I recently had the opportunity to attend an excellent conference for early childhood educators, along with several of my co-teachers. During the course of the day, in addition to attending some of the conference offerings together, we also made plans to split up for several of the sessions, so that we could bring as much new information as possible back with us. On one of these breaks, I was walking alone across the university campus where the conference was held, and (like lots of other people) I was talking on the phone as I went. I am actually not great at finding my way around new places, and I had been depending on the rest of my group to get me where I was going up until that point in the day, but now I was by myself, and I expressed some reservations to my friend on the phone as to whether I was going in the right direction. I said that I was planning to get to the right building by following the rest of the crowd walking across campus with me. My friend said jokingly, "Unless you're following the wrong group of people." This was a valid concern, since there were several other groups and events on campus that day, but I replied without thinking, "Oh, no. You can recognize a group of teachers when you see one." When pressed for an explanation of this remark, I couldn't come up with one on the spot, but I've been thinking about it, and I think I know why.
First, we are women. Overwhelmingly, any group of teachers will be made up mostly of women. In all the hundreds of participants on campus that day, I counted about a dozen or so who were men, and a high percentage of those are on staff at the college and were organizers or sponsors of the conference. This is actually unfortunate. Children, especially small children, in our current culture, are badly in need of the influence of strong male role models. As cliche and well-worn as that statement has become, it has not lost its urgency or its truth for those who spend time serving, shaping, and supporting children in almost any capacity. The role of men in our society is so uncertain, and the presence of men in our children's homes is either nonexistent or sporadic in so many cases, and all these children are badly in need of someone to take up this position of leadership in their lives. Most often you hear talk of the plight of boys, and I understand why, but it's my contention that the need for the care, support, and leadership of men is just as crucial for girls. So, although work with children, particularly those who are very young, has traditionally been a woman's role, and will most likely remain primarily so, it would be great to see a few more men among our ranks.
Second, we've got bags. And that's because we've got stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. At most business conferences, you'll see people walking around with folders, laptop cases, maybe some bags they picked up at a vendor's booth and have filled with giveaways and workshop handouts. And we might have some of these, it's true. But we will have so. Much. More. We will have umbrellas, coffee cups, extra sweaters, and snacks. We'll be carrying math manipulatives we bought in the exhibit hall, flower pots we painted in one of the workshops, and all the water bottles that everyone in our group has emptied during the day so we can use them for a project we're doing. All this stuff will be transported around in bags. Every teacher has a school bag, usually several, in fact, and they are the repository for all the treasures required to serve our students well. They may be plain canvas bags, or sturdy J. Crew bags, or cute Thirty-One bags. Many of them--and I mean many--will have our names embroidered on them. But what they all have in common is that they will be filled with items that speak to two important ideas. One is our intense commitment to caretaking. After all, how could we go somewhere for a whole day without tissues, band-aids, antibacterial wipes? Someone might need them! And another is our strong belief that everything in the world is fascinating, educational, and an object of wonder. We can use it, whatever it is. It's valuable, beautiful, cool, or gross, and we know the children in our care will think so too, because they have not yet lost this view of the world, and we hope they never do. The stuff in the bag speaks to the very nature of who we are and what we do. The school bag matters.
Third, we look really comfortable. Now, don't get me wrong, we are as cute as can be. I'm not saying we look sloppy. But we will be dressed in a way that reflects our intention to get down to the business at hand, and not worry about getting our hands dirty while we do it. We won't be wearing high heels; you can't run to someone's aid or do the Hokey-Pokey in high heels. We won't have on designer clothes; paint, glitter, and blood is not good for designer clothes. We believe, wholeheartedly, as a group, that life is meant to be experienced and that learning is a hands-on business. When you hold someone on your lap as they cry, snot might get on your shirt. When, for the hundredth time, you dig a marble out of the toy toaster so that breakfast can continue, you might break a fingernail. When you love someone, and you are living life with them, you've got to get down and dirty. So while we are fashionable, maybe, in varying degrees, the exterior is not where our priorities lie. It's not about how you look, it's about what you do. Life is messy, both physically and relationally--we dress for it.
And finally, most importantly, we are happy. No kidding. We're a happy bunch of people. We will not be walking along looking all worried, or busy, or distracted. We'll be talking and laughing. Probably to people we don't know, and just happened to bump into on the way to the exhibit hall, or ended up making a newspaper wedding dress with in the last session. And there is a very, very good reason for this. Are you ready? Here it is. We love what we do. All of us. No teacher goes into the job for the money or the prestige. We are there because we know, in our heart of hearts, that what we are doing is a vitally important, hugely valuable, immensely significant work. We are passionate about kids, excited about learning, and just happy to be somewhere together, with others who share our passion and excitement--learning, sharing, telling stories, and oh, so much laughing. And when you encounter a group of people who know so clearly how lucky they are, spending every day doing something they feel this way about, believe me--you will recognize them.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Thursday, April 26, 2012
On Being Hollow
When I was a kid, one of my favorite books was E.L. Konigsburg's From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. If you've never read it, it's the story of a brother and sister who run away from home, with the unlikely plan of taking up residence in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. While living in the museum, they become mixed up in a mystery of sorts, involving a particular piece of artwork; in solving it, they encounter an elderly, wealthy art collector, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, and she discovers their secret. As they talk with her about their time at the museum, the siblings reveal that one of the rules they've been living by is that they must learn about one new thing every day. They're surprised, however, to discover that Mrs. Frankweiler vehemently disapproves of this plan. Here's her explanation:
"I think you should learn, of course, and some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up inside of you until it touches everything. And you can feel it inside of you. If you never take time out to let that happen, then you accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you. You can make noise with them, but never really feel anything with them. It's hollow."
I've always loved that passage, and I think it's a great reminder for those of us in the community of faith. It seems that sometimes, as believers, we can get so caught up in learning, learning, learning. Another Bible study, another quiet time, another devotional--we must always be learning. But we often fail to take our learning to heart, to let it mature into something that touches the deepest part of who we are, that impacts how we live every day. And then when we find ourselves in interactions with the rest of the world, all they are able to see in us is all those facts, rattling around. We're making noise with them, but it's not meaningful to anyone, because we haven't let the information grow inside until it touches everything; it hasn't changed us in the way it was meant to.
If you're beginning to wonder what kind of New Age, anti-church claptrap I'm preaching, let me assure you that the Bible is just as clear on this point as E.L. Konigsburg. James, in the first chapter of his book, urgently reminds his readers that the Scripture is intended not just for study, but for application. He explains that when a person hears more and more information, but doesn't put it into practice, it's as though he has looked at himself intently in a mirror, and then walked away, only to have "forgotten what kind of person he was" . (What an evocative phrase--not forgetting what we look like, he says, but forgetting who we are.) Be an "effectual doer," he urges, not a "forgetful hearer."
In that case, you may be asking, what does this look like? In other words, what does an "effectual doer" actually do? It's an excellent question, and I certainly would never claim to have a monopoly on the answer. But I will tell you what I see when I ask that question myself. I see that Jesus says if we love him, we'll obey his commands, and his command is that we love each other. I see that John says if we claim to love God, but don't love others, our proclaimed love for God is nothing but a lie we tell ourselves. I see that Jesus says people will be able to identify us as his followers by the way we show love. I see that Paul says if we have all the knowledge in the world but don't have love, we ourselves are nothing. I see that there is no amount of Bible study or spiritual knowledge that will compensate for our failure to live out our learning by loving the ones that God loves, in the same way that he loves them. This means that relationships, service, sacrifice, compassion, are at very least equal in importance to more and more learning. It means that a cherished hour of talking, laughing, living together with someone is to be valued beyond one extra chapter of a study book completed.
This encourages me to take my time. To grow into faith at a pace that allows for exploration, examination, reflection. To think deeply and maybe for a long time about what love for others really means, and what choices and changes I might need to make so that it becomes real in me. Most importantly, it encourages me to choose wisely in the way I use whatever precious time I have each day. I could hurry through. I could mark my spiritual growth by the number of chapters I consume every day. I could fill my calendar with classes, studies, and seminars. But I'm not willing to do so at the cost of walking away from that mirror and forgetting who I am.
"I think you should learn, of course, and some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up inside of you until it touches everything. And you can feel it inside of you. If you never take time out to let that happen, then you accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you. You can make noise with them, but never really feel anything with them. It's hollow."
I've always loved that passage, and I think it's a great reminder for those of us in the community of faith. It seems that sometimes, as believers, we can get so caught up in learning, learning, learning. Another Bible study, another quiet time, another devotional--we must always be learning. But we often fail to take our learning to heart, to let it mature into something that touches the deepest part of who we are, that impacts how we live every day. And then when we find ourselves in interactions with the rest of the world, all they are able to see in us is all those facts, rattling around. We're making noise with them, but it's not meaningful to anyone, because we haven't let the information grow inside until it touches everything; it hasn't changed us in the way it was meant to.
If you're beginning to wonder what kind of New Age, anti-church claptrap I'm preaching, let me assure you that the Bible is just as clear on this point as E.L. Konigsburg. James, in the first chapter of his book, urgently reminds his readers that the Scripture is intended not just for study, but for application. He explains that when a person hears more and more information, but doesn't put it into practice, it's as though he has looked at himself intently in a mirror, and then walked away, only to have "forgotten what kind of person he was" . (What an evocative phrase--not forgetting what we look like, he says, but forgetting who we are.) Be an "effectual doer," he urges, not a "forgetful hearer."
In that case, you may be asking, what does this look like? In other words, what does an "effectual doer" actually do? It's an excellent question, and I certainly would never claim to have a monopoly on the answer. But I will tell you what I see when I ask that question myself. I see that Jesus says if we love him, we'll obey his commands, and his command is that we love each other. I see that John says if we claim to love God, but don't love others, our proclaimed love for God is nothing but a lie we tell ourselves. I see that Jesus says people will be able to identify us as his followers by the way we show love. I see that Paul says if we have all the knowledge in the world but don't have love, we ourselves are nothing. I see that there is no amount of Bible study or spiritual knowledge that will compensate for our failure to live out our learning by loving the ones that God loves, in the same way that he loves them. This means that relationships, service, sacrifice, compassion, are at very least equal in importance to more and more learning. It means that a cherished hour of talking, laughing, living together with someone is to be valued beyond one extra chapter of a study book completed.
This encourages me to take my time. To grow into faith at a pace that allows for exploration, examination, reflection. To think deeply and maybe for a long time about what love for others really means, and what choices and changes I might need to make so that it becomes real in me. Most importantly, it encourages me to choose wisely in the way I use whatever precious time I have each day. I could hurry through. I could mark my spiritual growth by the number of chapters I consume every day. I could fill my calendar with classes, studies, and seminars. But I'm not willing to do so at the cost of walking away from that mirror and forgetting who I am.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Update on Money-Making Scheme #1: Consigning the Kids' Clothing
In an earlier post, I wrote about my generally unsuccessful attempt to make money by consigning some of my kids' old clothes. When I left the store, most of the items still in hand but some reluctantly accepted, I was told to call in about two weeks and check on the status of my account.
If you followed the link above, you know that this event took place more than two months ago. However, until yesterday, I still hadn't gotten around to calling. My thinking was this. Given the not-so-enthusiastic reception that greeted my offerings, they're probably not going to just fly off the sales floor. Therefore (I thought), I don't want to call too early, hoping to have accumulated even the small amount of cash that would be possible, and discover that I've collected nothing. I decided to wait until my items had some time to sell, then come in and pick up my ten bucks and be done with it.
So yesterday, I called the shop to check my balance and see if it was time to swoop in, victorious, and claim my lunch money. The total balance in my account was--drum roll, please--one dollar and fifty cents. Money-Making Scheme #1? Fail two times.
If you followed the link above, you know that this event took place more than two months ago. However, until yesterday, I still hadn't gotten around to calling. My thinking was this. Given the not-so-enthusiastic reception that greeted my offerings, they're probably not going to just fly off the sales floor. Therefore (I thought), I don't want to call too early, hoping to have accumulated even the small amount of cash that would be possible, and discover that I've collected nothing. I decided to wait until my items had some time to sell, then come in and pick up my ten bucks and be done with it.
So yesterday, I called the shop to check my balance and see if it was time to swoop in, victorious, and claim my lunch money. The total balance in my account was--drum roll, please--one dollar and fifty cents. Money-Making Scheme #1? Fail two times.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
W-O-M-A-N
Stagger out of bed when the alarm goes off and jump in the shower. Grab comfortable clothes for a morning of teaching preschool (but not too comfortable, because you need to be professional at the office later), while listening to the kids getting ready for school. They're already fighting, but at least they're old enough to get ready on their own now, which means you actually have time to blow-dry your hair. Or at least you thought you did. Finish with the dryer, look at the clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?" Run downstairs and holler that it's time to go to the bus. Pick up everything Child #1 left behind on his way to the van, promising to come back and make a second trip for Child #2 who is protesting that he can't leave because he hasn't fed the cats. Drop off Child #1 at bus, go back home. Pack up all your own stuff, back to the van, drop off Child #2 at school. Stop at gas station, since fuel light has been on since you started the van the first time. Drive to work.
Arrive at work 10 minutes late. Attempt to do an hour's worth of room set-up and materials prep in 30 minutes. Spend the next three hours helping with potty accidents, setting out and cleaning up art supplies, and dodging plastic fruit projectiles from boys "playing golf" with the wooden spoons from the play kitchen. Do an insane amount of ballet dancing, using homemade streamers, which fortunately 4-year-olds aren't tall enough to smack you in the face with more than a few times. A little Schubert takes the edge off.
See everyone off with moms and dads, wash the snack dishes. (Yes, the teachers have to wash the dishes. Teachers have to do everything.) Leave the rest of the cleanup undone so you can get away a little early, as you are scheduled to lead a meeting and are supposed to bring lunch for everyone. Precariously balance to-go orders for four people out to the van, put key in ignition, look at dashboard clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?"
Arrive at your meeting 10 minutes late. Get through all the housekeeping items, then discover logistical problem with facilities plan for upcoming event. Spend 30 minutes longer than planned on ironing it out. Go back to office and open up laptop for the first time today. Attempt to reply to an hour's worth of email in 30 minutes. Leave the rest unread so you can pick up Child #1 at the bus stop. Drive home. A little Metallica takes the edge off.
Arrive at school bus stop 10 minutes late. Pick up Child #1 and go home. Give food, water, and lavish praise to cats, who have charmingly left a dead vole on the front porch to show you how much they love you. Empty dishwasher, load dishwasher, wash dishes. Check homework. Renew library books you forgot to stop and return. (When would you have done that?) Pay bills. Engage in prolonged negotiation with Child #1 over what he and his imaginary friend Larry can have for snack. Drink some more of the Dr. Pepper you got yourself at lunch, even though you shouldn't have drunk any of it in the first place. Wonder how much water you've consumed today (not enough). Pause for a moment of regret that you didn't tell them to leave the mayo off your sandwich. Drink more Dr. Pepper anyway. Drive to Post Office and pick up mail; drive to school to pick up Child #2 from track practice; try unsuccessfully to read most of the mail while you wait for him to come out. Return home to discover bills you forgot to take to the Post Office and mail. Decide against making anything for dinner, and in favor of eating whatever leftovers can be found in the refrigerator. Unwisely check work email again and answer a couple. Leave the rest of the housework undone so you can get ready for the event you're attending with your husband tonight.
Make heroic effort to don "shapewear" necessary with dress your husband helped you pick out. Pray to God that if you succeed in getting it on, you don't immediately pass out from lack of oxygen. Cross over from mild regret to cursing yourself for the earlier Dr. Pepper/mayo incident. Finally manage to get dressed and meet your nephew--tonight's babysitter--at the door, only slightly out of breath from the effort. Excuse yourself and return to the bathroom to do your hair. Speculate whether makeup will cover chigger bites on your knee incurred at last week's track meet, and decide to try it. (It won't.)
Leave for the event 10 minutes late, admonishing Child #2 to do his homework as you walk out the door. Drive to meet your husband, and realize about halfway there that you forgot to get yourself any dinner out of the refrigerator. Spend the next couple of hours looking at artwork, listening to music, and bumping elbows with eleventy gazillion people, approximately half of whom you are actually introduced to. Clap enthusiastically when your husband receives an award. While he gets his picture taken, enjoy 5 minutes alone at a table with a tiny, tiny plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit. Afterward, walk out to the parking lot with friends and realize you can't remember where you parked. Your friends help you by asking, "Does your van have a lot of bird poop on it?" and then directing you to the place they saw it when they drove in.
Leave the event 10 minutes after you already planned to be home. Drive home in absolute, blissful silence. Load up your nephew--along with your kids, since Hubby is still off at the thingy and there's no one else home--and drive him home, where your niece's enthusiastic greeting ("YOU got a HAIRCUT! AND you have on a PRETTY DRESS! And a pretty JACKET! And pretty BOOTS!") almost makes you decide the shapewear was worth it. Drive back home and send your kids to bed, over the angry protests of Child #2, who just now remembered that he forgot to do his homework. Put a load of track clothes in the washer. Put on pajamas, allowing your body to resume its real shape. Fuzzy socks take the edge off.
Check personal email and decide there are too many to read or answer. Make yourself a plate of leftovers and eat them in eight minutes while watching Phineas and Ferb. Wish you had some more Dr. Pepper; drink some water instead. Pack suitcase for work trip tomorrow. Move clean laundry to dryer. Create elaborate document to get husband through the 24 hours you'll be on work trip, containing instructions such as, "Friday, 3:30--Pick kids up from school." Open work email and attempt to finish at least an hour's worth of work in 30 minutes. Spend an hour on it instead. Look up at the clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?" Go take track clothes out of dryer and get yourself a piece of cheesecake out of the fridge, even though it's 11:54 pm. Eat it while watching 30 Rock.
Shut everything down and head upstairs. Stop in each kid's room and sit on the side of the bed, looking at them sleeping. Notice how big they are; think about how fast time flies by. Breathe in a moment of overwhelming gratitude for the amazing blessing of these kids, this day, ballet dancing with preschoolers, Metallica, friends, Dr. Pepper. Collapse into bed and remember again how much you love this bed. Sleep. (Until it's time to wake up and repeat.)
Arrive at work 10 minutes late. Attempt to do an hour's worth of room set-up and materials prep in 30 minutes. Spend the next three hours helping with potty accidents, setting out and cleaning up art supplies, and dodging plastic fruit projectiles from boys "playing golf" with the wooden spoons from the play kitchen. Do an insane amount of ballet dancing, using homemade streamers, which fortunately 4-year-olds aren't tall enough to smack you in the face with more than a few times. A little Schubert takes the edge off.
See everyone off with moms and dads, wash the snack dishes. (Yes, the teachers have to wash the dishes. Teachers have to do everything.) Leave the rest of the cleanup undone so you can get away a little early, as you are scheduled to lead a meeting and are supposed to bring lunch for everyone. Precariously balance to-go orders for four people out to the van, put key in ignition, look at dashboard clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?"
Arrive at your meeting 10 minutes late. Get through all the housekeeping items, then discover logistical problem with facilities plan for upcoming event. Spend 30 minutes longer than planned on ironing it out. Go back to office and open up laptop for the first time today. Attempt to reply to an hour's worth of email in 30 minutes. Leave the rest unread so you can pick up Child #1 at the bus stop. Drive home. A little Metallica takes the edge off.
Arrive at school bus stop 10 minutes late. Pick up Child #1 and go home. Give food, water, and lavish praise to cats, who have charmingly left a dead vole on the front porch to show you how much they love you. Empty dishwasher, load dishwasher, wash dishes. Check homework. Renew library books you forgot to stop and return. (When would you have done that?) Pay bills. Engage in prolonged negotiation with Child #1 over what he and his imaginary friend Larry can have for snack. Drink some more of the Dr. Pepper you got yourself at lunch, even though you shouldn't have drunk any of it in the first place. Wonder how much water you've consumed today (not enough). Pause for a moment of regret that you didn't tell them to leave the mayo off your sandwich. Drink more Dr. Pepper anyway. Drive to Post Office and pick up mail; drive to school to pick up Child #2 from track practice; try unsuccessfully to read most of the mail while you wait for him to come out. Return home to discover bills you forgot to take to the Post Office and mail. Decide against making anything for dinner, and in favor of eating whatever leftovers can be found in the refrigerator. Unwisely check work email again and answer a couple. Leave the rest of the housework undone so you can get ready for the event you're attending with your husband tonight.
Make heroic effort to don "shapewear" necessary with dress your husband helped you pick out. Pray to God that if you succeed in getting it on, you don't immediately pass out from lack of oxygen. Cross over from mild regret to cursing yourself for the earlier Dr. Pepper/mayo incident. Finally manage to get dressed and meet your nephew--tonight's babysitter--at the door, only slightly out of breath from the effort. Excuse yourself and return to the bathroom to do your hair. Speculate whether makeup will cover chigger bites on your knee incurred at last week's track meet, and decide to try it. (It won't.)
Leave for the event 10 minutes late, admonishing Child #2 to do his homework as you walk out the door. Drive to meet your husband, and realize about halfway there that you forgot to get yourself any dinner out of the refrigerator. Spend the next couple of hours looking at artwork, listening to music, and bumping elbows with eleventy gazillion people, approximately half of whom you are actually introduced to. Clap enthusiastically when your husband receives an award. While he gets his picture taken, enjoy 5 minutes alone at a table with a tiny, tiny plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit. Afterward, walk out to the parking lot with friends and realize you can't remember where you parked. Your friends help you by asking, "Does your van have a lot of bird poop on it?" and then directing you to the place they saw it when they drove in.
Leave the event 10 minutes after you already planned to be home. Drive home in absolute, blissful silence. Load up your nephew--along with your kids, since Hubby is still off at the thingy and there's no one else home--and drive him home, where your niece's enthusiastic greeting ("YOU got a HAIRCUT! AND you have on a PRETTY DRESS! And a pretty JACKET! And pretty BOOTS!") almost makes you decide the shapewear was worth it. Drive back home and send your kids to bed, over the angry protests of Child #2, who just now remembered that he forgot to do his homework. Put a load of track clothes in the washer. Put on pajamas, allowing your body to resume its real shape. Fuzzy socks take the edge off.
Check personal email and decide there are too many to read or answer. Make yourself a plate of leftovers and eat them in eight minutes while watching Phineas and Ferb. Wish you had some more Dr. Pepper; drink some water instead. Pack suitcase for work trip tomorrow. Move clean laundry to dryer. Create elaborate document to get husband through the 24 hours you'll be on work trip, containing instructions such as, "Friday, 3:30--Pick kids up from school." Open work email and attempt to finish at least an hour's worth of work in 30 minutes. Spend an hour on it instead. Look up at the clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?" Go take track clothes out of dryer and get yourself a piece of cheesecake out of the fridge, even though it's 11:54 pm. Eat it while watching 30 Rock.
Shut everything down and head upstairs. Stop in each kid's room and sit on the side of the bed, looking at them sleeping. Notice how big they are; think about how fast time flies by. Breathe in a moment of overwhelming gratitude for the amazing blessing of these kids, this day, ballet dancing with preschoolers, Metallica, friends, Dr. Pepper. Collapse into bed and remember again how much you love this bed. Sleep. (Until it's time to wake up and repeat.)
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Do I Look Fat in This?
Yesterday, when I was having lunch with a friend, he complimented me on my recent haircut. Well, actually, he said he knew there was something different about my hair, but he didn't know what it was. After we both jokingly agreed that he should at least get credit for noticing something, we talked for a little bit about that infamous stumbling block of communication between men and women, the subject of women's appearance.
Despite the ubiquitous nature of this relationship problem, I think the solution is actually quite simple, and it comes down to this. Men, in general, are wired to be problem-solvers. They search for problems, focus on problems, address problems, and then put the solved problems behind them. To women, this problem-focused approach can often seem very negative. We often wonder why it seems that our husbands, boyfriends, or significant others can find something that needs to be changed, fixed, or improved in everything we do. Yet the corresponding positives seem strangely absent--why doesn't he even seem to notice when something is done perfectly? The reason is that problems require attention. Lack of problems means he can turn his attention elsewhere. After all, if everything is great, why does he need to think about it? If something goes wrong, he'll let you know--otherwise, you can assume that all is well.
I suspect that all this means that when women ask, "How do I look?," here's the question that men are hearing: "Can you find any problems with the way I look?" He believes that he's being asked to perform a valuable service--identify problems that you want to know about and address. It's the response he expects from you too, when he asks you how he looks (if he ever does). He doesn't want to walk around with his fly unzipped or his hair looking funny, or maybe even in an outfit that's not appropriate to the occasion. He assumes you don't either. So he looks you over, scanning for problems. If he doesn't see any, he gives the answer expressing approval appropriate to the situation. You know what it is. He says, "You look fine." (This is actually the best-case scenario. Worst-case scenario is that he finds a problem. In which case, he won't say, "You look fine." He'll say, "I don't think those shoes go with that outfit.)
Man or woman, I don't need to tell you that women are rarely thrilled with the answer, "You look fine." And my observation is that this can be not only frustrating, but also confusing for a man. After all, "fine" is pretty high praise, actually, in his book, since it means he's actively searched for some needed improvement, and wasn't able to find anything. But he quickly sees that, for some reason, we're not happy with his response. If he concludes that we're frustrated because he is not being helpful enough in solving the problem, and he tries offering some suggestions for improvement, just to please us, he will find this strategy even less well-received.
The conclusion that men often come to, after ending up in this situation a few times, is that women don't want an honest answer when we ask how we look. Therefore, it's best not to put in any honest effort, since they can't please us anyway. Look her over if you must, but if you see any problems, lie and say she looks fine anyway. And really, if you can get away without even looking, that's fine too, since you're only going to give the same answer no matter what she looks like.
Let me clear this one up right here. Women DO NOT want men to give a dishonest or insincere answer to this question. So what do we want? We want an honest answer to something completely different. When women ask any variation of the question, "How do I look," here's what we're asking: "Do you like the way I look?" We're not asking for problem-solving, or analysis of our hair, clothes, makeup, accessories, body, or weight. (Really. Even if we specifically ask if we look fat, we're still not asking you to comment on our weight.) For that, we've got Cosmo, TV, low-fat ice cream, Carmen Electra, and virtually every commercial product and form of media in existence. From you, we're asking, "Do I still do it for you? Do you think I'm pretty? Am I still the one?" And we're hoping that you can honestly say "You rock my world." "Fine" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Despite the ubiquitous nature of this relationship problem, I think the solution is actually quite simple, and it comes down to this. Men, in general, are wired to be problem-solvers. They search for problems, focus on problems, address problems, and then put the solved problems behind them. To women, this problem-focused approach can often seem very negative. We often wonder why it seems that our husbands, boyfriends, or significant others can find something that needs to be changed, fixed, or improved in everything we do. Yet the corresponding positives seem strangely absent--why doesn't he even seem to notice when something is done perfectly? The reason is that problems require attention. Lack of problems means he can turn his attention elsewhere. After all, if everything is great, why does he need to think about it? If something goes wrong, he'll let you know--otherwise, you can assume that all is well.
I suspect that all this means that when women ask, "How do I look?," here's the question that men are hearing: "Can you find any problems with the way I look?" He believes that he's being asked to perform a valuable service--identify problems that you want to know about and address. It's the response he expects from you too, when he asks you how he looks (if he ever does). He doesn't want to walk around with his fly unzipped or his hair looking funny, or maybe even in an outfit that's not appropriate to the occasion. He assumes you don't either. So he looks you over, scanning for problems. If he doesn't see any, he gives the answer expressing approval appropriate to the situation. You know what it is. He says, "You look fine." (This is actually the best-case scenario. Worst-case scenario is that he finds a problem. In which case, he won't say, "You look fine." He'll say, "I don't think those shoes go with that outfit.)
Man or woman, I don't need to tell you that women are rarely thrilled with the answer, "You look fine." And my observation is that this can be not only frustrating, but also confusing for a man. After all, "fine" is pretty high praise, actually, in his book, since it means he's actively searched for some needed improvement, and wasn't able to find anything. But he quickly sees that, for some reason, we're not happy with his response. If he concludes that we're frustrated because he is not being helpful enough in solving the problem, and he tries offering some suggestions for improvement, just to please us, he will find this strategy even less well-received.
The conclusion that men often come to, after ending up in this situation a few times, is that women don't want an honest answer when we ask how we look. Therefore, it's best not to put in any honest effort, since they can't please us anyway. Look her over if you must, but if you see any problems, lie and say she looks fine anyway. And really, if you can get away without even looking, that's fine too, since you're only going to give the same answer no matter what she looks like.
Let me clear this one up right here. Women DO NOT want men to give a dishonest or insincere answer to this question. So what do we want? We want an honest answer to something completely different. When women ask any variation of the question, "How do I look," here's what we're asking: "Do you like the way I look?" We're not asking for problem-solving, or analysis of our hair, clothes, makeup, accessories, body, or weight. (Really. Even if we specifically ask if we look fat, we're still not asking you to comment on our weight.) For that, we've got Cosmo, TV, low-fat ice cream, Carmen Electra, and virtually every commercial product and form of media in existence. From you, we're asking, "Do I still do it for you? Do you think I'm pretty? Am I still the one?" And we're hoping that you can honestly say "You rock my world." "Fine" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Academic Rigor Every Day
This afternoon I was in the grocery store, and I saw a mom there with a couple small kids, wearing what was clearly a school T-shirt. The back of it said "ACADEMIC RIGOR EVERYDAY."
Here's what I think about academic rigor every day: it does not sound good to me at all.
Now, before I go any further, I want to be very clear. I know that parents usually choose their child's school very carefully, and they have a lot invested there. If the school on this T-shirt is your school, I'm not trying to say your choice is wrong. I don't know anything about this school. I don't even know what school it is. I'm sure it has great teachers, involved parents, and bright, talented students, and I have no desire to criticize it. I'm not even going to mention that the official school shirt proclaiming academic excellence incorrectly uses "everyday" as a single word--that's another post entirely. (Actually, I should probably stop what I'm doing right now and write that post instead, as it would probably be funnier to read and less likely to offend.) Anyway, let me say one more time, I'm not criticizing your school.
However, having given that disclaimer, let me just ask you one question. What does the word "rigor" remind you of? If, like me, it immediately makes you think of death, I want to suggest there might be a reason for that. Let me explain what I mean.
Education--true education, the kind that has actual value for living--is about more than just the acquisition of information. Kids who can be regarded as well-educated possess more than a head full of facts. They possess an intrinsic love of learning, an insatiable intellectual curiosity. They are eager to find out how what they're learning can be applied in real life, and excited about exploring new possibilities that haven't been tried before. They are unafraid to take the risks involved in innovating. They actively seek for ways to integrate all kinds of seemingly unrelated information into the scheme of what they already know. And unfortunately, none of these qualities can be acquired by means of what usually passes for "academic rigor."
I was raised in a family that highly valued education, and I learned all these qualities from my parents. In my entire life I've yet to encounter anyone as excited about learning, anyone who approaches even the most seemingly trivial pieces of information with as much wonder and appreciation, as my mom and dad. They are voracious learners. (I once had the following actual conversation with my mother. Mom: "Do you know anything about Normandy?" Me: "No, not really." Mom: "I have to find out something about it." Me: "Why?" Mom, indignantly: "Well you shouldn't just be ignorant!") This attitude was contagious--they passed it on to us. But they didn't do it by forcing us to spend 45 minutes each day after school doing language and math exercises. They did it by communicating--by believing--that learning is fun and exciting, that it's relevant to life, that ideas are valuable and that information is the vehicle for those ideas.
I'm not suggesting that school or learning should always be entertaining and fun, like video games except with multiplication facts. In fact, I've written quite clearly in an earlier post about the idea that some things we need to learn are boring, tedious, difficult, or not inherently meaningful. And I'm not against expecting kids to meet high standards in terms of both knowledge and skills. My quarrel is with methodology. Attempting to implement rigorous academic standards too often means simply the transmission of factual information, presented in the absence of context, reinforced by repetition and testing. But learning, in order to lead to true academic excellence, cannot be based on rote memory and repetition--the style of teaching we used to affectionately refer to as "drill and kill." Instead, it needs to be based on wonder, discovery, passion; it must be demonstrated to be meaningful in a larger context; the skills required to accomplish it need to be valued and celebrated. All of which, unfortunately, the drill often does, in fact, kill. And that lends a whole new meaning to "academic rigor" that I can frankly do without.
Here's what I think about academic rigor every day: it does not sound good to me at all.
Now, before I go any further, I want to be very clear. I know that parents usually choose their child's school very carefully, and they have a lot invested there. If the school on this T-shirt is your school, I'm not trying to say your choice is wrong. I don't know anything about this school. I don't even know what school it is. I'm sure it has great teachers, involved parents, and bright, talented students, and I have no desire to criticize it. I'm not even going to mention that the official school shirt proclaiming academic excellence incorrectly uses "everyday" as a single word--that's another post entirely. (Actually, I should probably stop what I'm doing right now and write that post instead, as it would probably be funnier to read and less likely to offend.) Anyway, let me say one more time, I'm not criticizing your school.
However, having given that disclaimer, let me just ask you one question. What does the word "rigor" remind you of? If, like me, it immediately makes you think of death, I want to suggest there might be a reason for that. Let me explain what I mean.
Education--true education, the kind that has actual value for living--is about more than just the acquisition of information. Kids who can be regarded as well-educated possess more than a head full of facts. They possess an intrinsic love of learning, an insatiable intellectual curiosity. They are eager to find out how what they're learning can be applied in real life, and excited about exploring new possibilities that haven't been tried before. They are unafraid to take the risks involved in innovating. They actively seek for ways to integrate all kinds of seemingly unrelated information into the scheme of what they already know. And unfortunately, none of these qualities can be acquired by means of what usually passes for "academic rigor."
I was raised in a family that highly valued education, and I learned all these qualities from my parents. In my entire life I've yet to encounter anyone as excited about learning, anyone who approaches even the most seemingly trivial pieces of information with as much wonder and appreciation, as my mom and dad. They are voracious learners. (I once had the following actual conversation with my mother. Mom: "Do you know anything about Normandy?" Me: "No, not really." Mom: "I have to find out something about it." Me: "Why?" Mom, indignantly: "Well you shouldn't just be ignorant!") This attitude was contagious--they passed it on to us. But they didn't do it by forcing us to spend 45 minutes each day after school doing language and math exercises. They did it by communicating--by believing--that learning is fun and exciting, that it's relevant to life, that ideas are valuable and that information is the vehicle for those ideas.
I'm not suggesting that school or learning should always be entertaining and fun, like video games except with multiplication facts. In fact, I've written quite clearly in an earlier post about the idea that some things we need to learn are boring, tedious, difficult, or not inherently meaningful. And I'm not against expecting kids to meet high standards in terms of both knowledge and skills. My quarrel is with methodology. Attempting to implement rigorous academic standards too often means simply the transmission of factual information, presented in the absence of context, reinforced by repetition and testing. But learning, in order to lead to true academic excellence, cannot be based on rote memory and repetition--the style of teaching we used to affectionately refer to as "drill and kill." Instead, it needs to be based on wonder, discovery, passion; it must be demonstrated to be meaningful in a larger context; the skills required to accomplish it need to be valued and celebrated. All of which, unfortunately, the drill often does, in fact, kill. And that lends a whole new meaning to "academic rigor" that I can frankly do without.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Why Getting Sick is Good For Me (Sometimes)
When I'm sick, it shakes my irrational half-subconscious belief that I am somehow in control of everything that happens to me. Because--you might not believe this--I don't like getting sick. So, as I "jokingly" told my husband, that's why I don't do it. Don't get me wrong--on a purely intellectual level, I know I can't really will myself not to pick up the random germs and viruses that surround me on a daily basis, but the fact that I am hardly ever really ill somehow lends to the illusion that I can. In the words of an old Roger Miller song, "I don't like to do things I don't like to do." And so, I simply do not get sick. I don't want to. (If that last bit didn't sound a little bit crazy to you, I have bad news. You, too, may be a control freak.) However, this time I did. Which forces me to openly acknowledge that there are some things in life I just cannot control, like it or not. And that can't be bad for me.
When I'm sick, I don't get any of my stuff done. It's not just that I can't go to work, although that's annoying too, but it's all the other "stuff" of life that fills up most of my days, which no one can really do but me. All my little chores, tasks, errands and projects have to be put on the shelf. My checklist is bare of checks, and I can't tell you how much that bothers me. Which leads me to ask myself, "why does this bother me so much?" Answer? It's messing with my sense of self-worth. Because, sadly, even at my advanced stage in life, when I should know better, I still tend to equate being a worthwhile person with being a person who gets a lot of stuff done. Not being able to check off a million daily accomplishments causes me to come up short against the truth that this "failure" does not diminish my value. Is doing all those things the source of my acceptance by my family? My friends? God? No. Therefore leaving me no logical room to make it the standard of acceptance by myself. And--brace yourself for an ugly personal truth about me--also leaving me no moral high ground, on the days when I'm feeling up to snuff, to subtly regard others as inferior to myself for not "checking off" what I consider to be a reasonable number of completed tasks.
When I'm sick, nobody else gets their stuff done either. The kids don't do their chores or clean up behind themselves. Phone calls don't get made, nobody takes a shower, trash doesn't get carried out in a timely fashion. Everyone just meanders off to play video games, dress up in costumes, eat snacks instead of dinner, and otherwise enjoy themselves. They have a wonderful time. It's almost like all those things they do on a daily basis are just a list of my priorities that I've made and imposed on them. Wait....maybe all those things are just a list of my priorities that I've made and imposed on them. And maybe, just maybe, even the things they really do need to take care of have been usurped by me to the degree that they no longer have to feel any personal responsibility for them at all. After all, if I'm willing to be responsible for them instead, why should they bother? So perhaps I need to practice on a daily basis allowing each person in this home to truly feel the ownership, take the initiative, and experience the consequences involved in discharging their own responsibilities. Maybe this team needs more than one player.
When I'm sick, I'm forced to put myself first. Given the obvious megalomaniac tendencies displayed above, perhaps you think I need no great encouragement to do this. I admit, attempting to control everything around me, shore up my own credibility with personal accomplishments, and assume responsibility for everyone in the house could be regarded as a fairly selfish approach to life in general. But, as I think most females on this planet probably know, no matter how much of a control freak you may be, if you are a woman, wife, and mother, these tendencies are nevertheless coupled with a nasty habit of putting the needs (and even wants) of everyone else far ahead of your own. Being sick makes me take care of myself in the right way. It lets me allow others to take care of me, too. It forces me to prioritize what I need, and to ask others to prioritize it also. It tells everyone--including me--that Mom is human too, and sometimes she needs a day off. (Or two.) And that's not only OK, but it's important, because it puts us all together in the same boat. It lets us relate to each other honestly and be real with each other; it teaches us that we're all vulnerable, all valuable, and all worthy of care, for each other and for ourselves.
So being sick once in a while is likely one of the healthiest things I can do for myself. Although I have to admit, I sure hope I go back to work tomorrow--there's no point in getting carried away.
When I'm sick, I don't get any of my stuff done. It's not just that I can't go to work, although that's annoying too, but it's all the other "stuff" of life that fills up most of my days, which no one can really do but me. All my little chores, tasks, errands and projects have to be put on the shelf. My checklist is bare of checks, and I can't tell you how much that bothers me. Which leads me to ask myself, "why does this bother me so much?" Answer? It's messing with my sense of self-worth. Because, sadly, even at my advanced stage in life, when I should know better, I still tend to equate being a worthwhile person with being a person who gets a lot of stuff done. Not being able to check off a million daily accomplishments causes me to come up short against the truth that this "failure" does not diminish my value. Is doing all those things the source of my acceptance by my family? My friends? God? No. Therefore leaving me no logical room to make it the standard of acceptance by myself. And--brace yourself for an ugly personal truth about me--also leaving me no moral high ground, on the days when I'm feeling up to snuff, to subtly regard others as inferior to myself for not "checking off" what I consider to be a reasonable number of completed tasks.
When I'm sick, nobody else gets their stuff done either. The kids don't do their chores or clean up behind themselves. Phone calls don't get made, nobody takes a shower, trash doesn't get carried out in a timely fashion. Everyone just meanders off to play video games, dress up in costumes, eat snacks instead of dinner, and otherwise enjoy themselves. They have a wonderful time. It's almost like all those things they do on a daily basis are just a list of my priorities that I've made and imposed on them. Wait....maybe all those things are just a list of my priorities that I've made and imposed on them. And maybe, just maybe, even the things they really do need to take care of have been usurped by me to the degree that they no longer have to feel any personal responsibility for them at all. After all, if I'm willing to be responsible for them instead, why should they bother? So perhaps I need to practice on a daily basis allowing each person in this home to truly feel the ownership, take the initiative, and experience the consequences involved in discharging their own responsibilities. Maybe this team needs more than one player.
When I'm sick, I'm forced to put myself first. Given the obvious megalomaniac tendencies displayed above, perhaps you think I need no great encouragement to do this. I admit, attempting to control everything around me, shore up my own credibility with personal accomplishments, and assume responsibility for everyone in the house could be regarded as a fairly selfish approach to life in general. But, as I think most females on this planet probably know, no matter how much of a control freak you may be, if you are a woman, wife, and mother, these tendencies are nevertheless coupled with a nasty habit of putting the needs (and even wants) of everyone else far ahead of your own. Being sick makes me take care of myself in the right way. It lets me allow others to take care of me, too. It forces me to prioritize what I need, and to ask others to prioritize it also. It tells everyone--including me--that Mom is human too, and sometimes she needs a day off. (Or two.) And that's not only OK, but it's important, because it puts us all together in the same boat. It lets us relate to each other honestly and be real with each other; it teaches us that we're all vulnerable, all valuable, and all worthy of care, for each other and for ourselves.
So being sick once in a while is likely one of the healthiest things I can do for myself. Although I have to admit, I sure hope I go back to work tomorrow--there's no point in getting carried away.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
This Is A Really Squatchy Area
In honor of a friend, I decided to compile and share a short list of facts I've learned about sasquatches. In case you are preparing to question the veracity of these facts, don't bother--they have been gleaned from hours spent viewing Finding Bigfoot, and those guys are nationally recognized leading experts in the field of true bigfoot facts. Here they are:
1. Sasquatches love bacon.
2. If you're planning to lure a sasquatch with bacon, you must eat some yourself first so he can see that you are not trying to poison him.
3. Facts 1 and 2 above also apply to doughnuts.
4. A sasquatch and a bigfoot are just different names for the same thing. You could also accurately call one a "squatch," a "skunk ape," or a "Kentucky wood-booger."
5. Sasquatches will not eat cattle. This is because they know that cows are human food. Since we humans do not eat their deer, they try to return the favor by not eating our cows. (I'm not sure why this fact does not apply to doughnuts or bacon. Maybe they really would eat cows, but because they have never seen a human actually eating one, they suspect the cows might be poisonous.)
6. Sasquatches are extremely intelligent. This explains the shortage of indisputable physical evidence for their existence--they're so smart that they are very successful in eluding detection by humans. (This fact really reminds me of a joke my 8-year-old loves to tell, which goes as follows: "Have you ever seen a giraffe hiding under your table?" "No." "Pretty good hiders, aren't they?")
7. Squatches love a rockin' party. They get bored in their environment. A party in the woods is irresistible to them.
8. If you're out in the woods listening for a sasquatch, and you hear something, but it turns out to be a coyote instead, that probably means there is a sasquatch. Because coyotes and sasquatches often team up and work together to hunt for food.
9. There's not just one sasquatch, or even just a few. In fact, there could be as many as 6,000 sasquatches living in North America at this very moment. (Skeptical? See fact #6 above.)
10. Trying to find a sasquatch requires a lot of walking around in the woods at night, using video equipment, flashlights, infrared cameras, and other assorted props. A squatch will be much easier to find if you are not actually trying to find one.
11. The state of Ohio has a disproportionately large number of sasquatch sightings and encounters. (I don't know what this fact means for the state of Ohio, I'm just putting it out there.)
12. Those "Messin' With Sasquatch" commercials are woefully inaccurate with regard to true squatch behavior. So don't believe everything you see on TV.
1. Sasquatches love bacon.
2. If you're planning to lure a sasquatch with bacon, you must eat some yourself first so he can see that you are not trying to poison him.
3. Facts 1 and 2 above also apply to doughnuts.
4. A sasquatch and a bigfoot are just different names for the same thing. You could also accurately call one a "squatch," a "skunk ape," or a "Kentucky wood-booger."
5. Sasquatches will not eat cattle. This is because they know that cows are human food. Since we humans do not eat their deer, they try to return the favor by not eating our cows. (I'm not sure why this fact does not apply to doughnuts or bacon. Maybe they really would eat cows, but because they have never seen a human actually eating one, they suspect the cows might be poisonous.)
6. Sasquatches are extremely intelligent. This explains the shortage of indisputable physical evidence for their existence--they're so smart that they are very successful in eluding detection by humans. (This fact really reminds me of a joke my 8-year-old loves to tell, which goes as follows: "Have you ever seen a giraffe hiding under your table?" "No." "Pretty good hiders, aren't they?")
7. Squatches love a rockin' party. They get bored in their environment. A party in the woods is irresistible to them.
8. If you're out in the woods listening for a sasquatch, and you hear something, but it turns out to be a coyote instead, that probably means there is a sasquatch. Because coyotes and sasquatches often team up and work together to hunt for food.
9. There's not just one sasquatch, or even just a few. In fact, there could be as many as 6,000 sasquatches living in North America at this very moment. (Skeptical? See fact #6 above.)
10. Trying to find a sasquatch requires a lot of walking around in the woods at night, using video equipment, flashlights, infrared cameras, and other assorted props. A squatch will be much easier to find if you are not actually trying to find one.
11. The state of Ohio has a disproportionately large number of sasquatch sightings and encounters. (I don't know what this fact means for the state of Ohio, I'm just putting it out there.)
12. Those "Messin' With Sasquatch" commercials are woefully inaccurate with regard to true squatch behavior. So don't believe everything you see on TV.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Life, In A Nutshell
I don't think I'm alone in this, but periodically, my parents come to visit, and for some reason this can be very stressful. Don't get me wrong, my parents are great--they're helpful, supportive, flexible, and interested in everything we do. They are skillful and experienced with children, they are capable and creative problem-solvers, and they know how to do, fix, or build almost anything. But in spite of this--or maybe because of it--there is a certain amount of pressure surrounding the parent visit. I want the house to be clean and the children well-behaved. I want the food to be delicious, the beds to be comfortable, and the schedule to run smoothly. And I want to make it look easy, like we're not really going to any trouble. Like this is the daily norm. Like we know what we're doing and we've got everything under control.
All of this, however, is much easier said than done, especially if your parents, like mine, live far enough away that a visit often entails an overnight stay. We might be able to hold it together for a couple of hours, but getting through dinner, showers, bedtime, and breakfast without incident is practically impossible. It's almost guaranteed that at multiple times during the visit, there will be a situation in which I have clearly lost control of my children, my household, and possibly my life. At which point my wise, supportive, helpful parents will helpfully offer advice on how I could resolve said situation and even avoid it in future. Nevertheless, I was determined that this week's visit, this 16-hour window, would be my moment for success. We would be calm, cool, collected, and competent. Really.
And I have to say, everything started off so well. My checklist was looking good. Clean floors, clean kids' rooms, clean bathrooms. Clean kitchen, clean oven. Clean trash can. Dinner in the slow cooker, so no last-minute rush to the table. Laundry sorted, folded, put away. Kid's bikes in the shed, everyone dressed in something decent, kids' chores done. Grocery trip to make sure there's food in the house and we're not out of anything I can think of. Homemade dessert chilling in the fridge, spare room cleaned and bed made.
All that remained was to make one required trip to ferry the younger one to an appointment and drop off the friend of the older one who'd stayed over the previous night, arriving back home just in time. While I was thus occupied, my husband had only to finish taking down the Christmas decorations and get them to the attic. (Yep. That's right. Wanna make something of it?) We were on the home stretch. How could anything go wrong?
About 15 minutes before departure time, however, as the boys were quietly playing board games in their room, I suddenly heard a loud crashing noise. Followed by a minute or two of complete silence, an exchange of child voices, and the ominous approach of a sobbing 8-year-old, who, as far as I could decipher, seemed to be telling me something about a broken window and his brother's trombone.
The full story turned out to be as follows: The older boys, in order to make room on the floor for their two sleeping bags, gangly pre-teen bodies, and large game board with attending pieces, had moved furniture and objects off to the side of the bedroom. This included the trombone in its hard-shell case, which takes up a lot of real estate--it had even been stood up on the flat end of the case, to minimize the amount of floor space required to accommodate it. The younger one, in his wiggly glee at being allowed in his older brother's bedroom to watch the game in progress, had unwittingly bumped into the standing trombone case, knocking it off balance. The trombone teetered, tilted, and fell directly in the middle of the adjacent window pane. Our old, single-pane window shattered with an impressive crash into possibly a million pieces. (The trombone, which is covered by an expensive protection agreement, of course was unharmed.)
I still needed to leave the house immediately and be gone for the duration of our appointment. My husband, having time to solve only one problem before parents were incoming, chose the Christmas decorations. (Thank goodness.) So when my parents arrived, my son's room was full of broken glass and a brisk, freezing wind. My husband was attempting to implement a temporary solution with plastic sheeting and tape. The children were running through the house and up and down the stairs, repeatedly ejecting the cats, who required only 2.9 seconds after breakage to discover that the window frame was empty and they could get into the house. I was trying to figure out how to wash my son's pillow, the game board, and assorted other items that one of the cats, in the excitement of the chase, had elected to pee all over. My son's carpet reeked of Resolve and cat urine. My mother, to her credit, said mildly, "What happened to your window?" And I replied in a very calm, cool, and collected fashion, "Oh, the usual. A trombone went through it."
It actually turned out not to be so bad. My dad provided tape, labor, and a remarkable amount of restraint to help my husband make the window airtight. The cats were returned to their perches on the porch. My mother made no comment at all on the window situation, was complimentary of the dinner I served (which of course had turned to glue in the slow cooker while the cat/window rodeo was in progress), and had no helpful advice or comments to offer on anything else at all. Except that I need to bleach my cutting board.
Oh well. Maybe next time.
All of this, however, is much easier said than done, especially if your parents, like mine, live far enough away that a visit often entails an overnight stay. We might be able to hold it together for a couple of hours, but getting through dinner, showers, bedtime, and breakfast without incident is practically impossible. It's almost guaranteed that at multiple times during the visit, there will be a situation in which I have clearly lost control of my children, my household, and possibly my life. At which point my wise, supportive, helpful parents will helpfully offer advice on how I could resolve said situation and even avoid it in future. Nevertheless, I was determined that this week's visit, this 16-hour window, would be my moment for success. We would be calm, cool, collected, and competent. Really.
And I have to say, everything started off so well. My checklist was looking good. Clean floors, clean kids' rooms, clean bathrooms. Clean kitchen, clean oven. Clean trash can. Dinner in the slow cooker, so no last-minute rush to the table. Laundry sorted, folded, put away. Kid's bikes in the shed, everyone dressed in something decent, kids' chores done. Grocery trip to make sure there's food in the house and we're not out of anything I can think of. Homemade dessert chilling in the fridge, spare room cleaned and bed made.
All that remained was to make one required trip to ferry the younger one to an appointment and drop off the friend of the older one who'd stayed over the previous night, arriving back home just in time. While I was thus occupied, my husband had only to finish taking down the Christmas decorations and get them to the attic. (Yep. That's right. Wanna make something of it?) We were on the home stretch. How could anything go wrong?
About 15 minutes before departure time, however, as the boys were quietly playing board games in their room, I suddenly heard a loud crashing noise. Followed by a minute or two of complete silence, an exchange of child voices, and the ominous approach of a sobbing 8-year-old, who, as far as I could decipher, seemed to be telling me something about a broken window and his brother's trombone.
The full story turned out to be as follows: The older boys, in order to make room on the floor for their two sleeping bags, gangly pre-teen bodies, and large game board with attending pieces, had moved furniture and objects off to the side of the bedroom. This included the trombone in its hard-shell case, which takes up a lot of real estate--it had even been stood up on the flat end of the case, to minimize the amount of floor space required to accommodate it. The younger one, in his wiggly glee at being allowed in his older brother's bedroom to watch the game in progress, had unwittingly bumped into the standing trombone case, knocking it off balance. The trombone teetered, tilted, and fell directly in the middle of the adjacent window pane. Our old, single-pane window shattered with an impressive crash into possibly a million pieces. (The trombone, which is covered by an expensive protection agreement, of course was unharmed.)
I still needed to leave the house immediately and be gone for the duration of our appointment. My husband, having time to solve only one problem before parents were incoming, chose the Christmas decorations. (Thank goodness.) So when my parents arrived, my son's room was full of broken glass and a brisk, freezing wind. My husband was attempting to implement a temporary solution with plastic sheeting and tape. The children were running through the house and up and down the stairs, repeatedly ejecting the cats, who required only 2.9 seconds after breakage to discover that the window frame was empty and they could get into the house. I was trying to figure out how to wash my son's pillow, the game board, and assorted other items that one of the cats, in the excitement of the chase, had elected to pee all over. My son's carpet reeked of Resolve and cat urine. My mother, to her credit, said mildly, "What happened to your window?" And I replied in a very calm, cool, and collected fashion, "Oh, the usual. A trombone went through it."
It actually turned out not to be so bad. My dad provided tape, labor, and a remarkable amount of restraint to help my husband make the window airtight. The cats were returned to their perches on the porch. My mother made no comment at all on the window situation, was complimentary of the dinner I served (which of course had turned to glue in the slow cooker while the cat/window rodeo was in progress), and had no helpful advice or comments to offer on anything else at all. Except that I need to bleach my cutting board.
Oh well. Maybe next time.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Top 10 Things I Hope School is Teaching My Kid
1. Learn to think. You might have the wrong answer now, but high-level critical thinking will get you to the right answer in the end.
2. Learn to learn. It's not just automatic--among other things, it requires intellectual curiosity, tolerance for risk-taking, and perseverance.
3. What you know, or know how to do, is not as important as who you are. Approach your education with that guiding principle in mind.
4. Your brain, like every other muscle in your body, will grow stronger, faster, and better with regular exercise--the more strenuous the effort, the greater the result. In other words, smart is what you make it.
5. The person ultimately responsible for you is you.
6. Failing at a difficult task means you're an ambitious, confident risk-taker who's willing to accept a challenge on your way to the top. Not an apathetic, incompetent loser who's willing to do nothing on your way to the bottom.
7. The people surrounding you here will no doubt have and express their own opinions about who you are. These judgements say more about the other people than they do about you. You are not required to accept these opinions or adopt them as your own. You will not be surrounded by these people forever.
8. Not everything you have to learn or do will be fun. Some things will be difficult, frustrating, boring, or have no immediately obvious benefit. This does not necessarily mean they won't prove valuable to you in the future.
9. Not everything you have to learn or do will have value on its own, either now or in the future, but it may be the cost of reaching some other worthwhile goal. Sometimes, if you want to ride the bus, you have to buy a ticket. Even if the ticket just seems like a worthless piece of paper.
10. You can do it. We're behind you all the way.
2. Learn to learn. It's not just automatic--among other things, it requires intellectual curiosity, tolerance for risk-taking, and perseverance.
3. What you know, or know how to do, is not as important as who you are. Approach your education with that guiding principle in mind.
4. Your brain, like every other muscle in your body, will grow stronger, faster, and better with regular exercise--the more strenuous the effort, the greater the result. In other words, smart is what you make it.
5. The person ultimately responsible for you is you.
6. Failing at a difficult task means you're an ambitious, confident risk-taker who's willing to accept a challenge on your way to the top. Not an apathetic, incompetent loser who's willing to do nothing on your way to the bottom.
7. The people surrounding you here will no doubt have and express their own opinions about who you are. These judgements say more about the other people than they do about you. You are not required to accept these opinions or adopt them as your own. You will not be surrounded by these people forever.
8. Not everything you have to learn or do will be fun. Some things will be difficult, frustrating, boring, or have no immediately obvious benefit. This does not necessarily mean they won't prove valuable to you in the future.
9. Not everything you have to learn or do will have value on its own, either now or in the future, but it may be the cost of reaching some other worthwhile goal. Sometimes, if you want to ride the bus, you have to buy a ticket. Even if the ticket just seems like a worthless piece of paper.
10. You can do it. We're behind you all the way.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Money-Making Scheme #2: Donating Plasma
OK, so I know it sounds extreme, but there was an ad in the classifieds asking for plasma donors. It said, "Make up to $125 this week." We did the math. There are two of us. We can buy a lot of groceries or electricity for $250 we can make this week. So we looked into it.
It turns out that it's not as extreme as you'd think. There is a local donation center that operates year-round, and the process is fairly simple. I always thought that it was painful, or medically difficult, but the truth is that it's neither. It's basically just like giving blood, except that it takes quite a bit longer. Potential donors have to submit to a routine physical, including a blood test. After you've passed this step, you just make an appointment to donate, go in, get hooked up, and sit quietly for a bit while your blood is drawn and processed. Once the blood is removed, the plasma will be separated and set aside, and a sterile saline solution will be used to replace it. When that's done, the blood will simply be put back. That's right, put back. (I've actually had a similar procedure before, surprisingly, so my blood has already been removed and put back--I figured that one more time wouldn't hurt it.)
Our conclusion was that donating plasma is easy and basically painless, and not only that, it's actually a great way to help others. Plus, of course, they pay you. So we agreed to make appointments and go together, probably "next week."
And then the tax refund arrived. And we all breathed a great sigh of relief and abandoned Money-Making Scheme #2--at least for now.
It turns out that it's not as extreme as you'd think. There is a local donation center that operates year-round, and the process is fairly simple. I always thought that it was painful, or medically difficult, but the truth is that it's neither. It's basically just like giving blood, except that it takes quite a bit longer. Potential donors have to submit to a routine physical, including a blood test. After you've passed this step, you just make an appointment to donate, go in, get hooked up, and sit quietly for a bit while your blood is drawn and processed. Once the blood is removed, the plasma will be separated and set aside, and a sterile saline solution will be used to replace it. When that's done, the blood will simply be put back. That's right, put back. (I've actually had a similar procedure before, surprisingly, so my blood has already been removed and put back--I figured that one more time wouldn't hurt it.)
Our conclusion was that donating plasma is easy and basically painless, and not only that, it's actually a great way to help others. Plus, of course, they pay you. So we agreed to make appointments and go together, probably "next week."
And then the tax refund arrived. And we all breathed a great sigh of relief and abandoned Money-Making Scheme #2--at least for now.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Some Things I Would Do If I Wasn't So Tired
1. Go upstairs and clean my bedroom. And I mean actually clean it, not just hang up the articles of clothing that are randomly strewn around and then wash my hands of the rest of it and walk out. Sort through the strange and unrelated collection of items that are on top of my dresser. Go through the box of stuff that my mom brought me from my childhood bedroom closet and probably throw most of it out. Vacuum that tiny strip of carpet behind the headboard of the bed. Keep going until it's really finished.
2. Read some of the non-fiction books that are in my stack. The fiction ones always get pulled to the top of the pile, because, let's face it, they are an enjoyable escape from reality that doesn't require too much brainpower. But there are currently three others, at least one of which is work-related, which have been languishing there for quite some time while I try to muster the concentration to tackle them.
3. Pay bills. This one I will eventually do, obviously, or I would be sitting in a darkened house with no internet connection right now, unable to type this blog post. But I really should do it promptly and proactively, on payday, before it's a matter of absolute urgency. Instead I will sit on my rear, staring vacantly at TV, until the impending threat of late fees and other penalties has me shelling out an extra $2.75 for the privilege of paying instantly over the phone at 11:42 pm on the due date.
4. Pack a lunch to take to work. Rather than routinely getting by on some combination of Cheez-Its, stale bagels, and Dove chocolates, because I'm not going to do it in the morning before work either.
5. Deal with some of those annoying, minor administrative tasks from work. I've got emails that need to be sorted and archived, papers that need to be filed, documentation of completed projects that should have been submitted a month ago. I'd get paid for the time I spend tidying it all up. But I just don't want to.
6. There are probably more, but in order to list them I'd have to actually think hard enough to come up with them. Anyway, tackling the first five is probably enough to keep me busy for a while.
2. Read some of the non-fiction books that are in my stack. The fiction ones always get pulled to the top of the pile, because, let's face it, they are an enjoyable escape from reality that doesn't require too much brainpower. But there are currently three others, at least one of which is work-related, which have been languishing there for quite some time while I try to muster the concentration to tackle them.
3. Pay bills. This one I will eventually do, obviously, or I would be sitting in a darkened house with no internet connection right now, unable to type this blog post. But I really should do it promptly and proactively, on payday, before it's a matter of absolute urgency. Instead I will sit on my rear, staring vacantly at TV, until the impending threat of late fees and other penalties has me shelling out an extra $2.75 for the privilege of paying instantly over the phone at 11:42 pm on the due date.
4. Pack a lunch to take to work. Rather than routinely getting by on some combination of Cheez-Its, stale bagels, and Dove chocolates, because I'm not going to do it in the morning before work either.
5. Deal with some of those annoying, minor administrative tasks from work. I've got emails that need to be sorted and archived, papers that need to be filed, documentation of completed projects that should have been submitted a month ago. I'd get paid for the time I spend tidying it all up. But I just don't want to.
6. There are probably more, but in order to list them I'd have to actually think hard enough to come up with them. Anyway, tackling the first five is probably enough to keep me busy for a while.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
The Real Question of Poverty
Lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking about poverty. It seems like there is ongoing controversy about what can be done to help those in poverty. Although lots of people from all kinds of different philosophical and religious backgrounds feel it's important to help the poor, and all are approaching the issue with good intentions, just as with most things that are truly important, there are strong disagreements regarding how to go about it. I don't mean to minimize the efforts of all those who are working hard and often making great sacrifices to do what they feel is in the best interests of America's poor, but I wonder how often we are jumping the gun by debating the question of methodology before answering a much more important question. I think that before we can truly know anything about how to help those in poverty, we first have to ask, exactly what is poverty?
We often assume that poverty means simply a lack of material resources. And it's true, there are many who suffer from a lack of food, wealth, or possessions. But many also suffer from a lack of status, one that prevents them from advocating for their own needs or acting in their own defense. And many, many more, including many of us who declare an interest in "helping the poor," suffer from poverty in our spiritual lives and in our relationships. In the excellent book When Helping Hurts, authors Brian Fikkert and Steve Corbett make the case that the picture of "the poor" found in the Bible must include these types of impoverishment--not just material need, but also poverty of community and poverty of being.
In that case, as you may already be thinking, we are all in the same boat. We all stand before God and each other broken, wounded, in desperate need, without the resources to help ourselves. The solution (and the mission statement for those of us committed to addressing poverty) is simply this: "Poverty alleviation is the ministry of reconciliation: moving people closer to glorifying God by living in right relationship with God, with self, with others, and with the rest of creation." This is the message of the gospel.
When we neglect this truth and fall into the trap of thinking about poverty as simply material, we can mistakenly pour all of our efforts into the provision of material relief, and miss out on the true solution, this ministry of reconciliation. It is too easy to do this. We don't understand because we don't want to understand. For one thing, as Fikkert and Corbett put it, "it's much simpler to drop food from airplanes or ladle soup from bowls than it is to develop long-lasting, time-consuming relationships with poor people, which can be emotionally exhausting." A friend of mine calls this "hiding behind the ladle." For another, we often fall victim to our own illusions of spiritual accomplishment. We want to show others, show God, even show ourselves, that we are really "getting something done." Again, Fikkert and Corbett point out, "'We fed a thousand people today' sounds better...than 'We hung out and developed relationships with a dozen people today.'" Piling up accomplishments and focusing only on the material--the one area where we have ample resources--keeps us from the humbling and profoundly uncomfortable position of admitting our own poverty, our own lack, our own need for spiritual and relational reconciliation. Truly helping those in poverty means acknowledging that we also are in need of the same kind of help.
Certainly none of this lets us off the hook when it comes to giving unselfishly of our material resources to those who really need this type of help. Material provision for others is still usually good and often quite necessary. But it does help us to realize that the true value of material provision lies in its effectiveness as a vehicle for this gospel ministry of relational reconciliation. And many true, effective, and lasting efforts to alleviate poverty will not involve material need at all, but will simply allow us to practice real community, the kind that does indeed move people toward living in right relationship with God, themselves, other people, and the world around them. I know this idea is a hard sell for most people. It runs counter to everything our culture, often our churches, and maybe even our families have taught us to believe. But I suspect that may be exactly what makes it the gospel truth.
We often assume that poverty means simply a lack of material resources. And it's true, there are many who suffer from a lack of food, wealth, or possessions. But many also suffer from a lack of status, one that prevents them from advocating for their own needs or acting in their own defense. And many, many more, including many of us who declare an interest in "helping the poor," suffer from poverty in our spiritual lives and in our relationships. In the excellent book When Helping Hurts, authors Brian Fikkert and Steve Corbett make the case that the picture of "the poor" found in the Bible must include these types of impoverishment--not just material need, but also poverty of community and poverty of being.
In that case, as you may already be thinking, we are all in the same boat. We all stand before God and each other broken, wounded, in desperate need, without the resources to help ourselves. The solution (and the mission statement for those of us committed to addressing poverty) is simply this: "Poverty alleviation is the ministry of reconciliation: moving people closer to glorifying God by living in right relationship with God, with self, with others, and with the rest of creation." This is the message of the gospel.
When we neglect this truth and fall into the trap of thinking about poverty as simply material, we can mistakenly pour all of our efforts into the provision of material relief, and miss out on the true solution, this ministry of reconciliation. It is too easy to do this. We don't understand because we don't want to understand. For one thing, as Fikkert and Corbett put it, "it's much simpler to drop food from airplanes or ladle soup from bowls than it is to develop long-lasting, time-consuming relationships with poor people, which can be emotionally exhausting." A friend of mine calls this "hiding behind the ladle." For another, we often fall victim to our own illusions of spiritual accomplishment. We want to show others, show God, even show ourselves, that we are really "getting something done." Again, Fikkert and Corbett point out, "'We fed a thousand people today' sounds better...than 'We hung out and developed relationships with a dozen people today.'" Piling up accomplishments and focusing only on the material--the one area where we have ample resources--keeps us from the humbling and profoundly uncomfortable position of admitting our own poverty, our own lack, our own need for spiritual and relational reconciliation. Truly helping those in poverty means acknowledging that we also are in need of the same kind of help.
Certainly none of this lets us off the hook when it comes to giving unselfishly of our material resources to those who really need this type of help. Material provision for others is still usually good and often quite necessary. But it does help us to realize that the true value of material provision lies in its effectiveness as a vehicle for this gospel ministry of relational reconciliation. And many true, effective, and lasting efforts to alleviate poverty will not involve material need at all, but will simply allow us to practice real community, the kind that does indeed move people toward living in right relationship with God, themselves, other people, and the world around them. I know this idea is a hard sell for most people. It runs counter to everything our culture, often our churches, and maybe even our families have taught us to believe. But I suspect that may be exactly what makes it the gospel truth.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Money-Making Scheme #1: Consigning the Kids' Clothing
So here's what I learned about the clothing I purchase for my kids. Basically, it's not good enough for anyone else to want it.
I confess, I sort of knew this already. I have two boys, and they have a host of boy cousins, which means that a) many of the clothes they wear are handed down through multiple owners, and b) all of the clothes have been worn by boys. Buying a lot of high-end, big label clothing for school-aged boys would be akin to just removing money from your pocket, tearing it up, and throwing it in the trash. The sensible course of action is to invest in a lot of durable, everyday play clothes, nothing so expensive that you will find yourself constantly nagging them about keeping it nice, or crying a little when it comes home with a massive hole in it and you have to throw it out. So the items of clothing that are still in storage at my house are the few pieces that made it through both kids and somehow managed to escape destruction. That is their accomplishment. They are not dainty princesses. They are the weathered veterans of multiple boyhoods--a bit the worse for wear, but survivors, nevertheless.
However, in the routine panic that now follows bill-paying, as my mind searched feverishly for ways to replace some of the life-sustaining funds I had just depleted, I had the crazy idea that maybe I could make some money by reselling some of the kids' clothes. So I went through the storage bins and began the hunt for items that might make the cut. After rejecting a massive number of things on the basis of being faded, pilled, or "out of date," I selected what I thought were my most likely prospects and began the process of grooming them for submission. I laundered, removed lint, straightened straps, and even ironed quite a few. (During the ironing process, my older son wandered into the kitchen and exclaimed, "Hey, we haven't done this for a long time! I remember it from when I was little!" So that should tell you something right there.) Then I packed them up in a laundry basket--"neatly folded," as per consignment shop instructions--and hauled them off for judgement.
I have to say, even though I know that resale standards are justifiably high, and I realized that a lot of my offerings might be rejected, I was surprised at how...er...discerning...the screening process was. Some things that were purposely manufactured to look faded were cut because they looked faded. Others didn't make the cut because the fabric might look a little "knotty." (And no, even though it was pointed out to me, I still don't really know exactly what that means.) Microscopic spills or stains were found on many, all small enough that they required bending over, squinting, and lots of saying, "See? Riiight...there. Do you see it?" In one case, the offending stain couldn't even be found when it was time to show it to me, and other store employees had to be called in to try to help locate it; eventually it was settled with the pronouncement that it was "probably right about here, just a little discoloration." I was allowed to bring in 30 pieces for consignment--I left with 15 still in my possession.
This experience left me with a bizarre and unexpected feeling of personal rejection. It was somehow very like not being accepted to Mensa. I was momentarily determined to find my way into the exclusive resale club come hell or high water. On the way home I actually found myself considering several irrational plans for future consignment triumph. Such as, "Maybe when I get home I'll go through the boys' dressers and take out anything that looks nice right now." Which is insane, because what are they supposed to wear then? Or, "Maybe I should just work a little harder to buy them some more expensive stuff." Which would not only be ridiculous based on the factors enumerated above, but would also kind of undermine the goal of making money off of consignment. So after thinking about it from every possible angle, I came to two inescapable conclusions. The first is, don't be ridiculous--who cares if your kids' clothes were affordable, practical, and well-worn, but just can't make it through one more incarnation? This is not some kind of weird personal invalidation. The second is that you cannot actually make money by consigning your kids' clothing. If you think you're doing so, you should go back and check your math. You may be able to recoup a bit of what you have invested in it, and that's not all bad--as a stay-at-home mom, I lived daily by the mantra that "the money I save us is the money I make us." However, while every little bit of thrift undoubtedly helps in the overall scheme of things, unless you've got some really nice stuff that you didn't initially pay anything for, it's not a money maker.
So Money-Making Scheme #1 was not the windfall one might have hoped for, but I'm fine with it. The $8 I'm probably going to make will still put a little more gas in the tank or a meal on the table, and I can definitely be grateful for that. I'm not even going to go pull all the remaining baby clothes out of storage and go back in there to roll the dice one more time. Probably.
I confess, I sort of knew this already. I have two boys, and they have a host of boy cousins, which means that a) many of the clothes they wear are handed down through multiple owners, and b) all of the clothes have been worn by boys. Buying a lot of high-end, big label clothing for school-aged boys would be akin to just removing money from your pocket, tearing it up, and throwing it in the trash. The sensible course of action is to invest in a lot of durable, everyday play clothes, nothing so expensive that you will find yourself constantly nagging them about keeping it nice, or crying a little when it comes home with a massive hole in it and you have to throw it out. So the items of clothing that are still in storage at my house are the few pieces that made it through both kids and somehow managed to escape destruction. That is their accomplishment. They are not dainty princesses. They are the weathered veterans of multiple boyhoods--a bit the worse for wear, but survivors, nevertheless.
However, in the routine panic that now follows bill-paying, as my mind searched feverishly for ways to replace some of the life-sustaining funds I had just depleted, I had the crazy idea that maybe I could make some money by reselling some of the kids' clothes. So I went through the storage bins and began the hunt for items that might make the cut. After rejecting a massive number of things on the basis of being faded, pilled, or "out of date," I selected what I thought were my most likely prospects and began the process of grooming them for submission. I laundered, removed lint, straightened straps, and even ironed quite a few. (During the ironing process, my older son wandered into the kitchen and exclaimed, "Hey, we haven't done this for a long time! I remember it from when I was little!" So that should tell you something right there.) Then I packed them up in a laundry basket--"neatly folded," as per consignment shop instructions--and hauled them off for judgement.
I have to say, even though I know that resale standards are justifiably high, and I realized that a lot of my offerings might be rejected, I was surprised at how...er...discerning...the screening process was. Some things that were purposely manufactured to look faded were cut because they looked faded. Others didn't make the cut because the fabric might look a little "knotty." (And no, even though it was pointed out to me, I still don't really know exactly what that means.) Microscopic spills or stains were found on many, all small enough that they required bending over, squinting, and lots of saying, "See? Riiight...there. Do you see it?" In one case, the offending stain couldn't even be found when it was time to show it to me, and other store employees had to be called in to try to help locate it; eventually it was settled with the pronouncement that it was "probably right about here, just a little discoloration." I was allowed to bring in 30 pieces for consignment--I left with 15 still in my possession.
This experience left me with a bizarre and unexpected feeling of personal rejection. It was somehow very like not being accepted to Mensa. I was momentarily determined to find my way into the exclusive resale club come hell or high water. On the way home I actually found myself considering several irrational plans for future consignment triumph. Such as, "Maybe when I get home I'll go through the boys' dressers and take out anything that looks nice right now." Which is insane, because what are they supposed to wear then? Or, "Maybe I should just work a little harder to buy them some more expensive stuff." Which would not only be ridiculous based on the factors enumerated above, but would also kind of undermine the goal of making money off of consignment. So after thinking about it from every possible angle, I came to two inescapable conclusions. The first is, don't be ridiculous--who cares if your kids' clothes were affordable, practical, and well-worn, but just can't make it through one more incarnation? This is not some kind of weird personal invalidation. The second is that you cannot actually make money by consigning your kids' clothing. If you think you're doing so, you should go back and check your math. You may be able to recoup a bit of what you have invested in it, and that's not all bad--as a stay-at-home mom, I lived daily by the mantra that "the money I save us is the money I make us." However, while every little bit of thrift undoubtedly helps in the overall scheme of things, unless you've got some really nice stuff that you didn't initially pay anything for, it's not a money maker.
So Money-Making Scheme #1 was not the windfall one might have hoped for, but I'm fine with it. The $8 I'm probably going to make will still put a little more gas in the tank or a meal on the table, and I can definitely be grateful for that. I'm not even going to go pull all the remaining baby clothes out of storage and go back in there to roll the dice one more time. Probably.
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