Rites of Passage: 8th Grade to High School

Please be warned.  This post is shameless mommy bragging time, about the one letting me brag.  The other didn't want to be recognized for the accomplishments of this year.  His are also many. His words allowed are few.

Today we celebrate OYT, Our Youngest Teen, who just finished 8th grade.  Last night we attended a picnic and slide show to commemorate the occasion. I was too far away to get any pictures, but OYT did let me take these and tell you about them.  I am grateful.

One of my favorite qualities of this young man was also recognized by his peers and today he received this peer-chosen award.

He is also most definitely a scientist, which they also recognized.

Here are his two latest achievements.  This machine is a combination of two "simple machines" as per the group project.  They combined a pulley with a wheel and axle to construct the "Nifty-Lifting Machine." Attach your object to be lifted to the hook, turn the PVC crank, and lift your thing, with a lot less force.

He also took a class called "Instrument Design". This idea came from his wobbling a piece of poster board one day and turned into this:  

Turn the crank, the thin plexiglass wobbles (he explained the difference between how the two pulleys work and how the load is distributed, etc., but let's leave it at "it makes it wobble") and produces a really, um, interesting sound. Interesting to engineers.  And to teenagers.  To writer-mothers who've had to listen to it...for a while...I'm really OK with knowing how it sounds.  From memory.

I can't ignore his artistic side though.  He had three pieces in the art show this year.

"Place Setting" where he had a picture to copy.

Love his attention to detail.

This gift, which he had planned for another occasion, he couldn't use because it was kept for the show.  Most of you know my sunflower obsession.  I think he did a great job.  It's glass, and the dirt is hardened concrete, so this thing is going nowhere unless on purpose.

I'll close with this.  His third piece from the show.  I think you've seen that he certainly knows how to do what he instructs.

~Tina, proud mom, who thanks you for bearing with her

©2014 All Rights Reserved

All pictures by me.  

Did you SEE my gorgeous new header?  It's by Jeremy, all things digital, my admin, my bro, my dear friend.  Thanks, J, for the AMAZING new artwork.

The Other Pick-Up Artists (My 500th Post!)

On Monday when I talked about the different kinds of moms that pick up their kids from school, I didn't have enough time to talk about the wide variety of others who also venture out into that danger zone each day. So we're back in my car, parked between the two schools, people watching. And let's be honest, people judging.

Lots of dads pick-up, too, as many of you mentioned in the comments.  Some would fit the categories I used for moms, but there are some other breeds worth mentioning.

The Coach Dad: Dressed in athletic gear, he's a pretty good picker-upper. After all, he's used to wrangling a large group of kids this age and making them kick, throw, hit, and carry balls of various types up and down fields. He can certainly get 5 bouncing ping-pong balls headed for practice into the minivan. He's organized. Collects all the cupcakes and saves them for after practice, puts all the art in a stacked, not-to-be-squished pile on top of the neatly arranged back-packs. The kids obviously have assigned seats because there's no fighting as they quickly get in and get buckled. Coach Dad would never double park. There are rules about this stuff, you know.

Taking the Day off Dad: He's a little confused. He has the day off, the wife went somewhere, and though she did tell him exactly what to do, he wasn't really listening. How hard could it be? But now there are cars going in every direction, kids and moms are swarming like ants all over the vicinity, the crossing guard glared at him for not crossing in the right place, and he's just going to go up to the school and find the kids. It's not a bad plan (if you don't count the jaywalking) and he eventually finds them. Wow, what nice art! Can I have a bite of the cupcake? Let's go out for ice-cream, too. They jaywalk back to the car.

Business Dad: Mom and dad are obviously juggling this schedule thing with the kids, and he's on his bluetooth as he, in the most efficient manner possible, gets the kids into the car (in the carline where he's been waiting, easiest place for his conference call). He waits patiently for his turn to pull out. The kids sneakily eat the cupcakes in the back of the car, and have already put their art in the front seat for him to notice. Which he will when he gets back to the office because it's on top of his files.

There are also sweet little grandmas who pick up their grandkids. I rarely see them with a car, but grandma has her cane, and her little yappy dog, and smiles with delight at the little one who is sharing the cupcake. The art will go on her fridge. They walk the few blocks to grandma's house, chatting happily.

Grandpa picks up, too. He's early. He stands next to his car, parked right where his daughter told him to park, scanning the area for the kids, and mentally goes over the list of who is riding home today. No one can eat a cupcake in the car, so they are to hold them carefully UNEATEN until they exit the vehicle. Back-packs and art are carefully stowed in the pristine trunk. He's relieved when he has the days' quota of kids, and signals carefully as he pulls out.

All this flurry is over in about 20 minutes.  Drive by just a tad later in the afternoon, and it's like a ghost town, and none of the above ever happened.

*****

This is my 500^th post! It's unbelievable how quickly the time has gone. I've learned SO much about how to get about in this community, learned technical stuff about how to run a blog, I've joined hops, fests, challenges, and made irreplaceable friends. Thanks for coming along on the ride. I couldn't have done it without you!

What Kind of Mom are You?

It's no secret that I don't tolerate carline particularly very well. All those parents breaking the (simple!) rules of going in order and waiting one's turn. With all the kids I pick up (two and a lot of the time three families), I've worked out a system that keeps my blood pressure down and the kids safe.

I park. Next to a beautiful park. It's within sight of the elementary school which lets out at 3:00 pm, and just up the hill from the middle school which gets out at 3:15.  My elementary charge just walks across the soccer field and gets into my car.  She usually plays games on my phone, I get some precious reading time. The boys show up eventually.

Sometimes I people watch. There are so many different kinds of moms, I get distracted categorizing them.

Perfect Mom: She has the umbrella, when it's raining, is impeccably dressed, escorts her little one, carrying his or her impossibly huge back-pack to spare the child the load. She has parked her car (legally) and helps her child into the car. She oohs and aahs over the art project, and let's the child eat the cupcake from the party.

The I Can Barely Be Bothered Mom: Also impeccably dressed, but with a whole different attitude. Stands by car door, looking annoyed, scanning the crowd for her child. Yells, “Hurry UP!” as child struggles with back-pack, lunch box, art project, and cupcake. Gets huffily into car, and puffs out cheeks while waiting for child struggling with multiple objects to climb into car, arrange stuff, buckle in, and be ready for take-off. She's double-parked, IN the carline, but now tries to sneak into the non-existent third lane to get out before everyone else.  Who knows what happens to the art or the cupcake.  They're not important.

The Frazzled Mom: She's trying to be Perfect Mom, but can't quite get it together. She hasn't found time for a shower yet, is still wearing sweats, is of course a little late, and runs across the street in front of you, usually dragging a younger child who is almost airborne at that speed. Finds pick-up child, quick hug, grabs backpack, which comes dangerously close to hitting the now almost airborne again younger child. They rush to car, late for the next errand. She throws them into the seats, buckles them in a frenzy, and roars out of spot. At least she parked in a real spot, but the cupcake doesn't make it into the car. She runs over it as they drive away. That art project didn't stand a chance. It blew away in the current created by this mad dash of chaos.

The Social Mom: She's parked so that she has plenty of room to talk to the other moms. The kids' she's picked up stand not so patiently waiting to be let into the car, yet she's yacking away, mostly bragging about herself, her kids' latest accomplishments, comparing them to other children (by name) whose achievements aren't quite as high, and ignoring all attempts by the children to get her attention. She'll “look at it later” when shown the art project, “no you can't eat that cupcake, it's got sugar”. Back packs must be held, they'll get dirty if set in the grass.

So who am I? I told you. I'm The Lazy Mom, sitting in my car, making the kids come to me, after walking a bit, carrying their own stuff. I do hand them napkins for the cupcake, though, and I do make sure I compliment their art.

Which mom (or dad...I didn't even get to the dads...) are you? Or have you identified another breed I missed?

~Tina

Thanks, Ms. Ruddle

I'm a writer today because of one extraordinary teacher: Ms. Marilee Ruddle. Yes, that's her real name and I hope she googles herself and reads this.

Ms. Ruddle had a reputation for being ridiculously tough. She famously didn't give A's. Overachievers like me with a 4.0 GPA got their parents to get them a different teacher for English 11. I was not so lucky. I got Ms. Ruddle. Ha! Turns out I was the lucky one after all.

Prior to my junior year, I'd always been praised for my writing, getting good grades, winning contests, feeling confident and pleased with myself. That was soon to change. I got my first essay back with a C+/C-. Top grade for mechanics, bottom grade for content. I was stunned to say the least. Angry. Treated unfairly. And for the first time, my work had turned all red. What was happening?

“This paper is all fluff and no content. You've made careless grammatical errors. I expect so much more from you.” Talk about developing insecurities. Who was wrong here? All my other teachers? Ms. Ruddle? Or was it me? I labored over the re-write of that essay. Got it to a B-/C+. Damn. This was going to be a long year.

As it turned out though, it was a fun year. We memorized poetry and recited it for a grade, during private appointments with her. THAT I got an A on. “You put such emotion into your recitation, and not only did you know them all, you seemed to enjoy yourself.” Now we're talking!

We sat in a circle and listened to an old, scratchy piece of vinyl that spun in circles before us.  It was Dylan Thomas himself, reading “Fern Hill”. 

We learned of art, it's various styles, and memorized the name of the painting, the name of the artist, and the years the artist lived. Again, we had private appointments and she held up a print, and we would say, “American Gothic, Grant Wood, 1891-1942.” (I only had to look up the years. Show me those 25 paintings today and I'd probably get a respectable B, if I don't have to recite the years. Everything else stuck. I can still recite the poems, too. Would you like to hear The Road Less Traveled or Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?)

Fourth quarter we spent on a research paper, learning the entire process step by step. I worked my butt off on this. I remember lying in my bikini, all oiled up (we all had to be tan back then...) in my yard, books spread about me, and making index cards. I lamented the amount of work, but I persevered. I was jealous of those not in her class who had free afternoons.

I hardly dared look as she passed them back to us. I almost fainted when I saw the grade: A-/A. Unbelievable. As I paged through the ten, painstakingly typed pages, I came across one with only one line of red. It read, “This page flows quite nicely.”

I was a writer. I may not have gotten an A on my report card, but I got an A on a paper. The most important paper of the year. Ms. Ruddle liked it! I had my confidence, and I WAS a better writer thanks to her relentless pushing.

What inspired you to start writing? Maybe thinking back, and putting it on paper will give you a confidence boost. It worked for me. Thanks, Jeremy, for prompting me.

*****

The Insecure Writer's Support Group, brainchild of Alex J. Cavanaugh, posts first Wednesday of the month. You can join us. There's a tab at his blog.