Mike just dropped Ian off at the ski area - he called me four times before he got home (I did not answer)so by the time he got home (and I had not answered) he was really upset.
He thinks Ian is ungrateful. He thinks Ian is spoiled. He thinks Ian is unappreciative. He thinks Ian is self-absorbed.
My mental/silent response to this was, DUH.
Of course he is, he's 13 and his job in life is to annoy us. That's it; he lays in bed at night devising ways to annoy us.
He's no different from any 13 year old except that a 13 year old girl will also roll her eyes and flip her hair. Ian merely ignores us and his hair isn't long enough to flip.
I reminded Mike of how Jordan was for about five years until he went to college. People in town would stop us and say "Your son Jordan is the sweetest most respectful young man I've ever met." People with daughters would accost me in the Post Office with not-so-subtle remarks about their daughter and what a great pair Jordan and their daughter would make.
I was confused after these conversations. I was convinced there was another dark-haired, tall kid named Jordan who drove a brown pickup. Because this couldn't be the Jordan that lived at our house. Not the Jordan who either grunted or answered in mono-syllabic words whenever Mike or I asked something complicated like, "Could you please pass the ketchup?" This was not the Jordan who got his truck stuck in our driveway (in our driveway) and called me from his cellphone asking if I would drive my car out of the garage and pull him out. This was not the Jordan who one night, at midnight, woke me up to ask if he could drive down to Denver and hang out with some friends - it was January and we were currently under an official blizzard watch, and when I said no he slammed my bedroom door and yelled how I was going to ruin his life. This was not the Jordan who one night at dinner, when I said something about how our pigs were about ready to go to the butcher, pigs we had for four months and who you could see from just about every window in our house, looked up from shoveling food in his mouth and said, "We have pigs?"
When he finally graduated from high school I would meet these same mothers in the post office and they'd lament the fact that soon their child would be leaving the house. One mother even started crying whereby I remarked that she should probably get a job (obviously I would not be a good counselor) I was not a good mother, in fact, I'm pretty sure I was a horrendous mother. I was glad Jordan was leaving the house. I tried to convince him that he needed to be moved into his dorm room one month before school started and the
school was just lying to him about the move-in dates.
Jordan is now about to graduate from college and he has become a personable, mature, interesting person and now I really do miss him. I reminded Mike of this and we both know that this too will pass. Ian will one day become a personable, mature, interesting person.
But until he does I guess the only thing to do is have a glass, or two of wine and say yes, everytime he asks to spend the night at someone else's house.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Skip
Skip is our neighbor and my friend Laura has heard many of Skip's escapades. If I was to make a list of things that I would miss about Granby, Skip would be at the top of the list.
This summer he almost burned down his son's house (who is, by the way, the County Judge). Skip decided to burn his ditches for irrigation. The wind came up, the fire took off and headed up to the road and his son's house. By this time the County, City and Forest Service firefighters were all there (the Forest Service rig got their truck stuck in one of the ditches Skip caught on fire, but that's a whole other story). Skip was fined since he didn't get a permit (Skip doesn't like permits - when he redid the roof on his house this summer, he refused to hire anyone who required permits.) he paid his bill and life goes on. We watched it all from our dining room.
People wonder why we didn't have a TV for so long...we had Skip, why did we need a TV? Then Mike, one week on a business trip in Denver, came home, rather sheepishly, with a flat screen TV which is mounted on the wall downstairs.
Last week when I was visiting with Skip and his wife Roselle, Skip told me he wanted to buy a skidster. A skidster is a small, cat-like contraption with a bucket or these big prong-things on it. We borrow one to move snow around. Skip decided he wanted one. But, as he told me, they were in the $20,000 range. He didn't want to pay that much for something he only planned on using for three or four years.
I said, "Why only three or four years?
"Well, I'm planning on retiring by then."
Skip is 84.
Skip was one of the county's first surveyors. He hates the people who run the county and the people who run the school district. He's my kind of guy.
Skip gave me permission to trespass on Legacy, which is a big second-home development that takes up thousands of acres. The original town of Granby is on it and it's an easy ride to it from our house. He also gave me permission to trespass through the gravel pit across the way from us so I could get to the elk reserve and he even gave me the combination to the locked gate. He said, "If anyone asks you, you tell them I said you could go through there." Last summer a guy outside of his multi-million dollar second home flagged me down on my horse while I was trespassing through Legacy. He asked if I lived there.
"Sure," I shrugged, deliberately vague.
"Legacy, do you live in Legacy," he said quite obnoxiously.
"No, but Skip said I could be here."
"I've never heard of Skip."
"Really, huh. Here's his number, you can call him," and I gave him my number off my cell.
The next time I rode through Legacy the guy waved at me, real friendly-like.
It's good to have Skip as a friend.
Night before last Skip's horses got out. They always get out. They always come over our house. I always feed them then call Skip. Sometimes I just take them home, but I was on my way out the door. So I called Roselle and told her their horses were at our house.She said she'd send Skip over as soon as she found him.
Later, when I got home, I saw Skip barreling through the snow in his jeep, heading straight for the creek, where, of course he got stuck. I yelled at Mike downstairs watching his TV, that he better get dressed and go help Skip.
Mike and Ian both went over (Ian loves Skip's - it always an adventure over there.) It took them about two hours and in that time they managed to also get a tractor stuck. In the meantime, I let Skip's horses out the gate and they walked home down the road-they know the way. Then I went back in the house and watched Skip and Mike and Ian and Ben (Skip's son) get two vehicles unstuck. You couldn't really tell what was happening, just lots of flickering lights and if you opened the window you could hear Skip cuss - Skip's cussing is like poetry, it really is.
The next day I saw that Skip had bought a skidster and plowed a road through his field to ours; I assume to make it easier to get his horses.
We're going to miss Skip.
This summer he almost burned down his son's house (who is, by the way, the County Judge). Skip decided to burn his ditches for irrigation. The wind came up, the fire took off and headed up to the road and his son's house. By this time the County, City and Forest Service firefighters were all there (the Forest Service rig got their truck stuck in one of the ditches Skip caught on fire, but that's a whole other story). Skip was fined since he didn't get a permit (Skip doesn't like permits - when he redid the roof on his house this summer, he refused to hire anyone who required permits.) he paid his bill and life goes on. We watched it all from our dining room.
People wonder why we didn't have a TV for so long...we had Skip, why did we need a TV? Then Mike, one week on a business trip in Denver, came home, rather sheepishly, with a flat screen TV which is mounted on the wall downstairs.
Last week when I was visiting with Skip and his wife Roselle, Skip told me he wanted to buy a skidster. A skidster is a small, cat-like contraption with a bucket or these big prong-things on it. We borrow one to move snow around. Skip decided he wanted one. But, as he told me, they were in the $20,000 range. He didn't want to pay that much for something he only planned on using for three or four years.
I said, "Why only three or four years?
"Well, I'm planning on retiring by then."
Skip is 84.
Skip was one of the county's first surveyors. He hates the people who run the county and the people who run the school district. He's my kind of guy.
Skip gave me permission to trespass on Legacy, which is a big second-home development that takes up thousands of acres. The original town of Granby is on it and it's an easy ride to it from our house. He also gave me permission to trespass through the gravel pit across the way from us so I could get to the elk reserve and he even gave me the combination to the locked gate. He said, "If anyone asks you, you tell them I said you could go through there." Last summer a guy outside of his multi-million dollar second home flagged me down on my horse while I was trespassing through Legacy. He asked if I lived there.
"Sure," I shrugged, deliberately vague.
"Legacy, do you live in Legacy," he said quite obnoxiously.
"No, but Skip said I could be here."
"I've never heard of Skip."
"Really, huh. Here's his number, you can call him," and I gave him my number off my cell.
The next time I rode through Legacy the guy waved at me, real friendly-like.
It's good to have Skip as a friend.
Night before last Skip's horses got out. They always get out. They always come over our house. I always feed them then call Skip. Sometimes I just take them home, but I was on my way out the door. So I called Roselle and told her their horses were at our house.She said she'd send Skip over as soon as she found him.
Later, when I got home, I saw Skip barreling through the snow in his jeep, heading straight for the creek, where, of course he got stuck. I yelled at Mike downstairs watching his TV, that he better get dressed and go help Skip.
Mike and Ian both went over (Ian loves Skip's - it always an adventure over there.) It took them about two hours and in that time they managed to also get a tractor stuck. In the meantime, I let Skip's horses out the gate and they walked home down the road-they know the way. Then I went back in the house and watched Skip and Mike and Ian and Ben (Skip's son) get two vehicles unstuck. You couldn't really tell what was happening, just lots of flickering lights and if you opened the window you could hear Skip cuss - Skip's cussing is like poetry, it really is.
The next day I saw that Skip had bought a skidster and plowed a road through his field to ours; I assume to make it easier to get his horses.
We're going to miss Skip.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
When it's Good to Walk Away....
or in this case, drive away.
Yesterday in homeschooling was a bad day. A very bad day. I, at one point, had a vivid, in-color moment of picking Ian up and throwing him against the wall. Nobody needs to call CSP. It was merely a quick moment of insanity brought on by Ian's whining, groveling and writhing.
He did not want to do Math. Like it's something I want to do. I've said it once and I'll say it again; 90% of the world's population do not ever need to know how to divide mix fractions. If there is someone out there that uses this "skill" on a daily, monthly or even a yearly basis, please contact me.
That is the first thing wrong with Math - no one uses it. And don't email me with how we use Math on a daily basis, like the grocery store; that's always the math geeks first line of defense. It's not true. If I want to know how much Kraft mayonnaise is per quart versus Kroger mayonnaise, I look on the label in front of the mayonnaise jars on the shelf eye-level. No math needed to figure that out.
Here's the second thing wrong with Math. The Math books. I told a Math teacher once at Rogue Community College that I might be able to understand math if the book was written with language and there were no numbers. Seriously, it's hard for a person's brain to go back and forth, back and forth between numbers and letters. It's practically impossible for some of us. For example: Susan had four balls, two were red, one was yellow and one was blue. What percentage of balls were red?" I totally understand this - 50%. But, if you say "Susan had 4 balls, 2 were red and 1 was yellow, what % of balls were red?" No one who has a modicum of literacy can figure this out and.....then throw in all those graphs and colors and arrows and weird words such as integers and unknowns and algebraic expressions...(is algebraic even a word?) well, suffice it to say that if all the math geeks in the world were a little bit more in tune with the real world, they wouldn't say things like "Expressions with Mixed Operations," which you could almost interpret as some sort of bedroom maneuver.
At any rate, after the math book and Ian's whining, groveling and whining, I left the house and drove down to the post office all the while talking on my cell to my husband wondering why HIS son was such a pain in the ass. By the time Mike got home to check on Ian he had done his math, his English, Spanish and was working calmly on History and wondered why his dad was home.
"Mom said you weren't trying very hard."
"She did? Why did she say that?"
"Well, she said you were having a fit over math."
"No, I'm fine. Mom gets kind of worked up over nothing, doesn't she Dad?"
Fortunately Mike is smart enough to not comment; we've been married a long time.
Yesterday in homeschooling was a bad day. A very bad day. I, at one point, had a vivid, in-color moment of picking Ian up and throwing him against the wall. Nobody needs to call CSP. It was merely a quick moment of insanity brought on by Ian's whining, groveling and writhing.
He did not want to do Math. Like it's something I want to do. I've said it once and I'll say it again; 90% of the world's population do not ever need to know how to divide mix fractions. If there is someone out there that uses this "skill" on a daily, monthly or even a yearly basis, please contact me.
That is the first thing wrong with Math - no one uses it. And don't email me with how we use Math on a daily basis, like the grocery store; that's always the math geeks first line of defense. It's not true. If I want to know how much Kraft mayonnaise is per quart versus Kroger mayonnaise, I look on the label in front of the mayonnaise jars on the shelf eye-level. No math needed to figure that out.
Here's the second thing wrong with Math. The Math books. I told a Math teacher once at Rogue Community College that I might be able to understand math if the book was written with language and there were no numbers. Seriously, it's hard for a person's brain to go back and forth, back and forth between numbers and letters. It's practically impossible for some of us. For example: Susan had four balls, two were red, one was yellow and one was blue. What percentage of balls were red?" I totally understand this - 50%. But, if you say "Susan had 4 balls, 2 were red and 1 was yellow, what % of balls were red?" No one who has a modicum of literacy can figure this out and.....then throw in all those graphs and colors and arrows and weird words such as integers and unknowns and algebraic expressions...(is algebraic even a word?) well, suffice it to say that if all the math geeks in the world were a little bit more in tune with the real world, they wouldn't say things like "Expressions with Mixed Operations," which you could almost interpret as some sort of bedroom maneuver.
At any rate, after the math book and Ian's whining, groveling and whining, I left the house and drove down to the post office all the while talking on my cell to my husband wondering why HIS son was such a pain in the ass. By the time Mike got home to check on Ian he had done his math, his English, Spanish and was working calmly on History and wondered why his dad was home.
"Mom said you weren't trying very hard."
"She did? Why did she say that?"
"Well, she said you were having a fit over math."
"No, I'm fine. Mom gets kind of worked up over nothing, doesn't she Dad?"
Fortunately Mike is smart enough to not comment; we've been married a long time.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Up and Downs of Homeschooling...or Why I Hate Granby
As you know, I was not real keen on the idea of homeschooling. I would have preferred to have continued to send Ian to a public school and have THEM take care of IT. However, THAT wasn't happening thus the whole homeschooling thing.
I must admit, I resent Granby for doing this to me. You know, making me take charge of my son's education. Making me be the one responsible. Making it so I would have to learn Math.
Ian had a couple of friends over last night and they ended up leaving because they got into kind of a fight. Or more explicitly, they started beating up on Ian. Ian said they always do that since he's the smallest kid in town for his age. Of course, I now hate these kids and their parents and their grandparents and their DNA. But as Ian said, most of the kids in this town are either using drugs or violent.
It is somewhat of a violent culture around here. As you know, we have multiple hunting seasons, everyone, it seems, except for our family, hunts. We now have Air-Soft guns something I thought we'd never have (actually, I didn't even know they existed) and we now receive a weekly edition of "Crossfires" which happens when you order guns online, even fake ones. It goes well with the Catholic Digest we get, courtesy of Mike's mom.
Both Ian and I are looking forward to moving back to Oregon. Oregon's not perfect, I know that. But this town is, quite bluntly, crazy. We're looking forward to having more choices in friends - there's not much of a choice between crazy with drugs and crazy with guns.
I hope to one day look back at my stay in Granby with fondness, but right now I'm so intent on getting out of here, I'm finding it hard to find anything of redeeming quality here.
Ian's looking forward to going to a public (or maybe private) school. He hopes he's not the smallest kid and Jordan, his older brother, says it'll be good to start a high school brand new; he can create the kind of person he wants. I think that's kind of cool - a brand new start with the kind of people you want.
We're both looking forward to it.
I must admit, I resent Granby for doing this to me. You know, making me take charge of my son's education. Making me be the one responsible. Making it so I would have to learn Math.
Ian had a couple of friends over last night and they ended up leaving because they got into kind of a fight. Or more explicitly, they started beating up on Ian. Ian said they always do that since he's the smallest kid in town for his age. Of course, I now hate these kids and their parents and their grandparents and their DNA. But as Ian said, most of the kids in this town are either using drugs or violent.
It is somewhat of a violent culture around here. As you know, we have multiple hunting seasons, everyone, it seems, except for our family, hunts. We now have Air-Soft guns something I thought we'd never have (actually, I didn't even know they existed) and we now receive a weekly edition of "Crossfires" which happens when you order guns online, even fake ones. It goes well with the Catholic Digest we get, courtesy of Mike's mom.
Both Ian and I are looking forward to moving back to Oregon. Oregon's not perfect, I know that. But this town is, quite bluntly, crazy. We're looking forward to having more choices in friends - there's not much of a choice between crazy with drugs and crazy with guns.
I hope to one day look back at my stay in Granby with fondness, but right now I'm so intent on getting out of here, I'm finding it hard to find anything of redeeming quality here.
Ian's looking forward to going to a public (or maybe private) school. He hopes he's not the smallest kid and Jordan, his older brother, says it'll be good to start a high school brand new; he can create the kind of person he wants. I think that's kind of cool - a brand new start with the kind of people you want.
We're both looking forward to it.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
On Our Way Back From....
Last Friday the schools in Granby were in a Lock Down Mode. Apparently there was some guy walking by the schools carrying a rifle and someone called the police.
Ian and I saw this man. We were on our way back from the "feed store." "Feed Store" is surrounded by apostrophes because it's not really a feed store. My friend Zena, who was here a few summers ago, went with me to the feed store. It's actually in the Miller's barn next to the goats and birds they raise. There's feed stacked all around and you pick out what you want then you leave your money in a "lock box." "Lock box" is also surrounded by apostrophes because it's not really a lock box. It's a metal box but it doesn't lock. There's a note on it that says "Please do not steal any money. We've lost the key." The note is dated 1997. True story. Ask Zena.
Anyway, we were on our way back from the "Feed Store" driving by the high school and we saw this man. He was dressed in camo and he was carrying a rifle. It didn't worry either one of us. Grand County is 70% public lands and we have multiple hunting seasons; doe season, buck season, mule deer season, badger season, elk season, cow elk season, cougar season, loose cow season, runaway horse season, lost goose season...it goes on and on. So seeing someone carrying a rifle along the road didn't seem too weird to me or Ian. We didn't call the police.
Apparently someone, obviously someone who doesn't live here (most of the tourists here are from Texas - I didn't think someone from Texas would worry about someone carrying a rifle) so I figure they were probably from "THE FRONT RANGE." It took me a while to learn that THE FRONT RANGE is synonymous for Oregonians learning someone is from CALIFORNIA - this is not a compliment. THE FRONT RANGE is anyone not from this side of the Rockies - flatlanders, city folk, Democrats. They probably called the police.
The local police, following protocol and at the same time wondering which local bozo was walking downtown with his rifle in plain view, shut down the schools. They converged on the guy, probably excited that they had something to do that didn't involve FRONT RANGE PEOPLE, and then leaned against their police trucks (no cars here - only 4-wheel drives) and asked him how the hunting was. The story was that he got tired of waiting for his two buddies to pick him up - they were also carrying rifles and wearing camo, and decided to walk home.
No one was arrested, although he was probably cited just because the police thought they should, on some minor offense, like walking on the wrong side of the road or wearing camo in public.
It was quite the story in Granby. Mainly we were all laughing at the person who called the police - he or she probably won't ever come back here. Ian thought it was hilarious since he and his friends are always walking around town with their Air-Soft guns, he hopes someone calls the police on them, he thinks it'd be cool to be arrested, especially by Officer Sanchez - he's cool.
Ian and I saw this man. We were on our way back from the "feed store." "Feed Store" is surrounded by apostrophes because it's not really a feed store. My friend Zena, who was here a few summers ago, went with me to the feed store. It's actually in the Miller's barn next to the goats and birds they raise. There's feed stacked all around and you pick out what you want then you leave your money in a "lock box." "Lock box" is also surrounded by apostrophes because it's not really a lock box. It's a metal box but it doesn't lock. There's a note on it that says "Please do not steal any money. We've lost the key." The note is dated 1997. True story. Ask Zena.
Anyway, we were on our way back from the "Feed Store" driving by the high school and we saw this man. He was dressed in camo and he was carrying a rifle. It didn't worry either one of us. Grand County is 70% public lands and we have multiple hunting seasons; doe season, buck season, mule deer season, badger season, elk season, cow elk season, cougar season, loose cow season, runaway horse season, lost goose season...it goes on and on. So seeing someone carrying a rifle along the road didn't seem too weird to me or Ian. We didn't call the police.
Apparently someone, obviously someone who doesn't live here (most of the tourists here are from Texas - I didn't think someone from Texas would worry about someone carrying a rifle) so I figure they were probably from "THE FRONT RANGE." It took me a while to learn that THE FRONT RANGE is synonymous for Oregonians learning someone is from CALIFORNIA - this is not a compliment. THE FRONT RANGE is anyone not from this side of the Rockies - flatlanders, city folk, Democrats. They probably called the police.
The local police, following protocol and at the same time wondering which local bozo was walking downtown with his rifle in plain view, shut down the schools. They converged on the guy, probably excited that they had something to do that didn't involve FRONT RANGE PEOPLE, and then leaned against their police trucks (no cars here - only 4-wheel drives) and asked him how the hunting was. The story was that he got tired of waiting for his two buddies to pick him up - they were also carrying rifles and wearing camo, and decided to walk home.
No one was arrested, although he was probably cited just because the police thought they should, on some minor offense, like walking on the wrong side of the road or wearing camo in public.
It was quite the story in Granby. Mainly we were all laughing at the person who called the police - he or she probably won't ever come back here. Ian thought it was hilarious since he and his friends are always walking around town with their Air-Soft guns, he hopes someone calls the police on them, he thinks it'd be cool to be arrested, especially by Officer Sanchez - he's cool.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Not at All About Homeschooling
The elk have started heading through our field to the Elk Reserve; they hole up there during the winter - free from hunters, snowmobilers and me - in the winter I can't get over there although in the summer I do plenty of riding there.
They come through our field and through our fences; I don't curse the broken fences like I do in the Spring. During the night until the early morning they come and I wait for them every year - it's one of the things I will truly miss about Granby.
They are dark shapes, shadowy on the snow. I open the window to our bedroom and Mike and I sit, at 2 in the morning, watching and listening to them. . They whistle and snort. They move through the snow and the night, hundreds of them for one or two weeks and then they disappear up into the Fraser Canyon for the winter.
This year, knowing this is my last, I force myself to stay up as long as possible. I want to commit this winter migration to memory; I know I will never see this again and I will miss this.
They come through our field and through our fences; I don't curse the broken fences like I do in the Spring. During the night until the early morning they come and I wait for them every year - it's one of the things I will truly miss about Granby.
They are dark shapes, shadowy on the snow. I open the window to our bedroom and Mike and I sit, at 2 in the morning, watching and listening to them. . They whistle and snort. They move through the snow and the night, hundreds of them for one or two weeks and then they disappear up into the Fraser Canyon for the winter.
This year, knowing this is my last, I force myself to stay up as long as possible. I want to commit this winter migration to memory; I know I will never see this again and I will miss this.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Back in the Groove
When we travel, I always keep a mental list of places I do not want to move to. For example, if we had traveled through Granby I would have put it on my mental list. I also keep a mental list of jobs I've never want to do, like working at a liquor store or cleaning cages at a zoo. Fixing computers is now a job on my mental list.
It took me six hours one evening and two hours the next morning to finally get our computer up and running. Our computer crashed seven days ago and yesterday we received the restoration disc. The envelope it arrived in said it was overnight air delivery - I figured it went to Tanzania, then over to Somalia then back to Denver before the company, which is, believe it or not, based in Denver, before the brilliant minds at K12 figured out we have no airport in Granby. It was then put on the UPS truck, which went to Silverthorne, which is past Granby, then to Kremmling then to Granby then to the post office. How did a UPS package end up at a post office...I don't know - for most things around here I shrug my shoulders and say, oh well, it's Granby.
I drank two and a half glasses of wine while fixing the computer the first evening. The first step stated "when you restart your computer immediately press the Y key numerous times; this is important and oftentimes you miss this message - PLEASE DO NOT MISS THIS MESSAGE OR YOU WILL HAVE TO BEGIN THE PROCESS AGAIN." I hadn't started drinking yet, so I did not miss the message as I poised, alertly, over the keyboard, continually checking to make sure the Y key had not moved.
This was not the end of the frightening messages - numerous times throughout the six pages of instruction it stated, DO NOT MISS THIS MESSAGE OR YOU WILL HAVE TO BEGIN THE PROCESS AGAIN. By this time I had had one and a half glasses of wine, so the message was losing its impact.
By 9:30 I had restored the computer, however I could not hook up to the Internet. Our Verizon wireless stick was not "RECOGNIZED" by our computer. I know they hadn't seen each other in seven days but it is a computer, they're supposed to be smarter than us.
Thus the next morning I was at the Verizon dealer (which also sells fudge, Christian CDs, is the FedEx location and offers chiropractor services). He plugged it into his computer and said, "There's nothing wrong with this, I'm not sure why your computer doesn't recognize this." Was I sold a stupid computer? One with the beginning symptoms of Alzheimer's? Back home I went and called the helpful people at the Tech Support; by this time I had four reference numbers, so it took them quite a bit to figure out where I was in the process. It didn't help that they asked me difficult questions like "What was the last step you completed?" "I don't remember, I think maybe the printer one, no wait, maybe the one before it???" (I was embarrassed to tell him about the wine.)
At any rate, by 11:30 yesterday morning I had it up and running and Ian and I were back on track. Sort of. It took me a few minutes to remember the name of this blog; everything my computer remembered it no longer did - after all, I was sold a learning disabled computer.
It took me six hours one evening and two hours the next morning to finally get our computer up and running. Our computer crashed seven days ago and yesterday we received the restoration disc. The envelope it arrived in said it was overnight air delivery - I figured it went to Tanzania, then over to Somalia then back to Denver before the company, which is, believe it or not, based in Denver, before the brilliant minds at K12 figured out we have no airport in Granby. It was then put on the UPS truck, which went to Silverthorne, which is past Granby, then to Kremmling then to Granby then to the post office. How did a UPS package end up at a post office...I don't know - for most things around here I shrug my shoulders and say, oh well, it's Granby.
I drank two and a half glasses of wine while fixing the computer the first evening. The first step stated "when you restart your computer immediately press the Y key numerous times; this is important and oftentimes you miss this message - PLEASE DO NOT MISS THIS MESSAGE OR YOU WILL HAVE TO BEGIN THE PROCESS AGAIN." I hadn't started drinking yet, so I did not miss the message as I poised, alertly, over the keyboard, continually checking to make sure the Y key had not moved.
This was not the end of the frightening messages - numerous times throughout the six pages of instruction it stated, DO NOT MISS THIS MESSAGE OR YOU WILL HAVE TO BEGIN THE PROCESS AGAIN. By this time I had had one and a half glasses of wine, so the message was losing its impact.
By 9:30 I had restored the computer, however I could not hook up to the Internet. Our Verizon wireless stick was not "RECOGNIZED" by our computer. I know they hadn't seen each other in seven days but it is a computer, they're supposed to be smarter than us.
Thus the next morning I was at the Verizon dealer (which also sells fudge, Christian CDs, is the FedEx location and offers chiropractor services). He plugged it into his computer and said, "There's nothing wrong with this, I'm not sure why your computer doesn't recognize this." Was I sold a stupid computer? One with the beginning symptoms of Alzheimer's? Back home I went and called the helpful people at the Tech Support; by this time I had four reference numbers, so it took them quite a bit to figure out where I was in the process. It didn't help that they asked me difficult questions like "What was the last step you completed?" "I don't remember, I think maybe the printer one, no wait, maybe the one before it???" (I was embarrassed to tell him about the wine.)
At any rate, by 11:30 yesterday morning I had it up and running and Ian and I were back on track. Sort of. It took me a few minutes to remember the name of this blog; everything my computer remembered it no longer did - after all, I was sold a learning disabled computer.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Not Really About Homeschooling
For those three of you who have been following this blog with diligence and fortitude my apologies for not keeping up with it. One-I had technical difficulties and Two-I had a kind of unexpected surgery.
The technical difficulties have not been resolved; I'm down at the library.
The surgery has also been resolved, since now I have a half of a thyroid, which apparently is fine. Sometimes you either lose weight or gain weight; if either happens you're supposed to call your doctor. Yeah, right, like I'm going to call my doctor if I start miraculously losing weight.
I asked my surgeon if I could take my half of the thyroid home; I thought this might be one of those "teachable moments" and would be grossly cool. Unfortunately hospitals don't do that anymore - something about a bio hazard. Ian was really, really disappointed. Not only did he not get a formaldehyde jar of a thyroid, but Dad had to cook for five days. (I was actually feeling better after three, but milked it for a couple of extra days)
The snow had settled in and my anxiety level has risen. I worry about driving, about the cold, about the cold and the horses, about the cold and the chickens, about the cold and world hunger. But I'm consoling myself with the thought that this will be my last winter here.
I'm still having technical difficulties at home with our computer. In fact, they are so bad that the techno geeks are sending me a disk to "restore" my computer. I'm not sure what I did so I'm blaming it on Ian. Thus, no homeschooling tirades for a few days and Ian has a few days off, which is fine with him since the snow is here (did I mention that?) which means the two mountains are open for skiing.
The technical difficulties have not been resolved; I'm down at the library.
The surgery has also been resolved, since now I have a half of a thyroid, which apparently is fine. Sometimes you either lose weight or gain weight; if either happens you're supposed to call your doctor. Yeah, right, like I'm going to call my doctor if I start miraculously losing weight.
I asked my surgeon if I could take my half of the thyroid home; I thought this might be one of those "teachable moments" and would be grossly cool. Unfortunately hospitals don't do that anymore - something about a bio hazard. Ian was really, really disappointed. Not only did he not get a formaldehyde jar of a thyroid, but Dad had to cook for five days. (I was actually feeling better after three, but milked it for a couple of extra days)
The snow had settled in and my anxiety level has risen. I worry about driving, about the cold, about the cold and the horses, about the cold and the chickens, about the cold and world hunger. But I'm consoling myself with the thought that this will be my last winter here.
I'm still having technical difficulties at home with our computer. In fact, they are so bad that the techno geeks are sending me a disk to "restore" my computer. I'm not sure what I did so I'm blaming it on Ian. Thus, no homeschooling tirades for a few days and Ian has a few days off, which is fine with him since the snow is here (did I mention that?) which means the two mountains are open for skiing.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Hard Lessons - Homeschooling or Not
Last night Ian learned the lesson that you may not get invited to something even if all your friends do.
A boy down the road had a Halloween party last night and Ian wasn't invited. He said his mom doesn't like Ian. I used to like his mom and I used to like his dad. I don't care if the kid wasn't telling the truth or he just wanted to be mean or he doesn't like Ian. I simply no longer like his parents. I figure if you raise a kid that says those kinds of things, then you aren't very nice people.
I saw his dad driving down our road this morning. I didn't wave at him. I hope he noticed that. I hope he was heading to the grocery store and he runs into a mutual friend and says, "Hey, I just passed Gina on the road and she didn't wave. Is she okay?" And then I hope this mutual friend says, "I heard she doesn't like you anymore because you're raising a mean child." And then I hope the dad goes home to his wife (and remember, I also don't like her anymore) and sits her down on the couch and says "Honey, Gina doesn't like us anymore and it's because we've allowed our son to be mean to hers and I really think we need to change our parenting and have a serious talk with our son."
Okay, so I'm pretty sure none of the above is going to happen. So instead Mike and I talked to Ian about how you will get your feelings hurt many times and people won't invite you to places and it will hurt you. Even when you're an adult. I reminded him that he had a bunch of friends over a few weeks ago and this now-horrible child down the road wasn't invited.
Tonight he's with other friends trick-or-treating and seems to be okay, but knowing Ian, he's thinking about it.
Then I started thinking about some of the times I haven't been invited places.
I used to get invited to jewelry parties; they're rather prolific around here. But I don't get invited anymore since the last one when my friend J invited me and I said, "I hate jewelry parties, please don't ask me." So she doesn't.
I used to get invited to the occasional bonfires people have out here, but I don't drink enough and most of the times I find conversations with somewhat drunk people very trying.
I used to get invited to church functions and baby showers and wedding showers and Bible studies. But after I laughed openly at a nice man at a Bible study on how he mis-used the word "persecution" (I think he meant "pestilence") I haven't been invited back.
I used to get invited skiing but finally the people in Grand County really, really know that yes, I really, really do hate snow and hate skiing.
In a nutshell, I've created my own group of invitations, which are limited. I go to places where I can ride my horse and rope and chase cows. I go to the only restaurant in town with my friend B and friend A. I go riding with my friend J and my friend A. I go to Silverthorne shopping with my friend B, but only if I need something. That's it. But I'm older and more secure in who I choose to hang out with.
Ian is still feeling his way through the world and, let's face it, eighth graders can be mean. I think it must be one of those hard lessons in life that you can't prevent. You can keep your child away from the bullys and limit his TV and what he sees on the Internet and make sure he gets enough fruits and vegetables, but you can't prevent some hurtful things happening. I think all you can do is listen and understand and offer words of support and maybe offer up some of your own life-lessons but you can't monitor what everyone else's children will say and do. You just hope that he has the "chutzpah" to let it roll off him and continue forward.
However, I'm still never going to wave to those parent again and if I see their son on the side of the road, I'm not stopping to offer him a lift home, no matter what the weather. Okay, maybe if it's a blizzard I'll let him in my car, but only if it's a blizzard.
A boy down the road had a Halloween party last night and Ian wasn't invited. He said his mom doesn't like Ian. I used to like his mom and I used to like his dad. I don't care if the kid wasn't telling the truth or he just wanted to be mean or he doesn't like Ian. I simply no longer like his parents. I figure if you raise a kid that says those kinds of things, then you aren't very nice people.
I saw his dad driving down our road this morning. I didn't wave at him. I hope he noticed that. I hope he was heading to the grocery store and he runs into a mutual friend and says, "Hey, I just passed Gina on the road and she didn't wave. Is she okay?" And then I hope this mutual friend says, "I heard she doesn't like you anymore because you're raising a mean child." And then I hope the dad goes home to his wife (and remember, I also don't like her anymore) and sits her down on the couch and says "Honey, Gina doesn't like us anymore and it's because we've allowed our son to be mean to hers and I really think we need to change our parenting and have a serious talk with our son."
Okay, so I'm pretty sure none of the above is going to happen. So instead Mike and I talked to Ian about how you will get your feelings hurt many times and people won't invite you to places and it will hurt you. Even when you're an adult. I reminded him that he had a bunch of friends over a few weeks ago and this now-horrible child down the road wasn't invited.
Tonight he's with other friends trick-or-treating and seems to be okay, but knowing Ian, he's thinking about it.
Then I started thinking about some of the times I haven't been invited places.
I used to get invited to jewelry parties; they're rather prolific around here. But I don't get invited anymore since the last one when my friend J invited me and I said, "I hate jewelry parties, please don't ask me." So she doesn't.
I used to get invited to the occasional bonfires people have out here, but I don't drink enough and most of the times I find conversations with somewhat drunk people very trying.
I used to get invited to church functions and baby showers and wedding showers and Bible studies. But after I laughed openly at a nice man at a Bible study on how he mis-used the word "persecution" (I think he meant "pestilence") I haven't been invited back.
I used to get invited skiing but finally the people in Grand County really, really know that yes, I really, really do hate snow and hate skiing.
In a nutshell, I've created my own group of invitations, which are limited. I go to places where I can ride my horse and rope and chase cows. I go to the only restaurant in town with my friend B and friend A. I go riding with my friend J and my friend A. I go to Silverthorne shopping with my friend B, but only if I need something. That's it. But I'm older and more secure in who I choose to hang out with.
Ian is still feeling his way through the world and, let's face it, eighth graders can be mean. I think it must be one of those hard lessons in life that you can't prevent. You can keep your child away from the bullys and limit his TV and what he sees on the Internet and make sure he gets enough fruits and vegetables, but you can't prevent some hurtful things happening. I think all you can do is listen and understand and offer words of support and maybe offer up some of your own life-lessons but you can't monitor what everyone else's children will say and do. You just hope that he has the "chutzpah" to let it roll off him and continue forward.
However, I'm still never going to wave to those parent again and if I see their son on the side of the road, I'm not stopping to offer him a lift home, no matter what the weather. Okay, maybe if it's a blizzard I'll let him in my car, but only if it's a blizzard.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Brown-nosing in Cyberspace
In homeschooling, we have online sessions complete with "live" teachers and students signing in and asking questions. Last week we had such a session on English. Ian has to write a Definition Essay and students can chime in on answers to what she asks.
I'm here to tell you that Brown-nosing happens even in Cyberspace.
I'll call her "K." "K" answered every questions in complete sentences with no typos. I'm pretty sure her mom is online and not "K". "K" is in her bedroom listening to old Ozzy Osborne records.
"S" asked a lot of questions...I think she was hoping the teacher would think she was really, really interested in what a "Definition Essay" was. I'm an English teacher and I wasn't even interested. Again, "S" typed in complete sentences, no typos and asked such things as "Is it possible to get a better grade than an A?"
Seriously, she asked this.Again, her mom was online and "S" was out hanging at the mall with newly dyed purple hair shoplifting magenta colored lipstick.
Better than an "A?" Of course, I was the kind of student on the first day of all college classes, figured out how many days I could miss and still get an "A" and actually wrote the days I skipped in my planner. I mean I still wanted an "A" but not that bad.
But, if these are real students and not their moms, brown-nosing is alive and thriving, even online.
When I was a teacher I hated the brown-nosers. They grew up to be car salesmen and politicians. I much prefered the students who told you to "F-off," they were honest.
When the cyber-teacher asked what kind of topics these students wanted to write about all sorts of frantic typing began and topics such as "why kitties make the best pets" and "why my mom is the best mom in the whole world." (I"m thinking that, once again, a mom was online).
Are you serious? "Why kitties make the best pets?" The teacher, displaying encouraging and self-esteem building skills typed, "Why 'L', what a great topic."
A great topic? Gag me with a spoon. If I had a student ask me ,"Can I write a paper on why kitties make the best pets" I would say, "Hell no and if you do you'll get an F because I refuse to read that kind of crap."
You know the kinds of teachers that say, the first day of class, "There are no dumb questions." Well, they are wrong, there are plenty of dumb questions and "Can I write a paper on why kitties make the best pets," is perhaps one of the dumbest. Next to "Do I need to know this?"
My favorite topic was from "J" who said, "Can I write on why snowboarders are such losers." I like "J", I think I might like to have a beer with him.
Ian's favorite was from "B" who asked if he could write a paper on explosions. Ian wanted to hang out with him.
Ian is writing a paper on why skiiers are faster than snowboarders, which is kind of the same thing as why snowboarders are such losers, just more politically correct.
I'm here to tell you that Brown-nosing happens even in Cyberspace.
I'll call her "K." "K" answered every questions in complete sentences with no typos. I'm pretty sure her mom is online and not "K". "K" is in her bedroom listening to old Ozzy Osborne records.
"S" asked a lot of questions...I think she was hoping the teacher would think she was really, really interested in what a "Definition Essay" was. I'm an English teacher and I wasn't even interested. Again, "S" typed in complete sentences, no typos and asked such things as "Is it possible to get a better grade than an A?"
Seriously, she asked this.Again, her mom was online and "S" was out hanging at the mall with newly dyed purple hair shoplifting magenta colored lipstick.
Better than an "A?" Of course, I was the kind of student on the first day of all college classes, figured out how many days I could miss and still get an "A" and actually wrote the days I skipped in my planner. I mean I still wanted an "A" but not that bad.
But, if these are real students and not their moms, brown-nosing is alive and thriving, even online.
When I was a teacher I hated the brown-nosers. They grew up to be car salesmen and politicians. I much prefered the students who told you to "F-off," they were honest.
When the cyber-teacher asked what kind of topics these students wanted to write about all sorts of frantic typing began and topics such as "why kitties make the best pets" and "why my mom is the best mom in the whole world." (I"m thinking that, once again, a mom was online).
Are you serious? "Why kitties make the best pets?" The teacher, displaying encouraging and self-esteem building skills typed, "Why 'L', what a great topic."
A great topic? Gag me with a spoon. If I had a student ask me ,"Can I write a paper on why kitties make the best pets" I would say, "Hell no and if you do you'll get an F because I refuse to read that kind of crap."
You know the kinds of teachers that say, the first day of class, "There are no dumb questions." Well, they are wrong, there are plenty of dumb questions and "Can I write a paper on why kitties make the best pets," is perhaps one of the dumbest. Next to "Do I need to know this?"
My favorite topic was from "J" who said, "Can I write on why snowboarders are such losers." I like "J", I think I might like to have a beer with him.
Ian's favorite was from "B" who asked if he could write a paper on explosions. Ian wanted to hang out with him.
Ian is writing a paper on why skiiers are faster than snowboarders, which is kind of the same thing as why snowboarders are such losers, just more politically correct.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Focus, Focus, Focus
It's hard to keep Ian focused right now. I think I've mentioned the whole Air-Soft Gun/War thing around here. Every weekend they (all young boys in Granby around the age of 13 whose parents are insane enough to allow this activity) plan these Air-Soft Wars. Last weekend they took place at our house.
We live out a bit from the town, which is relative considering Granby is "out a bit" from anything. At any rate, apparently it's a great place to have these wars. We have an abandoned gravel pit across from us, we have Skip's Reservoir, we have the barn, we have 200 acres of sagebrush, trees, hills, dips in the ground, old equipment (including a grain silo that looks like a rocket), and a creek. What better place to stage a fake war?
It's a little bit disconcerting for me. I'm having a difficult time, morally, ethically and politically with Iraq and Afghanistan. I don't like hunting. I'm afraid of guns. I don't like violence. I hate video games, the movie Jackass and people who wear camo.
I'm a bit out of place in Granby where 90% of the trucks (no one drives cars around here, myself included) have a rifle rack, where you see bumper stickers that read "Obama can have my guns...over my dead body" and to not hunt makes me suspect, or at the very least, a Democrat.
So how do boys learn the difference between pretend wars and real wars? Between air-soft pellets and real bullets? Between video games killing and real killing?
When my oldest boy, Jordan was a toddler, I told everyone within shouting distance, that they were not, under any circumstances, to buy Jordan anything that resembled a gun. Nothing, nada, zilch. No one did. So, Jordan made guns out of sticks and pieces of kindling and his finger. Jordan, one day in Newberrys (which is no longer) stood in front of the pink girl-toy aisle (he was five) and said, "Yuck, girls, they have such wimpy toys."
I'm beginning to think Ian and Jordan and all people with male DNA are programmed to be aggressive. They like motorcycles and ATVs and games with controls that look like guns and loud noises and body jokes. They do not like kittens and pink diaries and building relationships.
There's only so much I can control and maybe my husband is right. If we teach him the right way then he won't do wrong. Which means if they're going to have an Air-Soft war, they might as well have it here where I can feed the boys brownies and milk afterwards and ask how it went.
We live out a bit from the town, which is relative considering Granby is "out a bit" from anything. At any rate, apparently it's a great place to have these wars. We have an abandoned gravel pit across from us, we have Skip's Reservoir, we have the barn, we have 200 acres of sagebrush, trees, hills, dips in the ground, old equipment (including a grain silo that looks like a rocket), and a creek. What better place to stage a fake war?
It's a little bit disconcerting for me. I'm having a difficult time, morally, ethically and politically with Iraq and Afghanistan. I don't like hunting. I'm afraid of guns. I don't like violence. I hate video games, the movie Jackass and people who wear camo.
I'm a bit out of place in Granby where 90% of the trucks (no one drives cars around here, myself included) have a rifle rack, where you see bumper stickers that read "Obama can have my guns...over my dead body" and to not hunt makes me suspect, or at the very least, a Democrat.
So how do boys learn the difference between pretend wars and real wars? Between air-soft pellets and real bullets? Between video games killing and real killing?
When my oldest boy, Jordan was a toddler, I told everyone within shouting distance, that they were not, under any circumstances, to buy Jordan anything that resembled a gun. Nothing, nada, zilch. No one did. So, Jordan made guns out of sticks and pieces of kindling and his finger. Jordan, one day in Newberrys (which is no longer) stood in front of the pink girl-toy aisle (he was five) and said, "Yuck, girls, they have such wimpy toys."
I'm beginning to think Ian and Jordan and all people with male DNA are programmed to be aggressive. They like motorcycles and ATVs and games with controls that look like guns and loud noises and body jokes. They do not like kittens and pink diaries and building relationships.
There's only so much I can control and maybe my husband is right. If we teach him the right way then he won't do wrong. Which means if they're going to have an Air-Soft war, they might as well have it here where I can feed the boys brownies and milk afterwards and ask how it went.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Things I've Learned Homeschooling
Ian is becoming quite the independent worker. He no longer wants me to read his World History book outloud. He prefers to do Math by himself (for obvious reasons), his Science is easy but he does allow me to take notes when he's doing one of his weekly experiments. And of course, Treasure Island is still sitting on his bedstand (I have ordered a Playaway from the library and am desperately hoping it arrives soon - although it's amazing how many lessons you can do without actually reading the book---more on this later.)
I kind of miss this. For example, yesterday I just finished reading "The Gendarme" which is an incredible book on the Armenian Genocide during WWI. As the narrator is describing the death walk, he talks about the ziggurats he comes across? How many of you know what a ziggurat is? Yeah, just what I thought, not many. I do and only because Ian and I just studied them (for your information, just in case you're ever on Jeopardy- a ziggurat is a temple built to the various gods early cultures believed in).
I've done a couple of experiments involving steam and liquid and density and other things which I can no longer remember. What I do remember is that one experiment had us distilling coke, orange soda and cranberry juice. What we ended up doing is distilling just about everything in the refrigerator, including pickle juice, to see what would happened. (for your information - pickle juice tastes just as bad distilled as not distilled.)
I have, of course, given up on "Treasure Island" and have joined the Dark Side - classics are classics because they are boring and long.
I have, of course, given up on Math. Some of our Math is interactive and we get to move the mouse around and listen to the cyberspace of Mr. Thomas and have him move the mouse around. Ian gets it, I'm still stuck on why Judy insists on keeping four balls and only giving Alan three - what kind of a mother raises a kid like Judy????
Art is fun and Ian loves it which means I don't get to help. I don't even get to make a relief sculpture out of this really cool clay that we bought. But Ian did. Mine would have been better.
He doesn't listen to me on grammar - I don't think he believes me when I tell him I really, really do know grammar. I teach ESL and my advanced students are always asking questions about conditional tenses and subjectives and auxliary verbs and all the things that most of the United States population knows nothing about and still speaks correctly, for the most part, unless you live in Alabama or Tennessee or Mississippi or Texas.
He has an interactive Spanish course but of course, although I'm somewhat fluent in Spanish, thanks to my ESL students, he doesn't listen to me about that either. Okay, okay, maybe one day I was maybe wrong when they were explaining the difference between "tu" and "usted" but the online program could be wrong also; it's not unheard of for a computer to be wrong.
But it's okay. I'm enjoying seeing Ian have so many successes. I knew he was smart.
I kind of miss this. For example, yesterday I just finished reading "The Gendarme" which is an incredible book on the Armenian Genocide during WWI. As the narrator is describing the death walk, he talks about the ziggurats he comes across? How many of you know what a ziggurat is? Yeah, just what I thought, not many. I do and only because Ian and I just studied them (for your information, just in case you're ever on Jeopardy- a ziggurat is a temple built to the various gods early cultures believed in).
I've done a couple of experiments involving steam and liquid and density and other things which I can no longer remember. What I do remember is that one experiment had us distilling coke, orange soda and cranberry juice. What we ended up doing is distilling just about everything in the refrigerator, including pickle juice, to see what would happened. (for your information - pickle juice tastes just as bad distilled as not distilled.)
I have, of course, given up on "Treasure Island" and have joined the Dark Side - classics are classics because they are boring and long.
I have, of course, given up on Math. Some of our Math is interactive and we get to move the mouse around and listen to the cyberspace of Mr. Thomas and have him move the mouse around. Ian gets it, I'm still stuck on why Judy insists on keeping four balls and only giving Alan three - what kind of a mother raises a kid like Judy????
Art is fun and Ian loves it which means I don't get to help. I don't even get to make a relief sculpture out of this really cool clay that we bought. But Ian did. Mine would have been better.
He doesn't listen to me on grammar - I don't think he believes me when I tell him I really, really do know grammar. I teach ESL and my advanced students are always asking questions about conditional tenses and subjectives and auxliary verbs and all the things that most of the United States population knows nothing about and still speaks correctly, for the most part, unless you live in Alabama or Tennessee or Mississippi or Texas.
He has an interactive Spanish course but of course, although I'm somewhat fluent in Spanish, thanks to my ESL students, he doesn't listen to me about that either. Okay, okay, maybe one day I was maybe wrong when they were explaining the difference between "tu" and "usted" but the online program could be wrong also; it's not unheard of for a computer to be wrong.
But it's okay. I'm enjoying seeing Ian have so many successes. I knew he was smart.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
I'm So Tired
You might think, from the title, that I'm talking about myself. But I'm not; I'm going to describe yesterday's "homeschooling."
It began with Ian staring at his Math book (of which I cannot help him with and have hired a tutor; a nice, quiet young man whom Ian believes is OCD because he likes to erase things.). He stared at it and I suggested, in a nice voice (it was still early in the day) that perhaps he'd like to do another subject first. "No, I'm just too tired."
Let me back up. I went to work early so I could get home about 10:00 to help him with school. It was now 11:00 and he just managed to fall out of bed and was dressed in the same clothes he went to bed with and...that he wore the day before. Some days I'm just happy if he brushes his teeth.
Anyway, I coddled him through prepositions, attempting to explain what kinds of words they are (remember, I have a Masters in English) and then just gave up and said, "Ok, they're just little words, ok? Just little words."
"I'm just so tired," and now he's moaning in what he thinks will garner him sympathy.
It doesn't. Instead I try what I believe may be one of my best teaching moments yet. I brightly say, "how about we read. I'll read to you. Just like when you were little. "
"Okay, but I'm still really tired."
I turn so he doesn't see me gritting my teeth and begin to read chapter four of "Treasure Island." Now I remember the movie; it was filled with people swinging from tree to tree and tigers and bears attacking at night (never mind how a tiger and a bear could get on a deserted island) and great inventions and houses up in trees. The book is not at all like this. As a matter of fact, it's kind of boring. I always wonder what makes certain books classics. My high school students told me that if a book was boring it was a classic. I would launch into these speeches on what defines great literature, blah, blah, blah, but now I think they were right. "Treasure Island" is a classic and it is boring.
Now Ian is down on the floor with his pocket knife cutting teeny-tiny squares out of the carpet.
I continue with the chapter and find myself wondering if we could possibly get by without reading this book and watching the movie instead.
Now Ian has rolled onto his back and he's tearing off small pieces of electrical tape and sticking them on his bookshelf.
I'm wondering how unethical it would be for me to just answer the reading questions; I've seen the movie.
Now Ian is on his side and he's taping two copper pipes together with the electrical tape.
I'm wondering if the Homeschooling Gods would find out if I wrote the end-of-the-book essay and not Ian.
Now Ian has taped the copper piping onto his Air Soft pistol.
I stop reading and Ian continues taping. I ask, "Where did you get all this stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"The tape, the piping, the knife."
"Dad gave me the knife."
"Okay, but why do you have the rest of this stuff in the bedroom?"
"I got it from the garage."
"That's not what I asked."
"What did you ask?"
I'm so tired, I'm really just so tired.
It began with Ian staring at his Math book (of which I cannot help him with and have hired a tutor; a nice, quiet young man whom Ian believes is OCD because he likes to erase things.). He stared at it and I suggested, in a nice voice (it was still early in the day) that perhaps he'd like to do another subject first. "No, I'm just too tired."
Let me back up. I went to work early so I could get home about 10:00 to help him with school. It was now 11:00 and he just managed to fall out of bed and was dressed in the same clothes he went to bed with and...that he wore the day before. Some days I'm just happy if he brushes his teeth.
Anyway, I coddled him through prepositions, attempting to explain what kinds of words they are (remember, I have a Masters in English) and then just gave up and said, "Ok, they're just little words, ok? Just little words."
"I'm just so tired," and now he's moaning in what he thinks will garner him sympathy.
It doesn't. Instead I try what I believe may be one of my best teaching moments yet. I brightly say, "how about we read. I'll read to you. Just like when you were little. "
"Okay, but I'm still really tired."
I turn so he doesn't see me gritting my teeth and begin to read chapter four of "Treasure Island." Now I remember the movie; it was filled with people swinging from tree to tree and tigers and bears attacking at night (never mind how a tiger and a bear could get on a deserted island) and great inventions and houses up in trees. The book is not at all like this. As a matter of fact, it's kind of boring. I always wonder what makes certain books classics. My high school students told me that if a book was boring it was a classic. I would launch into these speeches on what defines great literature, blah, blah, blah, but now I think they were right. "Treasure Island" is a classic and it is boring.
Now Ian is down on the floor with his pocket knife cutting teeny-tiny squares out of the carpet.
I continue with the chapter and find myself wondering if we could possibly get by without reading this book and watching the movie instead.
Now Ian has rolled onto his back and he's tearing off small pieces of electrical tape and sticking them on his bookshelf.
I'm wondering how unethical it would be for me to just answer the reading questions; I've seen the movie.
Now Ian is on his side and he's taping two copper pipes together with the electrical tape.
I'm wondering if the Homeschooling Gods would find out if I wrote the end-of-the-book essay and not Ian.
Now Ian has taped the copper piping onto his Air Soft pistol.
I stop reading and Ian continues taping. I ask, "Where did you get all this stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"The tape, the piping, the knife."
"Dad gave me the knife."
"Okay, but why do you have the rest of this stuff in the bedroom?"
"I got it from the garage."
"That's not what I asked."
"What did you ask?"
I'm so tired, I'm really just so tired.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
What I Can Control
Ian told me yesterday that he's decided he wants to major in "everything."
This is from a kid who last year hated school. Every day when I'd pick him up from school, there'd be some sadness or anger. He didn't think he knew anything. He believed he was just plain stupid. He hated all his teachers (as did I) he hated school, people, life in general. I wondered if he took after some of the members of my family who struggle with depression and bi-polar and drug and alcohol abuse and aren't diagnosed until they're in jail or homeless or something equally depressing.
But now I think he's going to become a Renaiisance Man. You know, the kind of man that is well read yet can also wield a sword (or at least an Air Soft Gun.) The kind of man who can talk about all subjects without sounding like a blowhard.
My point is that with homeschooling I'm beginning to see the old Ian. The one that as a child read book after book after book and when I'd try to skip pages because it was late at night and all I really wanted to do was go to bed or at the very least zone out in front of the TV, he'd say, "No Mommy, that's not how it works."
He's right. That's not how it works. That's not how public education should work. Some people are very anti-public education for various reasons, but I've always supported it. I've always believed in it. Not anymore. I think it works for the kids who don't make waves. The kids who follow the rules. The kids who never raise their hand, never skip class, never question anything anyone asks of them.
When they get to college they stand quietly in the Financial Aid line, even when it snakes out the door. They sign all the forms without reading. They don't question why they have to take English when they plan on begin a mathmetician.
These are good kids. I like having them in class. I enjoy talking with them. They are nice. They are sweet. And let's face it, they're fairly pedestrian, but that's okay. They make up most of America and we probably couldn't survive without them.
But Ian always questioned. When he was in second grade and brought home his spelling list with ten new words that he had to write three times, he said, "Why do I have to write them three times if I can write them right once?"
Good point. Why?
That should have been my first clue that Ian would not survive the numbing, dull-mindedness of public school (not all public schools - I'm talking about the ones where we live). I should have taken him out of school then, but I really, really believed in public schools (after all, I was a teacher in one).
It's been a hard lesson the last few years here in Colorado. I've lost my faith in public education. I've lost my confidence in teachers (myself included). Do we really know what we're talking about? What's the point of writing an essay about a subject randomly chosen from a list of subjects? What are we teaching?
Sometimes I think we need to go back to the old models of apprenticeship...seriously. We teach them to read and write and then we send them to someone to teach them a skill. We talk about skills all the time in education, but what skills are we teaching them? We talk about "critical thinking," what does that mean? And how do we know we've taught it and how are they going to use it?
What I think we need to teach our kids, our own kids in particular, are how to have confidence in whatever they do. We need to teach them to explore, we need to teach them to experience, we need to teach them to be unafraid.
And most of all we need to teach them that they can major in Everything.
This is from a kid who last year hated school. Every day when I'd pick him up from school, there'd be some sadness or anger. He didn't think he knew anything. He believed he was just plain stupid. He hated all his teachers (as did I) he hated school, people, life in general. I wondered if he took after some of the members of my family who struggle with depression and bi-polar and drug and alcohol abuse and aren't diagnosed until they're in jail or homeless or something equally depressing.
But now I think he's going to become a Renaiisance Man. You know, the kind of man that is well read yet can also wield a sword (or at least an Air Soft Gun.) The kind of man who can talk about all subjects without sounding like a blowhard.
My point is that with homeschooling I'm beginning to see the old Ian. The one that as a child read book after book after book and when I'd try to skip pages because it was late at night and all I really wanted to do was go to bed or at the very least zone out in front of the TV, he'd say, "No Mommy, that's not how it works."
He's right. That's not how it works. That's not how public education should work. Some people are very anti-public education for various reasons, but I've always supported it. I've always believed in it. Not anymore. I think it works for the kids who don't make waves. The kids who follow the rules. The kids who never raise their hand, never skip class, never question anything anyone asks of them.
When they get to college they stand quietly in the Financial Aid line, even when it snakes out the door. They sign all the forms without reading. They don't question why they have to take English when they plan on begin a mathmetician.
These are good kids. I like having them in class. I enjoy talking with them. They are nice. They are sweet. And let's face it, they're fairly pedestrian, but that's okay. They make up most of America and we probably couldn't survive without them.
But Ian always questioned. When he was in second grade and brought home his spelling list with ten new words that he had to write three times, he said, "Why do I have to write them three times if I can write them right once?"
Good point. Why?
That should have been my first clue that Ian would not survive the numbing, dull-mindedness of public school (not all public schools - I'm talking about the ones where we live). I should have taken him out of school then, but I really, really believed in public schools (after all, I was a teacher in one).
It's been a hard lesson the last few years here in Colorado. I've lost my faith in public education. I've lost my confidence in teachers (myself included). Do we really know what we're talking about? What's the point of writing an essay about a subject randomly chosen from a list of subjects? What are we teaching?
Sometimes I think we need to go back to the old models of apprenticeship...seriously. We teach them to read and write and then we send them to someone to teach them a skill. We talk about skills all the time in education, but what skills are we teaching them? We talk about "critical thinking," what does that mean? And how do we know we've taught it and how are they going to use it?
What I think we need to teach our kids, our own kids in particular, are how to have confidence in whatever they do. We need to teach them to explore, we need to teach them to experience, we need to teach them to be unafraid.
And most of all we need to teach them that they can major in Everything.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Way Too Much Time
I have decided that yes, you can spend too much time with your children. They probably think the same.
I know parents who when their children graduate they are inconsolable. They can't imagine their household without Jen or Bob or whomever. When my oldest boy Jordan, who is now 22, graduated from high school, I was counting the days down until he left for college. Not that I put it on the calendar in big red marker (okay, it was on the calendar, but in blue ink) but I was looking forward to the fact that it would be one less thing I'd have to take care of.
There are three boys in my household and I include my husband in this formula. So when Jordan left, it meant only two people to take care of. I was kind of sad but in retrospect, not really. This was the period in Jordan's life that he answered in grunts, thought his hands were glued to texting on the phone and wondered why he had to help clean up the kitchen, after all, he didn't cook dinner (i.e. make the mess). Of course, this is the same kid that one night at dinner I mentioned that we needed to call the butcher to get our pig butchered and he turned to me and said, "We have a pig?"
Thus, I wasn't heartbroken that he was leaving. When certain mothers cornered me in the post office and told me that they cried their eyes out when there sons/daughters left home I really realized that, once again, Mother-of-the-Year was beyond my grasp. I also thought these particular mothers should probably get a job or maybe paint the bathroom.
I know, I know, all you "together" moms are aghast that I haven't taught the males in my family to be more self-sufficient, but trust me, it hasn't been for lack of trying. However, I believe, after 27 years of marriage and two male children, that the male species is genetically incapable of certain acts. Such as thoroughly cleaning a bathroom or putting a cup in the dishwasher or shutting a cupboard door or letting the dogs out in the morning.
So what does this have to do with homeschooling and the title of this episode?
I optimistically think that Ian will be my saving grace. He will be the male child that will become the perfect husband role model and it will be all because of my expert training. Never mind that just this minute, rather than moving the chair out of his doorway, he climbed over it...seriously, he just did.
I will take more time, more patience, more understanding, more knowledge and develop a funny, kind, sensitive man that sees that a diaper needs changing without his wife telling him. He will see that the garbage needs to be delivered to the can rather than walking around it. He will get rid of the gunk in the bottom of the sink after doing dishes. He will make the bed and put all the decorative pillows on it. He will put the butter away. He will lift the top of the dirty clothes hamper and put his underwear in it, rather than on it.
That's all I have to do. I've got seven more months to teach Ian these few things.
Think I can?
I know parents who when their children graduate they are inconsolable. They can't imagine their household without Jen or Bob or whomever. When my oldest boy Jordan, who is now 22, graduated from high school, I was counting the days down until he left for college. Not that I put it on the calendar in big red marker (okay, it was on the calendar, but in blue ink) but I was looking forward to the fact that it would be one less thing I'd have to take care of.
There are three boys in my household and I include my husband in this formula. So when Jordan left, it meant only two people to take care of. I was kind of sad but in retrospect, not really. This was the period in Jordan's life that he answered in grunts, thought his hands were glued to texting on the phone and wondered why he had to help clean up the kitchen, after all, he didn't cook dinner (i.e. make the mess). Of course, this is the same kid that one night at dinner I mentioned that we needed to call the butcher to get our pig butchered and he turned to me and said, "We have a pig?"
Thus, I wasn't heartbroken that he was leaving. When certain mothers cornered me in the post office and told me that they cried their eyes out when there sons/daughters left home I really realized that, once again, Mother-of-the-Year was beyond my grasp. I also thought these particular mothers should probably get a job or maybe paint the bathroom.
I know, I know, all you "together" moms are aghast that I haven't taught the males in my family to be more self-sufficient, but trust me, it hasn't been for lack of trying. However, I believe, after 27 years of marriage and two male children, that the male species is genetically incapable of certain acts. Such as thoroughly cleaning a bathroom or putting a cup in the dishwasher or shutting a cupboard door or letting the dogs out in the morning.
So what does this have to do with homeschooling and the title of this episode?
I optimistically think that Ian will be my saving grace. He will be the male child that will become the perfect husband role model and it will be all because of my expert training. Never mind that just this minute, rather than moving the chair out of his doorway, he climbed over it...seriously, he just did.
I will take more time, more patience, more understanding, more knowledge and develop a funny, kind, sensitive man that sees that a diaper needs changing without his wife telling him. He will see that the garbage needs to be delivered to the can rather than walking around it. He will get rid of the gunk in the bottom of the sink after doing dishes. He will make the bed and put all the decorative pillows on it. He will put the butter away. He will lift the top of the dirty clothes hamper and put his underwear in it, rather than on it.
That's all I have to do. I've got seven more months to teach Ian these few things.
Think I can?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Supplemental Activities - Part II
In Ian's homeschooling log, I have to take attendance, by the hour and enter it. You have to have over 1,000 hours in order to qualify for a free trip to the Bahamas ( I just made that up). Anyway, besides all the subjects there is a column marked "Supplemental Activites."
For those that are really, really bored and desperate and therefore have been reading my Blog, you'll know that part of this is Ian going to our next-door neighbor's Skip's place and creating "things" out of other "things."
I'm wondering if the following qualifies as "Supplemental Activity."
In Granby, all the kids (let me be more specific - all the BOYS who are around 13) have what are called "Air Soft Wars."
For those of you who live in more elite communities and aren't familiar with this, Air Soft Wars are "Wars" undertaken by "Boys" with Air-Soft Guns. These are guns that you can buy online at various websites. The website we bought ours from stated, at the top, in flashing letters, "Are you ready to begin shooting?" and then continued, "Now is the time to practice shooting...." For what, I wonder? For the invasion of foreigners? For the invasion of wild mammals? However, this did not stop me from buying a gun for Ian that came with 5,000 pellets AND a small pistol for "those times when this is the gun you need." Do you know that on this website I can buy a real gun, all I have to do is click on the box that states, "I am over 18." It seems to me that there is a void somewhere in this process. Seriously, I could lie and click and they'd send me a really, really big gun as long as I have a credit card.
This is how Air Soft Wars work in Granby. All the kids with Air Soft Guns (which is about 127) gather at the old gravel pit with the old mobile homes with all the doors ripped off and have wars. Most of these wars take place after dark and the kids have adapted their guns to this by duct taping flashlights to their guns.
Air Soft pellets are not soft - this is false advertising. One time Ian showed me how to shoot his gun and I aimed at the door of the shed where the pigs safely sleep at night and accidentally shot one of our pigs in the rear. The pigs were about 20 feet away - who knew guns could be so unpredictable.
So why did I buy him this? Peer Pressure - pure and simple. All his friends had one and since he's homeschooled I felt guilty for the time he lost not socializing, even though I'm pretty sure shooting at each other does not qualify for socializing, so I bought one. I got online, I clicked on the 18 and over, gave them my credit card number and bought not one, but two barrels of air soft pellets - one in orange and one in green.
When it arrived and Ian frantically ripped open the box my husband says, "I can't believe you bought him this, you hate guns." I do, I hate guns. I don't like hunting, even though I was raised around hunting and believe that good hunters have a role in our ecosystem, guns still scare me. I don't think I'm sensible enough to be around one but I am sensible enough to know I shouldn't be around one.
How am I going to feel when Ian shoots someone in the eye (remember the movie "The Christmas Story" and "you'll shoot your eye out?") or vice versa?
When I'm sitting in the emergency room with either my son or another I'll feel guilty about this also. Let's face it, when you're a parent, guilt is a prerequisite.
So I guess I've answered my own question - Air Soft Wars are probably not a "Supplemental Activity."
Although sitting in the Emergency Room might qualify for one.
For those that are really, really bored and desperate and therefore have been reading my Blog, you'll know that part of this is Ian going to our next-door neighbor's Skip's place and creating "things" out of other "things."
I'm wondering if the following qualifies as "Supplemental Activity."
In Granby, all the kids (let me be more specific - all the BOYS who are around 13) have what are called "Air Soft Wars."
For those of you who live in more elite communities and aren't familiar with this, Air Soft Wars are "Wars" undertaken by "Boys" with Air-Soft Guns. These are guns that you can buy online at various websites. The website we bought ours from stated, at the top, in flashing letters, "Are you ready to begin shooting?" and then continued, "Now is the time to practice shooting...." For what, I wonder? For the invasion of foreigners? For the invasion of wild mammals? However, this did not stop me from buying a gun for Ian that came with 5,000 pellets AND a small pistol for "those times when this is the gun you need." Do you know that on this website I can buy a real gun, all I have to do is click on the box that states, "I am over 18." It seems to me that there is a void somewhere in this process. Seriously, I could lie and click and they'd send me a really, really big gun as long as I have a credit card.
This is how Air Soft Wars work in Granby. All the kids with Air Soft Guns (which is about 127) gather at the old gravel pit with the old mobile homes with all the doors ripped off and have wars. Most of these wars take place after dark and the kids have adapted their guns to this by duct taping flashlights to their guns.
Air Soft pellets are not soft - this is false advertising. One time Ian showed me how to shoot his gun and I aimed at the door of the shed where the pigs safely sleep at night and accidentally shot one of our pigs in the rear. The pigs were about 20 feet away - who knew guns could be so unpredictable.
So why did I buy him this? Peer Pressure - pure and simple. All his friends had one and since he's homeschooled I felt guilty for the time he lost not socializing, even though I'm pretty sure shooting at each other does not qualify for socializing, so I bought one. I got online, I clicked on the 18 and over, gave them my credit card number and bought not one, but two barrels of air soft pellets - one in orange and one in green.
When it arrived and Ian frantically ripped open the box my husband says, "I can't believe you bought him this, you hate guns." I do, I hate guns. I don't like hunting, even though I was raised around hunting and believe that good hunters have a role in our ecosystem, guns still scare me. I don't think I'm sensible enough to be around one but I am sensible enough to know I shouldn't be around one.
How am I going to feel when Ian shoots someone in the eye (remember the movie "The Christmas Story" and "you'll shoot your eye out?") or vice versa?
When I'm sitting in the emergency room with either my son or another I'll feel guilty about this also. Let's face it, when you're a parent, guilt is a prerequisite.
So I guess I've answered my own question - Air Soft Wars are probably not a "Supplemental Activity."
Although sitting in the Emergency Room might qualify for one.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Terrible Reality of Being with a 13 Year Old Boy All Day
Here's the reality of being a homeschool mom to a 13 year old boy who only wishes to skateboard; you occasionally wish the floor in his bedroom would mysteriously open up and he would disappear into an abyss and he could only come back into the Now World if he promises to only say nice things.
So far my son: hates me, I disappoint him, I don't understand, and by far my favorite - LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!
I hired a nice young man as a tutor for math because, as you know, I have never seen the need for math (little did I know I'd be homeschooling...they should tell you this in high school, then maybe you'd pay attention.)I thought a tutor would be great. Apparently not. Apparently only the stupid kids have tutors. I reminded him that his brother has a tutor in college for Economics. I reveled in my own days as a tutor and as a college student who needed a tutor for Spanish. I made up a story that his dad also needed a tutor in math. I explained that a tutor was to make him even better, after all, he's already been bumped up one level. His reply..."I'm not going and you can't make me." Can't I? I'm not sure anymore.
Before I homeschooled my son I was quite secure in my role as a college teacher and most-of-the-time good mom (I will admit, I will not make "Mother-of-the-Year."), but I thought I knew my son. Not true.
I thought I knew my son after I read the book "Raising Your Spirited Child." I checked away at the personality tests and believed I now knew how to change what I viewed as negative behaviors into positive ones. All I had to do, according to the book, was merely change my word usage, then all would be bliss and we'd all get along and no one would ever slam a door in my house and yell, "I hate you." For example, rather than use the word "stubborn" you use the word "tenacious."
It doesn't work. No matter what words I use I'm still frustrated with my bright, humorous and lively son. He's still recalcitrant and obnoxious and rude and spoiled and self-centered.
So then, like all good parents I go back over all the parenting mistakes I've made (remember - I'll never make "mother-of-the-year.") and feel sad and guilty and depressed and wonder how long it'll be before he starts using drugs just to get away from me. Probably much sooner than before since he's stuck at home with me now.
But you know, I'm not giving up. I believe that a good education is the key to equality and I believe that I'm doing a better job than the schools around here. I'm going to keep telling him he has to redo things until they are of a higher quality. I'm going to keep asking him to think. I'm going to remind him not to be rude to me or his dad or his friends.
No matter how many times he storms out of the room or throws himself onto his bed in frustration, I will be there. No matter how many times I wish I could have someone else do this, it's too hard, I don't know what I'm doing and what did I do in another life to deserve this...I will be there because I do know that even when I don't change the words, he's still smart and funny and inventive.
And he's stuck with me, come hell or high water.
So far my son: hates me, I disappoint him, I don't understand, and by far my favorite - LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!
I hired a nice young man as a tutor for math because, as you know, I have never seen the need for math (little did I know I'd be homeschooling...they should tell you this in high school, then maybe you'd pay attention.)I thought a tutor would be great. Apparently not. Apparently only the stupid kids have tutors. I reminded him that his brother has a tutor in college for Economics. I reveled in my own days as a tutor and as a college student who needed a tutor for Spanish. I made up a story that his dad also needed a tutor in math. I explained that a tutor was to make him even better, after all, he's already been bumped up one level. His reply..."I'm not going and you can't make me." Can't I? I'm not sure anymore.
Before I homeschooled my son I was quite secure in my role as a college teacher and most-of-the-time good mom (I will admit, I will not make "Mother-of-the-Year."), but I thought I knew my son. Not true.
I thought I knew my son after I read the book "Raising Your Spirited Child." I checked away at the personality tests and believed I now knew how to change what I viewed as negative behaviors into positive ones. All I had to do, according to the book, was merely change my word usage, then all would be bliss and we'd all get along and no one would ever slam a door in my house and yell, "I hate you." For example, rather than use the word "stubborn" you use the word "tenacious."
It doesn't work. No matter what words I use I'm still frustrated with my bright, humorous and lively son. He's still recalcitrant and obnoxious and rude and spoiled and self-centered.
So then, like all good parents I go back over all the parenting mistakes I've made (remember - I'll never make "mother-of-the-year.") and feel sad and guilty and depressed and wonder how long it'll be before he starts using drugs just to get away from me. Probably much sooner than before since he's stuck at home with me now.
But you know, I'm not giving up. I believe that a good education is the key to equality and I believe that I'm doing a better job than the schools around here. I'm going to keep telling him he has to redo things until they are of a higher quality. I'm going to keep asking him to think. I'm going to remind him not to be rude to me or his dad or his friends.
No matter how many times he storms out of the room or throws himself onto his bed in frustration, I will be there. No matter how many times I wish I could have someone else do this, it's too hard, I don't know what I'm doing and what did I do in another life to deserve this...I will be there because I do know that even when I don't change the words, he's still smart and funny and inventive.
And he's stuck with me, come hell or high water.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Being Social - Part Two
On Friday night, Ian and a bunch of friends, went to the local high school football game. The team hasn't won a game in two years, even after they dropped down into a lower division, but going to the game is not about the game, but rather about running up and down the sidelines, buying really, really good chili at the snack stand, talking about girls (but never "to" girls) and generally wearing yourself out in the too-soon-fall temperatures here in the Rockies.
Mike and I called Ian about every hour to see how he was doing. All is great, bye Mom, I gotta go.
Then he called and I knew something was wrong. Mike went down to pick him up and learned, on the ride home, how some kid picked a fight with him and had him down on the ground and was about to punch him in the face before Ian's much larger friend, Caleb, pushed him off.
This is the so-called social experience that homeschoolers miss when they don't attend public schools.
The pushing, the shoving, the cussing, all of that that for the most part, teachers "miss" or say that it's all part of the school experience and they might as well learn how to deal with it now.
Why do they have to learn to deal with it?
My response to this is that Ian should have kicked the kid in the nuts and ran as fast as he could.
My second response, since I'm familiar with the kid, is to feel sorry for "J." I know his dad is currently in jail, his mom is long gone, he lives with various families or an uncle when he can. I know how and where "J" is going to be a few years from now, so I have a great deal of empathy for him. But I still want Ian to kick him in the nuts and then run.
I don't recall the kind of bullying that seems to be a theme in our schools when I was that age. I don't remember conferences and books on bullying, not even when I was a high school teacher. I don't remember fist-fights among the males and I never, ever heard of girls fighting (well, besides my sister and I). I wonder if our kids today are mimicking what they see on TV, or that's how their parents act or they don't have positive role models or...what?
I would like to keep Ian sheltered from all of this. I would like for Ian to never experience fear or insecurity or unhappiness. I would like for Ian to always have plenty of great friends.
Ian is at the Skate park right now, which is a fairly safe place in that it's right next to the police station and the library. Kids wander back and forth between the library and you can often see various members of our small police force hanging out there, parking their cars, talking with the kids and being visible. That's not to say everything is perfect there, but being in a small town, I know (and so does Ian) the "bad kids." I can count them on my hand and I know about their families and yes, I know where they'll be (but for the grace of God) in a few years.
But that doesn't mean I didn't cry Friday night after we finally got Ian settled in and talked to and off to sleep.
I was angry that Ian had to see that. I was mad at "J" for making me have to confront this all-too-common problem.
How do we teach our kids to have empathy when they are faced with ugliness?
How do we teach our kids to not hate someone who is hateful to them?
How do we teach our kids to be kind when most people are not?
How do we teach our kids to not be fearful when so many things are frightening?
Mike and I called Ian about every hour to see how he was doing. All is great, bye Mom, I gotta go.
Then he called and I knew something was wrong. Mike went down to pick him up and learned, on the ride home, how some kid picked a fight with him and had him down on the ground and was about to punch him in the face before Ian's much larger friend, Caleb, pushed him off.
This is the so-called social experience that homeschoolers miss when they don't attend public schools.
The pushing, the shoving, the cussing, all of that that for the most part, teachers "miss" or say that it's all part of the school experience and they might as well learn how to deal with it now.
Why do they have to learn to deal with it?
My response to this is that Ian should have kicked the kid in the nuts and ran as fast as he could.
My second response, since I'm familiar with the kid, is to feel sorry for "J." I know his dad is currently in jail, his mom is long gone, he lives with various families or an uncle when he can. I know how and where "J" is going to be a few years from now, so I have a great deal of empathy for him. But I still want Ian to kick him in the nuts and then run.
I don't recall the kind of bullying that seems to be a theme in our schools when I was that age. I don't remember conferences and books on bullying, not even when I was a high school teacher. I don't remember fist-fights among the males and I never, ever heard of girls fighting (well, besides my sister and I). I wonder if our kids today are mimicking what they see on TV, or that's how their parents act or they don't have positive role models or...what?
I would like to keep Ian sheltered from all of this. I would like for Ian to never experience fear or insecurity or unhappiness. I would like for Ian to always have plenty of great friends.
Ian is at the Skate park right now, which is a fairly safe place in that it's right next to the police station and the library. Kids wander back and forth between the library and you can often see various members of our small police force hanging out there, parking their cars, talking with the kids and being visible. That's not to say everything is perfect there, but being in a small town, I know (and so does Ian) the "bad kids." I can count them on my hand and I know about their families and yes, I know where they'll be (but for the grace of God) in a few years.
But that doesn't mean I didn't cry Friday night after we finally got Ian settled in and talked to and off to sleep.
I was angry that Ian had to see that. I was mad at "J" for making me have to confront this all-too-common problem.
How do we teach our kids to have empathy when they are faced with ugliness?
How do we teach our kids to not hate someone who is hateful to them?
How do we teach our kids to be kind when most people are not?
How do we teach our kids to not be fearful when so many things are frightening?
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Being Social
I've been getting daily emails on how I'm supposed to sign in to the Parent's Lounge so I can share my experiences with other parents. Apparently I have not been following my own assignments, although I've been very diligent with Ian's.
So I scrolled down the list of first line comments and was struck by this thought (be forewarned, this is not a kind thought) How do these people find the time to chat online? Don't they have jobs? Don't they have to halfway clean their house? Don't they have spouses and dogs and cats and laundry and appointments and a husband who is always forgetting his phone and needs me to bring it down to work to him?
I'm also getting emails alerting me to the fact that I've been added as a friend to someone's Facebook. I think that if I wanted to be this person's friend, I wouldn't need an email alert. I also think that if I wanted to be this person's friend, I'd call them.
This concerns me. Again, how do these people find the time to keep updating their Facebook (never mind the time it takes to upload photos)?
Ian wants a Facebook account. He also wants an email. I'd rather Ian hung out with friends at the Skatepark or on the ski hill or biking or any variety of activities he can do which doesn't allow others, who don't even know him, to access his friendship.
I want him to get and even lose friends the old-fashioned way. Face to Face. Conversation to Conversation. I'm not sure the cyberspace network is a good thing. I think it isolates people and fills voids that should be filled other ways. I think it takes time away from your spouse (especially if you're online complaining about your spouse.) Ian says all the kids do it and he's probably right.
It's all rather ironic since we're homeschooling online and the whole online schooling has opened up a myriad of opportunities for people everywhere, but I still think friends and relationships should be built face-to-face.
Words are capable of creating and changing and directing and persuading, but I also believe that a few, short words typed out in a burst of emotion cannot be taken back like they can when you're talking and touching and looking and talking even more.
So for now I think we'll stick to just online schooling and I'll drop him off at the skatepark and when I pick him up and he tells me he's mad at JD I can talk to him, knowing full well that tomorrow he and JD will still be friends.
So I scrolled down the list of first line comments and was struck by this thought (be forewarned, this is not a kind thought) How do these people find the time to chat online? Don't they have jobs? Don't they have to halfway clean their house? Don't they have spouses and dogs and cats and laundry and appointments and a husband who is always forgetting his phone and needs me to bring it down to work to him?
I'm also getting emails alerting me to the fact that I've been added as a friend to someone's Facebook. I think that if I wanted to be this person's friend, I wouldn't need an email alert. I also think that if I wanted to be this person's friend, I'd call them.
This concerns me. Again, how do these people find the time to keep updating their Facebook (never mind the time it takes to upload photos)?
Ian wants a Facebook account. He also wants an email. I'd rather Ian hung out with friends at the Skatepark or on the ski hill or biking or any variety of activities he can do which doesn't allow others, who don't even know him, to access his friendship.
I want him to get and even lose friends the old-fashioned way. Face to Face. Conversation to Conversation. I'm not sure the cyberspace network is a good thing. I think it isolates people and fills voids that should be filled other ways. I think it takes time away from your spouse (especially if you're online complaining about your spouse.) Ian says all the kids do it and he's probably right.
It's all rather ironic since we're homeschooling online and the whole online schooling has opened up a myriad of opportunities for people everywhere, but I still think friends and relationships should be built face-to-face.
Words are capable of creating and changing and directing and persuading, but I also believe that a few, short words typed out in a burst of emotion cannot be taken back like they can when you're talking and touching and looking and talking even more.
So for now I think we'll stick to just online schooling and I'll drop him off at the skatepark and when I pick him up and he tells me he's mad at JD I can talk to him, knowing full well that tomorrow he and JD will still be friends.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
What I've learned this week
What I've learned this week as a homeschool "coach," (they don't call us teachers and there's a good reason for this.)
I've learned that Ian is much more pleasant then he was in public school.
I've learned that he can focus, contrary to what many of his teachers told me.
I've learned that he's happier and somewhat goofier than I realized.
I've learned he's much smarter than his teachers told me.
I've also learned that I can't convert meters into feet, or vice versa, but Ian can.
I've learned how to use the stopwatch on my phone so I can time him running and then convert meters into feet.
I've learned I don't know the formula for speed and distance, but Ian does.
I've learned that you can find this forumula on the internet but it's much quicker if I ask Ian.
I've learned that I don't know the three laws of gravity, but Ian does.
(I thought gravity had something to do with shooting an apple off of someone's head with a bow and arrow, but apparently there's more to it than that.)
I asked my oldest son, who is home from college, if he knew how to convert meters into feet. He said, "No."
"What am I paying $16,000 a year for you to learn if you don't know this?
"Geez Mom, I'm majoring in International Affairs, not Math."
I've also learned that it takes Ian about 20 minutes to finish his daily Math, so why are the class periods 50 minutes?
Well, I think they figure in the time it takes to take attendance, mark down late students, move disruptive ones around, mark down more late students, take a note from the office, find the folder with the assignment, explain again how to pass the papers to the student behind you, mark down another late student, move a disruptive one to another desk, figure out why the power point won't work, finally explain the lesson (the 20 minutes), answer seven questions that don't have to do with math, collect the assignment, collect the books, answer one more question and three minutes to pray for the bell to hurry and ring.
I know I'm still in the Honeymoon Period, but seriously, why didn't I do homeschooling years ago?
I've learned that Ian is much more pleasant then he was in public school.
I've learned that he can focus, contrary to what many of his teachers told me.
I've learned that he's happier and somewhat goofier than I realized.
I've learned he's much smarter than his teachers told me.
I've also learned that I can't convert meters into feet, or vice versa, but Ian can.
I've learned how to use the stopwatch on my phone so I can time him running and then convert meters into feet.
I've learned I don't know the formula for speed and distance, but Ian does.
I've learned that you can find this forumula on the internet but it's much quicker if I ask Ian.
I've learned that I don't know the three laws of gravity, but Ian does.
(I thought gravity had something to do with shooting an apple off of someone's head with a bow and arrow, but apparently there's more to it than that.)
I asked my oldest son, who is home from college, if he knew how to convert meters into feet. He said, "No."
"What am I paying $16,000 a year for you to learn if you don't know this?
"Geez Mom, I'm majoring in International Affairs, not Math."
I've also learned that it takes Ian about 20 minutes to finish his daily Math, so why are the class periods 50 minutes?
Well, I think they figure in the time it takes to take attendance, mark down late students, move disruptive ones around, mark down more late students, take a note from the office, find the folder with the assignment, explain again how to pass the papers to the student behind you, mark down another late student, move a disruptive one to another desk, figure out why the power point won't work, finally explain the lesson (the 20 minutes), answer seven questions that don't have to do with math, collect the assignment, collect the books, answer one more question and three minutes to pray for the bell to hurry and ring.
I know I'm still in the Honeymoon Period, but seriously, why didn't I do homeschooling years ago?
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
"Supplemental Activities" or...Sending Ian Next Door
One of Ian's requirements for homeschooling is for what is called "supplemental activities." These can range from going to the opera to watching a play or any variety of activities that are almost impossible to get a 13 year old boy to do.
So I had the brilliant idea to ask our neighbor Skip if he could teach Ian all the things that Mike, Ian's dad couldn't. Now my husband is practically brilliant when it comes to anything to do with our house. I know he could build one from the ground up. But when it comes to anything mechanical he says "Call Mike Garret down at HiCountry Motors." He can put windshield fluid in and check the oil, but that's his limit and he shows no inclination to discover the wonderful world of mechanics.
But Skip. Now Skip is brilliant in the world of mechanics.
When we first moved to Granby I thought Skip was about 60, but last year he celebrated his 82 birthday. I know he looks and acts younger than his years because he is always "tinkering." So I thought that maybe Skip would be willing to take Ian on.
So I wandered over there one day and proposed that I pay him to tutor Ian in the fine art of "tinkering."
"Oh hell," he said, "just send him over after I get done haying."
Skip has upteem acres of what many people would term "junk," but to 13 year old boys, Skip's property is a veritable treasure trove. He doesn't believe in dumps nor does he believe in throwing anything away. Skip has lived there forever and was the first person this side of the Rockies to raise Longhorns.
The last time Ian and his friend Chance went "hunting" at Skips', they brought home a pair of size 6 leopard colored heels, a baskeball net with no net, a neck warmer filled with rice and a round, plastic disc-sled with only one crack in it.
Skip also has a 10 acre reservoir which I have creatively named "Skip's Reservoir."
Last summer, Ian, Chance, myself and Baily (my favorite 7 year old of all-time) spent as much time as possible at his reservoir. Baily and I floated around on a plastice Tahiti that had only a few holes and Chance and Ian caught leeches. I think last summer was the only time I said, "Ian, get the leeches out of my car!" Now how many times in your life can you say that?
Ian is extremely excited about spending time with Skip. Skip is going to teach him how to use a welder, which is, as far as I'm concerned, the only legal way to melt metal. He's also going to take apart a tractor. When Skip told me this I said, "Why, what's wrong with it?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just a good thing to know how to do."
I think so. I think it would be really, really cool to know how to take apart a tractor and when I mentioned that I'd like to maybe tag along, Ian said I couldn't. "This is only for boys, mom."
Sometimes it's okay to be sexist.
So I had the brilliant idea to ask our neighbor Skip if he could teach Ian all the things that Mike, Ian's dad couldn't. Now my husband is practically brilliant when it comes to anything to do with our house. I know he could build one from the ground up. But when it comes to anything mechanical he says "Call Mike Garret down at HiCountry Motors." He can put windshield fluid in and check the oil, but that's his limit and he shows no inclination to discover the wonderful world of mechanics.
But Skip. Now Skip is brilliant in the world of mechanics.
When we first moved to Granby I thought Skip was about 60, but last year he celebrated his 82 birthday. I know he looks and acts younger than his years because he is always "tinkering." So I thought that maybe Skip would be willing to take Ian on.
So I wandered over there one day and proposed that I pay him to tutor Ian in the fine art of "tinkering."
"Oh hell," he said, "just send him over after I get done haying."
Skip has upteem acres of what many people would term "junk," but to 13 year old boys, Skip's property is a veritable treasure trove. He doesn't believe in dumps nor does he believe in throwing anything away. Skip has lived there forever and was the first person this side of the Rockies to raise Longhorns.
The last time Ian and his friend Chance went "hunting" at Skips', they brought home a pair of size 6 leopard colored heels, a baskeball net with no net, a neck warmer filled with rice and a round, plastic disc-sled with only one crack in it.
Skip also has a 10 acre reservoir which I have creatively named "Skip's Reservoir."
Last summer, Ian, Chance, myself and Baily (my favorite 7 year old of all-time) spent as much time as possible at his reservoir. Baily and I floated around on a plastice Tahiti that had only a few holes and Chance and Ian caught leeches. I think last summer was the only time I said, "Ian, get the leeches out of my car!" Now how many times in your life can you say that?
Ian is extremely excited about spending time with Skip. Skip is going to teach him how to use a welder, which is, as far as I'm concerned, the only legal way to melt metal. He's also going to take apart a tractor. When Skip told me this I said, "Why, what's wrong with it?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, it's just a good thing to know how to do."
I think so. I think it would be really, really cool to know how to take apart a tractor and when I mentioned that I'd like to maybe tag along, Ian said I couldn't. "This is only for boys, mom."
Sometimes it's okay to be sexist.
Monday, August 16, 2010
The First Day of School...Kind of
I worried all night that I couldn't figure out how to get to "my page" or I wouldn't remember how to get to the attendance page or I couldn't find what lessons we're supposed to work on. I didn't even need to stay up worrying about anything since we couldn't access anything.
Apparently when 12,000 or so people log in at the same time the system crashes. Again, I ask you, why do tech guys get paid so much when they can't even figure out simple things such as this. Granted, this was probably more complicated than the headphone issue, but still...at any rate, I no longer am impressed by people who say they "work with computers."
Needless to say, Ian got through one assessment before the system crashed (and this was after 45 minutes of waiting for the computer to login) and then went skateboarding.
So far this homeschool thing is working out real well for him - 1/2 hour of schooltime, 1.5 hours of watching mom move the mouse around to various windows trying to get into school, watching mom try and figure out where the speaker is on her cell phone so she can set it down while the tech guys answer the 11,346 people who are before her asking the same questions...why the hell can't we login??????????
So...first official day of school and Ian went skateboarding and I went to work.
Apparently when 12,000 or so people log in at the same time the system crashes. Again, I ask you, why do tech guys get paid so much when they can't even figure out simple things such as this. Granted, this was probably more complicated than the headphone issue, but still...at any rate, I no longer am impressed by people who say they "work with computers."
Needless to say, Ian got through one assessment before the system crashed (and this was after 45 minutes of waiting for the computer to login) and then went skateboarding.
So far this homeschool thing is working out real well for him - 1/2 hour of schooltime, 1.5 hours of watching mom move the mouse around to various windows trying to get into school, watching mom try and figure out where the speaker is on her cell phone so she can set it down while the tech guys answer the 11,346 people who are before her asking the same questions...why the hell can't we login??????????
So...first official day of school and Ian went skateboarding and I went to work.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Two Days Until Lift-Off
I finally finished all my Elluminate Training without too many hitches. Although there was one point when I was listening to one teacher and another one came in to my audio world. It was rather bizarre - I imagined that this was what it was like to take Meth and begin hearing voices in your head.
Humor is, as you know, a disguise for many things. My humor is a disguise for the fear I'm having regarding this year-long committment.
I'm worried I won't be as good a teacher to my son as I was to other people's children. I'm worried I'll yell at him or become frustrated or angry or irritated or any number of negative emotions.
Ian and I worked on setting up his "study space." He insists that it be in his room. We spent the morning rearranging furniture, setting up his computer, getting his books arranged and making file folders.
The first meltdown was when we had to move his bed. He insisted on one way - I insisted on another. This is, perhaps, the crux of the issue - that we both insist on something. Since I'm the adult I'm supposed to be able to bend and I will promise to work on this throughout the year.
The second meltdown was when I started designing file folders for him. It makes sense to me (again, probably another "crux of the issue") to have folders for every class and sub-folders in the class for work to be done and work that is done. No, he yelled, I can't handle all those different folders.
Again, another crux of the issue.
Now I have to begin my role as a teacher and figure out what will work best for Ian - not a mother just trying to get him to do something, anything, so we can move on to the next "something anything" we're supposed to do.
I'm starting to regret all the years in public schools when Ian would cry or be angry about how there's "too many things I'm supposed to do. Just when I get into something we're supposed to do something else."
I figured this was a skill Ian needed to learn. After all, we all need to do many things, many different things, sometimes at the same time, in order to "get something done."
50 minute classes seemed fine for me, especially when I taught high school and I didn't particularly like one particular student. But for Ian, 50 minutes probably feels like 10. Just when he's beginning to understand, or get into it, he has to change gears.
So this is what I'm looking forward to on Monday - letting Ian decide when he wants to change gears. I think this just might work...for him....I'm the one who's going to have to learn something/anything new for Ian.
Humor is, as you know, a disguise for many things. My humor is a disguise for the fear I'm having regarding this year-long committment.
I'm worried I won't be as good a teacher to my son as I was to other people's children. I'm worried I'll yell at him or become frustrated or angry or irritated or any number of negative emotions.
Ian and I worked on setting up his "study space." He insists that it be in his room. We spent the morning rearranging furniture, setting up his computer, getting his books arranged and making file folders.
The first meltdown was when we had to move his bed. He insisted on one way - I insisted on another. This is, perhaps, the crux of the issue - that we both insist on something. Since I'm the adult I'm supposed to be able to bend and I will promise to work on this throughout the year.
The second meltdown was when I started designing file folders for him. It makes sense to me (again, probably another "crux of the issue") to have folders for every class and sub-folders in the class for work to be done and work that is done. No, he yelled, I can't handle all those different folders.
Again, another crux of the issue.
Now I have to begin my role as a teacher and figure out what will work best for Ian - not a mother just trying to get him to do something, anything, so we can move on to the next "something anything" we're supposed to do.
I'm starting to regret all the years in public schools when Ian would cry or be angry about how there's "too many things I'm supposed to do. Just when I get into something we're supposed to do something else."
I figured this was a skill Ian needed to learn. After all, we all need to do many things, many different things, sometimes at the same time, in order to "get something done."
50 minute classes seemed fine for me, especially when I taught high school and I didn't particularly like one particular student. But for Ian, 50 minutes probably feels like 10. Just when he's beginning to understand, or get into it, he has to change gears.
So this is what I'm looking forward to on Monday - letting Ian decide when he wants to change gears. I think this just might work...for him....I'm the one who's going to have to learn something/anything new for Ian.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Math----oh no
Math is what I'm most worried about. I cannot do math. I think there are books written about people like myself - a true math phobic.
When I was in high school I had a kind Geometry teacher who tried, to no avail, to convince me that Math would be important in my life. He said, "Here's a real-life example. What if you wanted to re-roof your house-you would need to know Geometry to do that."
I said, "No, I would need to know how to use the yellow pages. I'm not getting on a roof."
My friend Sam, a fellow-English teacher, spent some of our time as teachers, trying to convince the left-brain Math teachers that you could live a successful life without knowing Math. Occasionally one of us would open up the door to our next-door teacher's room and interrupt his class with comments such as, "It's too bad you have to waste your time in this class...you'll never use it." One time she even ordered the video (before DVDs) "Donald Duck and Math." He was a good sport and showed it. But I think I'm going to need to do a search on this video - I do believe my level is about the Donald Duck one.
But you know, we have lived successful lives without Math. Sam is a school superintendant and I'm a college teacher.
However, that doesn't help me when I open Ian's Math book and read the first paragraph that says " Expressions, equations, and inequalities express relationships between different entities."
What does this mean? How am I going to explain it to Ian?
I was the kind of Math student (and I use the term "math student" loosely) that when given a word problem such as "If Sally had 7 balls and gave three to Tom and one to Issac, how many were left?" I would wonder why doesn't Sally play with the girls? Why does she need all those balls at once? Who is Tom? Who is Issac? Are they nice? I bet Sally doesn't play with the girls because they don't like her. Why don't they like her? Doesn't she have nice clothes? Why do Tom and Issac play with Sally and not the boys?
So I'm worried about Math and I think I'll hire a tutor-for Ian, not me, after all, I've been pretty successful without Math.
When I was in high school I had a kind Geometry teacher who tried, to no avail, to convince me that Math would be important in my life. He said, "Here's a real-life example. What if you wanted to re-roof your house-you would need to know Geometry to do that."
I said, "No, I would need to know how to use the yellow pages. I'm not getting on a roof."
My friend Sam, a fellow-English teacher, spent some of our time as teachers, trying to convince the left-brain Math teachers that you could live a successful life without knowing Math. Occasionally one of us would open up the door to our next-door teacher's room and interrupt his class with comments such as, "It's too bad you have to waste your time in this class...you'll never use it." One time she even ordered the video (before DVDs) "Donald Duck and Math." He was a good sport and showed it. But I think I'm going to need to do a search on this video - I do believe my level is about the Donald Duck one.
But you know, we have lived successful lives without Math. Sam is a school superintendant and I'm a college teacher.
However, that doesn't help me when I open Ian's Math book and read the first paragraph that says " Expressions, equations, and inequalities express relationships between different entities."
What does this mean? How am I going to explain it to Ian?
I was the kind of Math student (and I use the term "math student" loosely) that when given a word problem such as "If Sally had 7 balls and gave three to Tom and one to Issac, how many were left?" I would wonder why doesn't Sally play with the girls? Why does she need all those balls at once? Who is Tom? Who is Issac? Are they nice? I bet Sally doesn't play with the girls because they don't like her. Why don't they like her? Doesn't she have nice clothes? Why do Tom and Issac play with Sally and not the boys?
So I'm worried about Math and I think I'll hire a tutor-for Ian, not me, after all, I've been pretty successful without Math.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
My first day of homeschooling
I'm a reluctant homeshool mom. I think people who homeschool are paranoid, crazy, ultra-religious and crazy. However, I've been forced to look my son's school in the eye (or the double doors) and see that it's only doing him harm. So I've joined COVA, which seems to be organized and intelligent and more knowable than myself.
Here's my first experience with COVA and school hasn't even begun. I spent 3.5 hours yesterday trying to get Elluminate to work, which apparently is some high tech software (it may not even been software - I've always been a little unclear as to what exactly the term "software" means) that will allow me to listen, see and respond to Ian's teachers; almost as if they are here.
I talked to the tech guys seven times and said "yes" to all their questions; I didn't dare want them to think I was an idiot, never mind that I'll never meet them.
After it was all said and done, my Elluminate wasn't working because I failed to plug in the headphones before I started the program. I guess plugging in the headphones after you start Elluminate sends the program into paroxysms of meltdown. You'd think the tech guys would do something about this.
I still have ten hours of training before I can introduce my 13 year old to the wonderful world of online learning.
I'd like to pretend I know more than him....but I don't think he can be fooled.
To all you homeschool parents and non-homeschool parents send my your traveling mercies-I think I'm going to need them.
Here's my first experience with COVA and school hasn't even begun. I spent 3.5 hours yesterday trying to get Elluminate to work, which apparently is some high tech software (it may not even been software - I've always been a little unclear as to what exactly the term "software" means) that will allow me to listen, see and respond to Ian's teachers; almost as if they are here.
I talked to the tech guys seven times and said "yes" to all their questions; I didn't dare want them to think I was an idiot, never mind that I'll never meet them.
After it was all said and done, my Elluminate wasn't working because I failed to plug in the headphones before I started the program. I guess plugging in the headphones after you start Elluminate sends the program into paroxysms of meltdown. You'd think the tech guys would do something about this.
I still have ten hours of training before I can introduce my 13 year old to the wonderful world of online learning.
I'd like to pretend I know more than him....but I don't think he can be fooled.
To all you homeschool parents and non-homeschool parents send my your traveling mercies-I think I'm going to need them.
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