manners' head explode.
It seems customary--if not acceptable--to give a non-committal response. This to me is an insult. It's like saying "I will come if I have nothing better to do."
What really irks me is the people that commit to coming, then at the last minute decide they have a better offer. Someone Shannon thought was a close friend did this to her the night before the party, and she was devastated.
I have uncovered a couple of codes that will tell you if people think you are as exciting as watching paint dry. They are:
1. "I will have to see what else is going on." Translation: you are boring and if I get a better offer I am on it faster than a dog can pounce on a dropped hot dog.
2. "My grandmother passed away (for the sixth time)." You can get away with this excuse exactly twice. When you lose track of your fibs and your relatives start passing away more than once, you are either a bad liar or have one screwed-up family tree.
3. "I want to come, but I just can't seem to get out the door." Translation: I would rather sit on my couch and watch a "Gilligan's Island" marathon than drag myself to your snooze-fest.
As I feel I am becoming an expert on party etiquette, I will be conducting a seminar--or maybe it's a support group--for the chronically boring party host. We will cover topics such as "Getting party attendees without begging" and "Discover your inner party animal." Details to follow.
Just make sure you R.S.V.P.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
My Sanity Has Disappeared With The Phone
I am in need of a good detective. We have lost a cordless phone.
The phone from my home office has gone missing in action. Since the battery has now died from not being charged, the paging function does not work. I think we need professional help.
I have checked all of the usual spots in the house where I have found it before: under the sofa, inside the sofa, in the refrigerator (yes, I am serious). No luck.
This would not have happened except for one small problem in our household: NO ONE PUTS ANYTHING AWAY!!!!
Do I sound a little frustrated?
The scissors from my office are also missing. I have a bin full of socks without partners in the laundry room closet. At least two remote controls have disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle that has apparently relocated itself over my house.
I spend at least 15 minutes each evening putting things that others in this household leave lying around back in their proper places. I am constantly calling on my family to please put this or that away.
I tell myself this is a step toward being organized for the next day. Some days I think that it is one more step toward the state mental hospital as I will go insane from repeating the same phrases and tasks over and over.
I often wonder what would happen if I were to go on strike. What would result if I suddenly ignored all schedules, household tasks and responsibilities and spent my days lounging outside in the hammock? I would like to think my family would pick up the slack and gain an appreciation for all that I do. I suspect, however, that the house would simply implode due to neglect and we would all be living in a giant smoking crater.
I have decided I will no longer search for or replace the missing phone. Those responsible for its disappearance can now use the phone connected to the fax machine with the big white springy cord attached to it that goes no further than four feet from its base.
At least now there is one less thing I have to track down. Now, if I could get a springy cord that I could attatch to the remote control, I'd be all set.
The phone from my home office has gone missing in action. Since the battery has now died from not being charged, the paging function does not work. I think we need professional help.
I have checked all of the usual spots in the house where I have found it before: under the sofa, inside the sofa, in the refrigerator (yes, I am serious). No luck.
This would not have happened except for one small problem in our household: NO ONE PUTS ANYTHING AWAY!!!!
Do I sound a little frustrated?
The scissors from my office are also missing. I have a bin full of socks without partners in the laundry room closet. At least two remote controls have disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle that has apparently relocated itself over my house.
I spend at least 15 minutes each evening putting things that others in this household leave lying around back in their proper places. I am constantly calling on my family to please put this or that away.
I tell myself this is a step toward being organized for the next day. Some days I think that it is one more step toward the state mental hospital as I will go insane from repeating the same phrases and tasks over and over.
I often wonder what would happen if I were to go on strike. What would result if I suddenly ignored all schedules, household tasks and responsibilities and spent my days lounging outside in the hammock? I would like to think my family would pick up the slack and gain an appreciation for all that I do. I suspect, however, that the house would simply implode due to neglect and we would all be living in a giant smoking crater.
I have decided I will no longer search for or replace the missing phone. Those responsible for its disappearance can now use the phone connected to the fax machine with the big white springy cord attached to it that goes no further than four feet from its base.
At least now there is one less thing I have to track down. Now, if I could get a springy cord that I could attatch to the remote control, I'd be all set.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The New Detention
My 12-year-old son has been spending lots of time in after-school detention lately. This is not a good thing.
In additon to seeing how we can slide through 6th grade doing as little work as possible, we are now exploring the realm of having a reserved seat in detention hall. Except that the tradtional after-school detention has gone new-age.
Instead of making children sit in a room writing things like "I will not release toads in the school hallway" 100 times, teachers now take a different approach.
Yesterday, he and a group of his friends (who were all in detention because of an incident involving throwing milk cartons) had to weed the school gardens. Since our school has a rather large agricultural curriculum associated with Michigan State University, this was no small task.
Detention now means that kids are put to work. It makes sense to me. Why have a bunch of kids with a lot of pent-up energy sit in a room when you can get some free labor out of them?
A couple of months ago, they apparently couldn't find any work for the detainees to complete. Instead, they had to listen to music. Classical music. This may not sound so bad to you or me. To a bunch of pre-teens, however, this is akin to Chinese water torture.
When they were done with the classical selections, they switched to music for preschoolers such as "The Barney Song" and the Teletubbies theme. I am surprised his ears were not bleeding when he got home.
I am hopeful that forced labor and tortuous musical therapy will have some positive affect on my son. In other words, he will hopefully straighten his behind out and not want to spend any more time listening to Raffi.
It hasn't worked yet, however. He has detention again this Thursday for taking his cell phone out in school.
I look forward to hearing what task was forced upon him this time. I hope it's cleaning the boys' bathrooms with q-tips.
In additon to seeing how we can slide through 6th grade doing as little work as possible, we are now exploring the realm of having a reserved seat in detention hall. Except that the tradtional after-school detention has gone new-age.
Instead of making children sit in a room writing things like "I will not release toads in the school hallway" 100 times, teachers now take a different approach.
Yesterday, he and a group of his friends (who were all in detention because of an incident involving throwing milk cartons) had to weed the school gardens. Since our school has a rather large agricultural curriculum associated with Michigan State University, this was no small task.
Detention now means that kids are put to work. It makes sense to me. Why have a bunch of kids with a lot of pent-up energy sit in a room when you can get some free labor out of them?
A couple of months ago, they apparently couldn't find any work for the detainees to complete. Instead, they had to listen to music. Classical music. This may not sound so bad to you or me. To a bunch of pre-teens, however, this is akin to Chinese water torture.
When they were done with the classical selections, they switched to music for preschoolers such as "The Barney Song" and the Teletubbies theme. I am surprised his ears were not bleeding when he got home.
I am hopeful that forced labor and tortuous musical therapy will have some positive affect on my son. In other words, he will hopefully straighten his behind out and not want to spend any more time listening to Raffi.
It hasn't worked yet, however. He has detention again this Thursday for taking his cell phone out in school.
I look forward to hearing what task was forced upon him this time. I hope it's cleaning the boys' bathrooms with q-tips.
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