Safe Sex and Comprehensive Education

The only problem I have with the state's version of "sex education" is the use of terms like "safe sex" and "comprehensive education."

#1. All sexual experiences carry risks. The safest form of sex occurs within one, monogamous, life-long relationship, but even married partners are vulnerable, both spiritually and emotionally. (Personally, I think emotional consequences of sex are far scarier than the physical ones.) But, even if you believe humans are nothing but "bodies" and sex is just recreational, don't forget that pills and shots and condoms don't protect us 100%.  It worries me that parents feel comfortable their teens are being "safe," because they've learned about "safe sex" in school...

#2.  I strongly question the impact of a "comprehensive" course which omits instructions from the Creator of sex.

When I was growing up, I was taught God's command to keep the marriage bed pure, and I heard that self-control was a virtue for all ages. Now, however, parents seem to think their teens are crazy, clueless masses of hormone, at the mercy of their own sex drives. "Young people will experiment with sex, no matter what, so the best we can do is prepare them."

I believe this approach needs serious reconsideration. This attitude, held by parents and teachers alike, makes teen sex "normal." So, although I don't have a problem telling kids about penises, gonnorhea, the NuvaRing, menstruation, Syphilis, and really anything, there is a huge difference between teaching facts "in theory" and expecting kids to use their new information.


I think the situation is similar to a conversation I had with a 6-year-old at the daycare regarding "how to rob an office building."

Boy: What's that flashy light on the wall?
Me: That's the alarm system. It keeps people from coming in here at night when the daycare is closed.
Boy: Why do people want to come here at night?
Me: Most of the time, they want to steal money and computers and telephones.
Boy: Does the light lock the door?
Me: Actually, it calls the police if somebody opens the door or breaks a window.
Boy: (wicked grin*) I would just hit that light with a baseball bat!
Me:  Sorry, but that calls the police, too...and then they take the burglars to jail.

(And so, the chat continued until his bus came to pick him up)

I was willing to answer all of his questions, hypothetically. But I wasn't preparing him for a life of breaking-and-entering. In fact, a few minutes into our talk, I told him plainly I would be very disappointed if he ever tried taking something which wasn't his.

That little disclaimer makes all the difference between informing and condoning.

Frankly, I think schools can try whatever version of sex ed they want (and I'll even tolerate the term "comprehensive" despite ignoring the spiritual side of a person's health).  But they can NOT tell me those classes are necessary to keep teens "safe," when they go through their "inevitable" sexual experiences.  I was a teen who waited until marriage, and I have many friends who did as well.  All of our questions were answered about body mechanics, STD's, and contraceptives, but there was an important disclaimer at the end: 

Understanding all of these things does not mean you're prepared for "safe sex."  You are spiritual beings, with a responsibility to control your urges until you find the safety of a marriage relationship. We will be disappointed if you do not wait.

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A couple days ago, I asked my Christian readers, what would make you remove your kids from the public school system? Is the state-version of sex ed a problem for some of you?  In my opinion, go ahead and give the kids all the facts they want, but don't normalize teen sex.  What do you think?

Critical Thinking T.K.O.

In another post (regarding the time I presented an if-then conclusion about Sarah Palin to a self-proclaimed critical thinker...who couldn't follow it), I linked to a study which found college students are not learning to think critically by the time they graduate.

In THIS article, the author suggest a big chunk of the problem is many teachers don't recognize critical thought themselves.

It's a long, academic-sounding article. But for somebody interested in the education process, it is fascinating! A student was told to use objective evidence to support their preference for a specific kind of music. Then, that essay (and one written by an adult who was part of the experiment) were given to teachers for grading. As the author explains, the instructions themselves reflect a common misunderstanding of critical thought, since they ask for objective justification of something which is subjective by nature: taste in music. The student's essay, "Rock Around the Clock," was written with "spark" and interesting stories--ultimately concluding that rock music is better than other kinds.  The second essay, "Can I Prove Rock Music is Better?" gave objective reasons why he/she couldn't assess music objectively.

Some of the things teachers said about the two essays (#1 being Rock Around the Clock, #2 being Can I Prove Rock Music is Better?):

1. Special Ed. Teacher: [#1] “Point total: 7. This essay listed three criteria on which to base a judgment. It gave examples of each — maybe better examples could be found. The writer attempted to analyze a basically subjective issue in concrete terms — what the songs do for them: not objective, but a fairly concrete assessment of music’s subjectivity. [#2] “Point total: 0. This essay did not seriously attempt to answer the issue at hand. Instead it concluded, quite lamely, that no objective statement of worth could be made. While this may be accurate in the broadest sense, no effort was made to justify that position.”

2. A Math Teacher: [#1] “I would give the first essay a 5 because it did not support the judgment well but did make many references.
[#2] “I would give the second essay a 3 because it is not very evaluative! It did analyze the subject but provided no real support of any judgment.”
 
3. A Math Teacher: [#1] “I would give this paper a grade of 7 because criteria were evident, analysis was good and it had lots of supporting evidence. [#2] “I would give this paper a 3 because criteria are given but nothing was analyzed and no supporting evidence.”
 
(As a side note: look how many times a teacher said the second essay "didn't offer evidence" or "support," and actually penalized the writer's correct conclusion that there is no objective way to support your taste in music. Did the teachers want more stats, figures, and "outside sources," assuming that's what it takes to think critically?)

Anyway, this article also lists comments from teachers who scored the second (better-written) essay HIGHER--but even those teachers seemed confused about WHY that one exemplified good critical thinking. For example:

An English Teacher: [#1] “Score: 3. The writer in essay one has discussed how he/she feels about rock and pop music, but generalities are given and his/her statements aren’t supported with evidence. The assignment is to ‘justify’ preference, not discuss that it makes him/her ‘feel good’ period. No criteria have been established, so the essay just rambles on about ‘feelings’ and not much else. Reasons and evidence are lacking. [#2] “Score: 5. This essay does a little bit better in attempting an argument. The essay establishes two ‘criteria’ on which to base his/her essay.... Examples of ‘answers’ in paragraph 3 are needed as evidence . . .  Paragraph 4 isn’t developed. Needs reasons and evidence/ examples. Weak Conclusion.”

There are many other direct quotes from teachers, and I encourage you to look at it! Also, read the evaluations of the critical thinking expert about what good deductive reasoning looks like, AND scroll down to where it says "Three examples of Student Reasoning." He explains what rational vs. irrational logic looks like.

I said this study fascinates me, and it does. But it also frightens me a bit. If teachers can't recognize good critical thinking, how can we hope the students will improve?

More Thoughts on Love vs. Enabling

Awhile back, I wrote a post called CANI Get Free Money, Please? in which I asked the question "What is the REAL root of poverty" which we should be attacking? Do people just need "a chance?" A little boost of money and encouragement? (I would say some do.) But what about those who receive one opportunity after another and still don't learn? Often, our best charities even have the opposite of their intended effect, causing ingratitude and then absolute dependence.

Several readers commented saying, "Yeah, there is someone like that in my family..." Despite the efforts of friends and loved who try lending a hand, these individuals continue making the same bad choices that get them into trouble--financially and emotionally. And that leaves even compassionate people asking: when do we step back and let them fall on their rear ends? Does that make us mean? And at what point does our service and love turn into enablement?

Though that was several weeks ago, the topic has continued to spin in my mind. Then, after talking with my mom, I realized a bit of GOOD news for anyone struggling while observing the poor choices of another.

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When I was training my replacement at the daycare, she observed I had a "different style" than some of the other teachers.

For one thing, I was very matter-of-fact with the kids. There wasn't much coddling and cooing. I was to-the-point with my expectations, clear about what would happen if they weren't met, and swift in discipline when the kids challenged me. So, when my friend said I was "different," I laughed and said, "You mean I'm 'mean'?"  She nodded, but added, "Except, the kids don't seem to see it that way!"  I took this as a compliment. But, more importantly, she was right about how the kids viewed me.

I was a mean teacher. I plan to be a "mean" Mommy. Because kids--like wise adults--know when they've messed up and appreciate the correction that comes from a loving source. They may scream "I hate you!" in the heat of the emotion. But at the end of the day, they don't really feel "wronged" when stuck in the corner for hitting a friend. My kids knew when they were to blame because I did my best to teach them real justice always has consequences...

There was a chair in the classroom with very thin legs--meaning, the kids loved to stand on it. I literally can't count how many times a student challenged that chair and wound up crying in a tangled heap on the floor. So, of course, everytime I saw somebody climb up, I warned, "You are not supposed to stand on that chair. You will fall."  That chair--with it's perfect track record for taking down children--is the perfect example of God's Moral Law. 

Many, many times, God says "If you do THIS, then THIS will happen." It's inescapable. The law of the earth is as contant--rather, more so--than the law of children falling off that chair. Sex should be kept within the context of marriage. One man, one woman, for life. What happens when you climb onto THAT chair? Aids and other STDs, unwanted pregnancies, affairs and broken families. Even if none of those happen, there are psychological and spiritual consequences. Period. God says enjoy food and drink in moderation. Want to challenge that rule? Take a look at obesity and alcoholism, for examples of the consequences.

I didn't enjoy watching my students scrape their knees (I would have preferred they take my verbal warning and not require the hard way of learning). But I am glad to know they were learning the cause-and-effect pattern that follows all of us for the rest of our lives. Inescapably.

Unfortunately, many kids figure this out in preschool and then UN-learn it later in life. Too many of us tries to dismiss the Moral Law, with the belief they are the exception to everything...  ("Well, Miss Amanda, maybe the chair was dangerous for YOU. But, it's different for me...")

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My mom surprised us with a visit on Easter Sunday. (And it really was surprising, because my parents live an hour and a half away!) She brought us Easter baskets, since we're not traveling any more until Baby arrives, and then we chatted for a couple hours. At the time, I was upset over three or four different incidences in which a hard-headed, less-informed person refused the advice of a wiser party. It used to be that people respected others with more experience than themselves. Younger generations went to their elders with questions, rather than being offended by suggestions. But the world truly is full of unteachable people these days--people who think what applies to one doesn't apply to another. And, I was pretty worked up over one of the incidents in particular, where several young adults verbally ripped into an older lady with all three of my "favorite" culturally-acceptable defenses: "Who do you think you are?" "This is my life." AND "Don't judge me."  I wrote this post somewhat in response to that.

So, when my mom started talking about the ladies at the homeless shelter in which she worked--and when she mentioned the strict rules and consequences they enforce there--I just assumed the women who get in trouble are equally defensive about it.

"Let me guess," I said to Mom.  "You hear things like, 'Who are you to tell me what to do?' 'You are mean!' all the time.'"

But, Mom shook her head.

"No, the ladies at the shelter have hit rock bottom," she said. "Most of them are well aware they've messed up, and they're ready to listen when people tell them how to fix it."

Eureka! The good news! Sometimes allowing someone to experience the consequences DOES work, and the most "loving" thing one can do is wait for the attitude of humility that comes from a broken and fallen individual.

My mom's words made me think of that chair in the classroom and realize sometimes people do learn lessons. In fact, her ladies and my children, because they learn, are wiser than a sad majority of the rest of us. Yeah, they make poor choices and fall hard--but neither group truly hates the messenger for saying, "I told you so." Instead, even a child recognizes when his or her own choices come back to haunt them. And, after dusting themselves off, the kids and ladies both are humble enough to come back and listen to the warnings next time around.

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The REAL root of many problems is enablement, when a "nice" teacher or "nice" parent can't bear to watch a loved one fall. When someone--for all their good intentions--absorbs the consequences or makes excuses for the poor choices of another, it causes complete ignorance of true justice. 

There ARE consequences for every action.

Those who can take advice about cause-and-effect will have an easier life in general. BUT, when someone simply won't learn from verbal warnings, we have to let them crash.

The End!

Today was my last day at the daycare...

I'm not going to miss setting my alarm for 6:00, scraping my windshield in the winter, and unlocking the building doors in the dark.

I'm not going to miss repeating myself a hundred times, changing smelly diapers, and singing the "clean-up song" while shelving the majority of toys on my own. (Mostly because I'll be having my baby in a few weeks, and I'm not foolish enough to think those days are behind me!)

I'm not going to miss filling out paper work, communicating with less-than-cooperative parents, and jumping through hoops established by people who've never met my students personally...

But, with just a couple of pictures, maybe I can summarize what I WILL miss:

Top right, in a first grader's penmanship: "I hope you have a happy and healthy baby."

....I still don't know what "big thing" is coming next. I know I'm meant for more than just laundry and lunch-making for the next 18 years. There will be another ministry in the near future, I'm sure.

But, in the meantime, I've picked up my name plate:

...and I've come to the end of a long, trying, and simultaneously rewarding phase of service.

So Frustrating It's Cute

Yesterday, I had the following conversation with a 3-year-old student at lunch time. This is proof you don't have to juggle ten kids with various disabilities to be driven crazy. One child is plenty.

(Note* We were eating chicken legs, and the 3-year-old boy was gnawing on a small bone fragment.)

Me: Please don't chew on that. It's a piece of bone, and it could poke your mouth.

Boy: This?

Me: Yes. That thing in your hand. It's not part of the chicken you can eat. It's a piece of bone.

Boy: This thing?

Me: Yes! Take it out of your mouth, please. It could make your tongue bleed. Or, if you swallowed it, you would choke...

Boy: This?

Me: YES! Take it out!

Boy: Can I have more potatoes, Miss Amanda?

Me: After you take the chicken bone out of your mouth, you can ask me for more potatoes.

(Long, thoughtful pause. Then, a big smile.)

Boy: You want me to lick it?

Me: NOOOOO!....

At this point, the conversation with the little boy ended, and I shifted my attention to yell at a coworker, who was laughing in the corner. Education will kill me yet... :)

Finishing Strong

Things have been hectic at the daycare.

A sudden influx of students causes an uproar anyway. But, weirdly, most of our new recruits are very, very young. Our "preferred" age-range is 3-6, but we recently began accepting kids as young as two. And parents are taking advantage of this early, early childhood care like crazy.

The only problem is, two-year-olds present a whole new set of complications in an already-diverse classroom. They're just learning to follow directions, potty training, and sometimes adjusting to being away from mom for the first time. Two-year-olds are babies in many ways...and what do babies do best?

They cry.

And cry.

Babies cry especially when they're really, really tired and fighting sleep. But, if one of them starts the fussing, it keeps the others awake. And this leads to a horrid cycle of call-and-response crying from overtired, overstimulated two-year olds.

This, naturally, keeps the older ones awake, too. But overtired 3-and-4-year-olds don't cry as much as they misbehave: jumping on their cots and yelling "no" when told to stop. Basically, the daycare lately has resembled what most people picture when I say I teach ten or so students in an inclusive, special education setting: that must be madness, they think.

I assure these individuals that, most of the time, routine and consistant expectations can keep even large groups of kids working well together. Big kids teach the little kids, everybody has a job to do, and teachers/parents who can manage this system are considered "miracle-workers," when it's not very complicated in practice. Large familes were the norm much longer than small familes have been, and that's how parents coped "back in the day."

However, I don't know too many parents who get "surprised" with a new two-year-old every other week and are expected to incorporate them into the family. I can testify, even with my incredible, miracle-working powers over children (har!), that our current situation DOES produce madness. And each of my shifts lately has tested my patience to the limit.

(I'd just like to reiterate how terribly awful some of these cry sounds are. Mommies know the difference between a sad, "I'm-hurt" cry, and a whiney "I'm slightly annoyed" cry. But, many of these kids whip out their ear-splitting "I'm angry!" cries, and it drills right through your head! Kind of stresses me out just thinking about it.)

Anyway, I'm mentioning this because I'm scheduled to begin my maternity leave next month. My permanent maternity leave, that is. Yet, more than once lately I've wondered, "Am I going to make it?"

It's VERY easy to wonder whether my services are making a difference in the classroom right now. In fact, I'm still struggling to figure out how, exactly, this form of selflessness is advancing the Kingdom. I mean, just about anybody can march into a room and listen to toddlers scream for a few hours. But can anybody carry a banner that reads "Break your Eardrums for Jesus"? Who is benefitting from this "ministry," which feels more like endurance than proactive service these days?...

I want to finish strong. But, part of me wonders if God isn't allowing the last few weeks of work to be rough just so I'll welcome the new phase of my life more gladly....I just wish He would give me a glimpse of the fruits of my labor before I move from this battlefield to another.

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Anyway, I haven't been stressed enough not to catch a couple quotables from my older kids. For those who have missed those darn things they say, I'll share.

Me: Those water toys are dripping on the floor, and that's dangerous! What does dangerous mean?
4-year-old: It means somebody could fall!
Me: That's what it means this time. What can we do to fix the problem?
4-year-old: I'll need a towel! I can put it on the floor and drip the toys across this towel and then the water gets soaked on the towel.
Me: Good plan
4-year-old: Yep, then the floor doesn't get no danger.

4-year-old: I'm going to take the lima beans out of my vegetables, because I don't like them.
Me: That sounds logical...
4-year-old: Yes, it's logical.
Me: What does logical mean?
4-year-old: Uhh...I don't know.
Me: It means it makes sense.
4-year-old: Yes, makes sense.

-a few minutes later-
4-year-old: I'm going to leave my cup here and throw away my plate first, so I don't spill.
Me: Very logical....what does logical mean, again?
4-year-old: Um...I don't remember things good!

3-year-old: I dropped my spoon!
Me: Try asking for another one.
3-year-old: That's a good plan, Miss Amanda.

He's Not Sharing!

If you haven't heard, the American economy is in somewhat of a pickle. There exists only a handful of tyranical, evil-spirited humans we call "the rich," and the rest of us are innocent and struggling. Wouldn't it be just wonderful if someone could take the money from the rich and give it to those who REALLY deserve it? Like me?

Read this article if you want to learn more about what awful, stingy, horned monsters the wealthy are....

Or, allow me to describe the preschool version of the same issue which plays itself out in front of me on a daily basis:

Little Johnny walks into school with a brand, new toy. Most of the other kids admire it from a distance--telling Little Johnny how cool it is and maybe asking to touch it. But, Tiny Tim doesn't want to look or touch. He wants to HAVE the toy. And, luckily, he's armed with the Buzzword of Most Classrooms...

"Miss Amanda, Johnny won't share!!!"

Now, perhaps if I were power-hungry, I would enjoy the opportunity to solve this problem. After all, my preschoolers--like American voters--cannot fix issues themselves. (Right?) They need some sort of authority to step in and make things fair, because they aren't capable of making their own decisions. It's a good thing preschoolers have teachers and Americans have politicians to take control. And, since the definition of "fair" is NOT "keeping whats yours" but rather, "surrendering whenever Timmy is mad," I would force Johnny to share.

However, I am not power-hungry, and my aim is NOT to educate a bunch of co-dependent, open-handed future citizens. Instead, I usually reply:

"Tiny Tim, if you work hard when you're a grown up, you can make lots of money and buy a cool toy like that for yourself."

-----

The adult buzzwords are similar to the classroom's. SOME teachers would force Johnny to give up his toy in the name of the righteous principles of "sharing," just as some politicians act swiftly at the mention of "poverty," the "poor economy," or the "wealthy class." The unbalanced wealth in America is causing many citizens to buy the argument that what we really need is a strong, authoritative teacher to yank the toys away from the wealthy and give them to the deserving, struggling Tims.

Except for one thing. In America, we have the right to be selfish.

Morally, I spend a lot of time talking about the evils of self-obsession and looking-out-for-number one. In fact, I believe selfishness is the single most destructive problem in civilization. But, if even God Himself will not force us to do right--but, rather, gives us the freedom to love ourselves more than others--why do we believe Washington should be the Moral Police? Do we really want to give politicians control of the money--trusting THEM to make the "fair, balanced" decisions?

If I were a kajillionaire, I like to believe I'd be generous. As a God-fearer who wants to obey the command to care for the poor, the widow, and the orphan, I hope I would give endlessly. Even now, as a person who isn't starving, I try to keep my pocketbook open when confronted with the needs of another. But, it's none of my business whether Kobe or Madonna or Trump are charitable with their money. God doesn't force me to love my neighbor, and I can't force them to love theirs, either.

As adults in a free country, Americans are NOT helpless, as I implied earlier, and we do not need somebody to regulate our finances, even when we disagree with the financial choices of another. In a free country, anyone can start a business, make a killing, and keep the entire haul for himself, if he wants--no matter how much Tiny Tim wishes that person would share.

My Background--Tim

I'm not even going to attempt to explain my absence.

Okay, really quickly: Chicago Trip, Texas Trip, Thanksgiving, House projects. I apologize sincerely to those who enjoyed the first installment of my personal soap opera and desperately craved more. Today's trip down memory lane includes a summary of Life with Tim (the "Difficult Child" as I referred to him in the previous post). I feel it necessary to mention that Tim is a very different person as a man than he was as a boy. Currently, he's in Iraq with the Air Force and one of the most respectful, driven, and well-rounded individuals I know. But, growing up, he encountered plenty of rough times--which impacted ME in various ways as well....
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We drove past the topless bar on Markland almost every day, and Mom was frank with 6-year-old Tim when he asked about the bright pink building. She said: it's not a good business because women take their clothes off. Another day, while riding with our dad, Tim tried to relate this knowledge.

“Daddy, Mom says that's a place where ladies dress up naked.”

Dad wanted to laugh, but he knew better. Likewise, we hid our amusement when we found out Tim, at 10-years-old, thought the guy who fell off the wall was called “Humpty Dump-Me.” And we forced blank expressions while he recited spelling words or read from textbooks, just to make sure he didn't mistake a smile for a joke at his expense. Tim was a sensitive little boy.

One day, during a not-uncommon screaming fit, Mom told Tim to go to his room until he could calm down. He yelled something back, gasping for air between sobs, and Dad stepped in to attempt reasoning.

“Buddy, just take a break and sit on your bed for awhile. You always get so worked up.” But Tim was already out of control, and he wasn't about to let Dad tell him what he “always” did. Clenching his fists at his side, his entire body heaving, he took a deep breath and bellowed:

“Well, you never, ever, E-VER!” My parents waited for the rest of his accusation. But when they realized he was finished, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. Big mistake. Tim flew into his room and slammed the door, rattling the windows and knocking a picture off the wall. Within seconds, toys were being dumped and flung against his bedpost, and he was kicking his closet door. Even across three rooms, I heard the thuds and shrieks of Tim's outrageous temper.

Right on schedule, the doctors diagnosed him with ADD. But, as far as my parents were concerned, the doctors simply informed them Tim was a boy—perhaps shorter-fused than most, but simply wired for energy. They were given a bottle of blue pills to manage him, which required a couple hours of fighting just to get down his throat. Even still, the medication didn't improve things. Sure, it made Tim lethargic, and he no longer had the stamina to scream and throw things. But the hate never left his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with family or with the happiness and affection associated with it, and he would say as much—scream it when he skipped a pill.

Then he grew up. At least, his body grew up. The house enjoyed quieter days than when Tim was in grade school, but this is because, as a teenager, he often stayed out with friends. Reports of his well-being had to come indirectly, through the rapid disappearance of food and overpowering scent of cologne in the morning. But when we did see him, we tried to be warm. Mom and Dad faithfully attended football and soccer games, attempting to speak love in Tim's language. Had we continued this way, more or less leaving him alone, he would have been content. But our parents knew he wasn't doing homework, and they constantly asked their jobless son where all his new stuff was coming from. During these confrontations, the tears would begin to form in his eyes and his temper would spiral away.

It was the first of June, Tim's 16th birthday, when Mom and Dad spelled out his options: bring your grades up over summer school or there will be no sports next year. Tim's point was semi-valid. “Coach said he could work something out so I can play if I get a paper signed.” And this was despite the school's policy stating that athletes had to maintain a C-average or be benched. But, Mom and Dad explained to Tim that school rules and home rules were different And they promised to call the rule-bending coach to make sure Tim didn't play unless he studied harder. The bedroom door slammed, several pictures fell off the walls, and I could hear Tim swearing three rooms away.

Mom often said she couldn't handle it anymore, but this time, she demanded my dad call the police. I saw disbelief on his face for only a second before he composed it again. Mom continued, “You call them and tell them we have an insane teenager, and tell them he's violently out of control.” Dad hesitated for another minute, but then we heard the sound of glass shattering in Tim's room. Dad dialed.

“Yes, I could use an officer at 1103 W. Taylor. We're not sure what to do with our teenage son right now.” At that moment, Tim came down the hall, holding his right hand to reveal a gash between his fingers at least an inch wide--causing blood to stream past his elbow and drip on the carpet. “And, we're going to need a paramedic, too.”

I hid in the stairwell when the police pulled up, but I could smell leather boots and foreign fabric softener from there. The crackling radios and strange voices didn't let me pretend it wasn't happening, so I listened to them. Straining, I could hear the EMT's tell Tim he'd have a pretty big scar, and one of the officers asked him why he punched the mirror.

“They just make me angry,” Tim said in a low voice, sobered by the pain and commotion.
“There's nothing wrong with being angry, partner. You just have to deal with it better.”
Another officer said, “Look, son, we're gonna go ahead and take you to the juvenile jail for booking. That way, if there's ever a problem again, we have you in the system.” And Tim spent his birthday in the police station. As the officer made his way out the door, holding my baby brother's arm, he spoke into his radio. “10-16, just a domestic disturbance.” His nonchalance infuriated me. I couldn't believe he summed up our nightmare in so few words—that the police had a code to label my family's crumble.

Two years later, Tim was picked up for shop lifting, and a few days after that, our parents kicked him out of the house for good. Dad, the reasonable one, put all of Tim's belongings in garbage bags on the porch. Then he locked the door and went to bed. I went to bed, too, but I didn't sleep. The house seemed empty and cold without my brother, even though he wasn't home much anyway. It was different when he wasn't even welcome there. Mom and Dad had been hardened by the Difficult Child, and they didn't care if he was sleeping on a bench somewhere. But, I wanted to march into their room and plead his case. I knew he had burnt through all his extra chances, but I didn't want to let it go. I contemplated sneaking to unlock the door, even if it was just a temporary fix. But I laid there and cried instead. Tim was never, ever, E-ver coming back.
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Okay, so it only FELT like he never would come back. But, as I said in the beginning, he only needed some time to mature. Tim moved in with a friend's family and got a job. Then, after highschool, it suddenly occurred to him that he "didn't want to rot in Indiana" like his friends, partying and getting into trouble with no real direction. So he joined the Air Force and never looked back.

Anyway, I tell this story because, years later, I'm actually really glad God allowed me to experience the irrational, emotional tantrums of my little brother. Now, in my job at the daycare, I'm responsible for calming and teaching children (mostly angry little boys) who exhibit the same behaviors Tim did. In fact, sometimes the similarities between my students and my brother downright floor me.

But, I've never felt intimidated by the violent outbursts or unpredictability of relating to a Difficult Child. It's almost homey, in a way. Or, maybe what I mean to say is my first instinct--rather than fear or anger--is a sense of sisterly protection and sympathy when one of my students has a really bad day.

Finally, and most importantly, growing up with Tim has taught me the number one thing that keeps me returning to work when others might quit. I know, since I've seen it in my brother, that there always remains hope for the most unhappy, out-of-control little boy to grow into a truly impressive man.

A Few Quotes Just to Buy Time Until I Get Myself in Gear and Post Like I Mean it Again

Yes, now THIS officially has been the longest interval without a blog post.

But these last couple of weeks haven't been bright and shiney. Instead, trouble in paradise. I tried service and selflessness. I also tried nagging and complaining. But, unlike with most of my stories of trouble, arguing, impatience, and other marriage-related adventures, I've yet to find the moral. In fact, sharing the details at this point would easily become a rant session rather than a humble tale of conviction, because there hasn't been a "good wife lesson" to learn in the end. This time, Friends, I have not been the wrong-doer.

Therefore, until my husband starts a blog about journeying in selflessness (he could call it "School, Lack-of-Sleep, and Other Tickets to the Dog House") I can't give any specifics. The only thing I've learned at this point is that the people who love you best also have the ability to hurt you most. And that's a depressing topic for a blog.

So, rather than talking about goings-on in my current life--and since I have some pretty great stories from my growing up years--I'll be asking you to "let me tell you a story" more this week. And maybe I will post regularly again?

And, in the meantime, here are some quotes to keep you occupied:

Parent (to a boy in the corner): Are you in trouble over there?
Boy: A little.
Parent: Why are you always getting yourself into trouble?
Boy (shrugging): It's just my thing.

Teacher-to-another-teacher (while a three-year-old listened): We'll have someone come in to cover your shift this afternoon. But could you stay until 9:00, and..."
3-year-old (to me): 9:00?!
Me: 9:00?
3-year-old: I don't know what that means!!!

5-year-old: I'm going to be Spiderman for Halloween.
Me: I thought you were going as Ironman.
5-year-old: No, I like Spiderman....or Lightning McQueen.
Me: I see.
5-year-old: I'll be Superman for next Halloween.
Me: You're already thinking about next Halloween?
5-year-old: Yes, because my minds keep changing!

How DO You Become a Grandpa?

Could this be the longest I've ever gone without posting? AAAAAND I neglected my Wednesday letter, too? Hm.


Well, you probably think I've been laying around with a massive headache and sour stomach which made the thought of looking at the computer almost unbearable--but that was just one night. Instead, I've been spending extra time in the daycare. And that means: Quote Time



(at lunch) 3-year-old: "I need....uh....May I have...uh..."

(anticipating, I hand him a spoon)

3-year-old: "But, I need something to poke AND scoop."



Me: "I see feet that are moving too fast in the classroom!!"

4-year-old girl: "Feet, you are getting me in trouble."


5-year-old boy (no context whatsoever): "Miss Amanda, where do you go to become a grandpa?"

----

Yes, the daycare produced a few hair-pulling moments this week, as we now have a classroom full of children in very different stages of development--forcing the teachers to switch hats constantly.

For instance, take Student A, who has autism and lately becomes aggitated over any hint of noise. So, I try to maintain the peace. In a room full of preschoolers. Some having special needs. Maybe you get the picture? (If not, imagine loud, happy sounds from some kids followed by loud, unhappy sounds from Student A.) Combine this issue with Student B, who doesn't realize just how large he is and further interprets crying as a signal that the distressed individual needs a giant bear hug/choker hold. ("Now, now Student A. Just let me squeeze your neck between my massive forearms, and everything will be better.")

Then there's my little guy with the death wish. He's non-verbal and doesn't seem very aware of his surroundings, but I still believe we'll hear his first sentence at any time. And it will be: "can someone point me to the most dangerous thing in the area so I promptly can give my teacher a heart attack?" Some of his favorite things: light sockets, moving swings, stuffing entire rolls in his mouth (alongside the half-chewed fish and carrots), and stealing toys from the notorious Biters and Hitters of the group. Today, he saw Student B laying on the floor, absentmindedly kicking his legs and thought Those enormous tree-trunk feet look like they could smash my little skull--I should lay directly underneath them. And so he did.

I deal with these things all while keeping in mind who likes milk and who likes juice, who eats finger foods, who takes a bottle, and who's tube fed, changing diapers, and scratching backs during naptime.

So, forgive me for my hiatus. I've been a little busy maintaining order, encouraging, scolding, and answering questions. Which reminds me: if you want to be a grandpa, you have to be a dad first. And if you ever hope to do THAT, I suggest avoiding the daycare scene for awhile.

:)

Favorite Thing in the World

At the daycare, we sometimes ask the kids an open-ended question and write down exactly what they say, in the name of creating our own version of Kids Say the Darndest Things. We also like displaying the cute quotes for other staff members, parents, and visitors to enjoy.

Past questions include:

1. What do you know about money? (sample answer: "You have to get a job and you can buy food and toys.")
2. If you were a dog, what would you do? (sample answer: "I would chew my mom's shoes.")
3. What do you want to talk about today? (sample answer: "I like to watch Cars at Grandma's house because I like Lightening McQueen...and, Miss Amanda, that is NOT how you spell 'lightning.'") Yes, my spelling was corrected by a five-year-old. However, in my defense, this kid is a prodigy!

So, a couple of days ago, my coworker asked our morning group of three students, "What is your favorite thing in the whole world?"

The list of answers, in its entirety:

1. "Ketchup"
2. "A horn"
3. "Sharks, because they have those pointy noses."

A couple of years ago, we had students who gave more proper answers--like "mommy and daddy are my favorites" or "I am thankful for my house and toys." But our current kiddos are very young, not to mention unfamiliar with being asked questions. And they don't know yet what they're "supposed" to like more than anything. As Luke said, "They just said the thing they happened to be thinking about at that moment!"

So, that got me thinking. Is that so bad? Is "ketchup" a worse answer than my own, "Gee, I can't pick just one?" Or, would it be right for me to give the culturally sanctioned answer ("God and my family are most important to me"), when I don't act that way very often? Maybe the three-year-old answered more honestly, since he actively--and very noisely--appreciated that horn all afternoon.

Anyway, who says your favorite thing in the world can't change with your mood? Why can't we really appreciate those pointy-nosed sharks one minute and go back to loving our mommies and daddies a few seconds later? Wouldn't life be more exciting if everything we touched or thought about became our "favorite things in the world" for just those few moments?

It's thanks to my preschoolers I realized how much I LOVE my frosted flakes every morning. And, that same day, I pointed several staff members toward the women's bathroom insisting, "You have to try the soap! It's the best smell in the world!!" (Yes, I even told a male coworker he needed a sniff.) Before my kids shared their favorite things in the world, I spent too much time trying to narrow down a really good answer to the question. But maybe it doesn't demand a well-thought-out, philosophical response the way most grown-ups assume...

Now, I'm off to cook some eggrolls. I think they're my new favorite things in the world.

Life Isn't an Amusement Park

Yesterday, I was reminiscing about the trips my family used to take to Indiana Beach every summer. (For those not from the Midwest, Indiana Beach is the poor man's Cedar Point or Six Flags...there are booths and rides and a waterpark, all proving "There is More Than Corn in Indiana." But not much more.)

Anyway, when were were young, my brother, Tim, and I thought this little amusement park was the best thing ever. We loved our vacations to the lake, and our parents took us to the fair most years, too. But we couldn't afford tokens or tickets for carnival rides. That is, until we took company-paid trips to Indiana Beach.

I remember the first summer we both measured more than 48 inches tall--enough to ride the crowd-pleasing Cornball Express. As soon as we got off the roller coaster, we would hop the rails and jump right back in line.

We always whined when it was time to stop for lunch with my dad's coworkers. Luckily, the tent in which we pic-nicked was close to the "Kiddie Land" section of the park, and Mom and Dad usually gave us permission to explore those rides on our own, while they finished talking with friends. (During this part of the day, our goal was to get our saucers to spin the fastest...and then we really regretted stopping for lunch.)

One sumer, at the end of a long day full of walking and riding and swimming, I distinctly remember looking at Tim and saying, "Hey! We didn't fight once all day!" And he responded in equally pleased amazement. "That's true! What a good trip!"

My parents laughed at our observation, but it really was an accomplishment to us. When we were home, under ordinary circumstances, my brother and I would bicker at least a couple times a day. Sometimes we would play football or ride bikes with friends, which helped keep the peace a little longer. But arguments were so common, it surprised us when we got along for more than a few hours.

Really, we notice this same phenomenon at the daycare, and we plan our schedule accordingly. When the big kids are at school, we allow the well-behaved young kids more free-choice time. But, as soon as the schoolagers come back, we have snack on the table, followed immediately by outside time. The more we cram the afternoon with activity, the less opportunity they have to fight.

This is typical of kids. But I know adults who still require this accomodation. They need plenty of excitement and out-of-the-ordinary distractions just to play nice with their spouse or kids. These are the same families who buy Big Kid Toys, like vehicles, videogames, and expensive vacations, because they know fewer arguments ensue when all brains are numbed with activity. And when life steers toward monotany--as it's bound to do--nobody knows how to get along.

The problem is, life isn't an amusment park. Even with tons of money and attempts to keep busy constantly, it's impossible to create excitement all the time. And, if you need some type of adreneline rush just to keep the peace in your family, something isn't right. Maybe it's time to grow up.

It's easy to get along when you're having a good time. But, it takes a selfless person--an adult--to play nice with others in all circumstances.

Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Editor of IndyStar

(This article appeared on IndyStar.com yesterday. I wrote to the editor, hoping to get published, but knowing I already had my Wednesday letter finished either way!)

Dear Editor,

Recently, I read the article "Challenges Clear for School 61 Kindergarteners," which was posted to indystar.com on Aug. 24th. I must say, I was surprised by the underling suggestion that parents are responsible for their children's underpreparation.

Haven't the reporters at Indy Star heard that teachers are to blame for the downfall of the American Education system? To point fingers at parents--especially the unfortunate, single mothers and low-income families--for the delays of their children is like saying parental duty goes beyond feeding and clothing their offspring.

In today's tough economy, how do we expect overworked and underpaid parents to know a teacher's name and attend important meetings, much less begin instructing their kids at home before Kindergarten? Don't you know parents pay tax dollars to have someone else socialize their children?

The article quoted early childhood professor Mary Benson McMullen, but failed to recognize her statement for the enlightenment is was: "Children don't need to be ready for [teachers]. [Rather, teachers] need to be ready for each and every child who walks through the door." If those teachers can't reverse a few bad habits (like being unable to speak) by the end of the school year, then why are we paying them the big bucks?

Clearly, what we need is a more centralized government--to throw money and policies at our education system. Also, we could do with more bonuses and other incentives to motivate those lazy teachers trying to amass a fortune in their careers without having to work. Finally, we should tell the administrators complaining about the unready students to lighten up and do their job! This situation is bound to happen during a child's first year, when people get crazy ideas like "parents should be involved in education."

Insincerely,
An Indiana Teacher

P.S. Perhaps our school district should work toward after-school programming that allows teachers to take their students home, feed them dinner, and put them to bed. Some kids in my class still struggle with a spoon and fork, toileting, and other self-help operations, and--again--I know parents are busy. I'm just looking for ways to do my job better.

More Kid-tastic Artwork

Anybody want to guess the theme on which my Genius-Student has been fixated this week?

If not, I'll let him spell it out for you:

For those not from the area, the TinCaps is the name of the minor league baseball team in Fort Wayne. Their name is a reference to Johnny Appleseed, and their official logo looks like this:

But, if you were a 5-year-old working from memory, you would draw it like this:

At this point, the TinCaps are offering a nice break from Peter Pan, Downtown Fort Wayne, and a couple other phases we've been through in the last year. But I'm sure I'll be completely sick of hearing about them in another week.

Anyway, the object of today's post isn't to highlight more material from my Student Genius alone. No, today, he must share the spotlight with one of the girls in the class--as I'd like to share a few pages of a story she read to me the other day.

"This girl is crying."

"Boys like snakes."

"Girls like puppies."

I also learned from this book that "kids sitting on a porch are happy," and "Mommies and daddies hug."

It's an excellent read on a lazy Wednesday afternoon.

ANYWAY, the pizza is ready, and then Luke and I must return to the dry-wall-and-paint project happening in the living room these days. But, I'll leave you with my newest brain storm. Why spend time blurring facial features to obeserve privacy laws, when I simply can take pictures of the anonymous Iron Men taking over the classroom. (As always, they created these projects without help--including the light-up "arc reactor hearts" on their chests. )

Write-a-Letter Wednesday, Former Teachers

***The idea is to write an open letter every Wednesday to someone who has impacted my week.***

Dear Former Teachers,

Thank you.
No one could ask for better examples of knowledgeable, dedicated, and servant-hearted instructors than the ones I've had in my school career.

If I have been successful in academia (and I have), it's because you made achievement fun, and I never had to worry that my accomplishments would go unnoticed. I loved when my elementary teacher (Mom) would tell Dad everything I'd mastered in History, Grammer, and Math--all while I was in earshot. I loved the stickers and green "minus zeros" used by Mrs. Hite and Mrs. Nierste in middle school. And I've kept the note written by Miss Harsh, my highschool English teacher, in which she said some of the most encouraging things about my writing I've ever heard. (You're still the "ink in my pen," Miss Harsh. hehe!)

I'm remembering Mr. Phillips and Mr. Firebaugh and Professor Ford and Chip Macgregor and the whole host of others who've invested time and energy in my development, and all of you are on my mind because I'm a teacher now. And I'd love to know someday that my efforts have made a difference.

Sometimes it's a thankless job encouraging others to learn. But I want you to know I've fallen in love with knowledge because all of you demonstrated that same love in the classroom. You would deliver your lessons excited about sharing ideas and turning on lightbulbs in the minds of your students, and I caught that bug! Thank you for your contagious enthusiasm. Thank you for your positivity and your encouragement.

Currently, I'm trying to figure out the best time for getting my Master's degree, because I know I'd love teaching college classes eventually. If I could teach Special Education, I'd be in Heaven. I just need to work up motivation for paying more money and securing the diploma. But I'm excited about the possibility of teaching long-term because you, former teachers, have made it look great. Not easy. But great.

And I'm confident I'll succeed when I finally haul my butt to grad school because you made me feel smart, responsible, and capable all my life.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.
~Amanda (Branyan) McKinney

Got Twenty Minutes?

Ah, education. I love your pure form so much that I despise your current state.

On my banner at the top of the page I've listed education as one of the things that "wants to kill me" because I see a pretty hopeless mess when I look at it.

Parents are at war with school boards, arguing about what should/should not be taught. Many teachers are losing their jobs. But, even the educators who remain employed have to defend themselves constantly when their students are failing. (As if it's solely the fault of the teachers.) Test scores are dropping. Schools are closing. It's ugly.

And, since I don't like messes, it nearly kills me to think about all of it. The government wants to throw more money at the problem. Parents seek help from doctors writing prescriptions for Adderall and Ritalin. But few people question the practice of putting 25 kids in a room to hear lectures 7 hours a day.

However, Ken Robinson says kids weren't made to learn in mass-produced fashion, and if you have 20 minutes, this is a worth-while video:
Ken Robinson says schools kill creativity Video on TED.com

Robinson doesn't have any solutions other than a "radical" change of thinking and overhall of the education system--one that embraces diverse types of intelligence rather than solely the three R's.

But it's a good place to start. And it gives me an introduction for suggesting specific changes in later posts. :)

Distracted by Emotional Autism

There is a boy in my class with profound autism--a case that keeps him from speaking or being toilet trained at the age of six. He presents many of the stereotypical characteristics of the disorder, such as rocking, humming, and becoming aggresive when he's aggitated...

Today--as I was having a "conversation" with him (I scolded him mildly for playing in the sink and he responded with a big grin and a couple "flaps" of his arms)--I started thinking about the book I read describing what it may be like to live in an autistic body.

Most experts believe the sensory function of people with autism is unusual, either heightened or diminished, so they don't hear, see, smell, taste, or feel things the way most people do. To simplify a very complicated disorder, autistic kids may spend hours listening to the sounds of their own bodies digesting, or looking at the contrast between a light and dark object, or smelling things you and I cannot even detect.

Their systems try very hard to adapt to the problem, so they intentionally seek out stimulation for their eyes, ears, and nose. One doctor compares it to the way your nose may adjust to a smell which is very strong when you first enter a room, so you don't notice it after a few minutes. An individual with autism tries to fix the kinks in their system by constantly exposing themselves to it, numbing their minds of it after awhile. But they spend so much time battling their senses--preoccupied within their own bodies--that they never get a chance to learn the speech and social patterns of the outside world.


Autism comes from the root "auto" meaning "self." As I thought about my student this morning, it occurred to me that he, literally, is self-absorbed. And it has produced dire consequences on his development.

On the other hand, when I think of it this way, he isn't as unusual as society may believe. Lots of people spend way too much time seeking their own fulfillment and letting their senses decide what is best for them. They give so much credit to their own "feelings" that they aren't concerned with anybody in the world around them.

Some of us are "emotionally autistic" due to pain or trauma, retreating into self-protection mode after abuse or neglect. This condition is equally heart-breaking as the physical one my student has. But--somehow--there must be a way to break through--to see "past the end of our nose" as Mary Poppins would say--to interact with the world as mature adults rather than letting self-absorption stunt our growth.

Mature adults know how to communicate, and they do so rather than becoming easily angered when stressed. Mature adults are aware of their feelings--but they don't let them rule their lives. And, finally, mature adults spend most of their time considering the needs of others, not listening to (and complaining about) the mixed signals in their own heads....

Emotions are important, and senses tell us key things about ourselves and our world. But I wish there was a way to help my student understand there is more to life than the confusing tangle of sensory input on which he has been fixated for so many years.

And I wish I could free the emotionally autistic individuals as well. Those who let anger, depression, and false euphoria distract them from what matters.

But It Comes With a Toy...

6:30 AM
Boy: Will Olivia be here today?
Me: Probably.
Boy: Will Jake be here today?
Me: Probably.
Boy: Will Landyn be here today?
Me: Well, what do you think?
Boy: Yeah, he always bes here.

7:45 AM
Girl: Honey! Come here, Honey! Honey!
Boy: I'm NOT YOUR HUSBAND! ...I'm Peter Pan.
(A few minutes later, the boy was yelling, "Tinkerbell!!!" and the girl replied, "Excuse me, I have to die now.")

8:00 AM
Boy: Welcome to Burger King and we're out of fries.
Speech Therapist: Well, what should I get then?
Boy: You can have onion rings.
Speech Therapist: Okay, how much do I owe you?
Boy: $100
Speech Therapist: Um, I think that's too expensive for me...
Boy: But, it comes with a toy!

****
I've been at the daycare a lot this week, substituting for a vacationing coworker. But in the meantime, my servant-attitude has been on the fritz.
For some reason, I've been unmotivated, impatient, and looking at the clock more often than usual...

I make excuses like I'm not getting enough sleep and the kids have been especially difficult the last few days. And there is some truth in both statements.

True, a boy with Downs who has been potty-trained for over two years is wetting his pants twice a day for no reason. And, true, my little Creative Genius keeps losing the battle with impulse control and BITING anyone who upsets him. And, yes, there is a young one who gets "stuck" on certain phrases until you think his repetitions will bore a hole in your head.

....But this is my job, and God has made it clear He has things to teach me through the challenges in that classroom. Plus, despite the pandemonium, I have found myself giggling several times about something the kids have said. Why shouldn't I focus on those positives?

Although special education can feel like a meal that costs $100--at least it comes with a toy.

Now Featuring Photos! (The Work of my Student Genius)

Privacy laws restrict me from posting photos of my students' faces. Sooooo, I'll settle for telling the story of the Boy with the Vision through pictures of his projects.

First of all, let me note that most children pre-kindergarten are just learning to trace basic shapes, count to twenty, recognize their own names on paper, and experiment with scribbling letter-like forms. Some of them are able to copy what a teacher writes on the board, but recognizable letters and the classic "kid spelling" of things usually comes later, after kindergarten teaches them basic phonics.


That is, unless you have a special 5-year-old with an unbelievable spatial-visual memory. If that were the case, maybe he would have the ability to draw accurate maps of places he has been in town, build block towers which resemble actual buildings, and re-create logos and advertisements from grocery stores, fast food restaurants, and others using the correct font and 3d effects.


What makes it more amazing is the fact that this child has social difficulties and an emotional-behavioral disorder that complicate teaching him things. He doesn't like to have assistance with anything, and any idea which isn't his is a bad idea. But, no one had to teach him how to do any of the following things; it all came from his memory.



For instance:

Now, anyone who lives/has lived in Fort Wayne may recognize this structure without a comparison picture. But for everyone else:

In case you missed it, check out the signage my little guy built in front of the main building. That's right. He went as far as duplicating Science Central's LOGO and taping it to the blocks for maximum accuracy.

Now, here's a formation which has become a permanent shrine in the block corner. Ever since the boy joined our class (just before he turned five), he has been obsessed with "Holiday Fest."
It looks like this:



He told us things like, "You drive THROUGH Holiday Fest." and "It lights up at Christmas." But it wasn't until we noticed the center building looks just like One Summit Square that we figured out Holiday Fest = Downtown Fort Wayne.


Here's the back of the block version:

From back left to front right, National City/PNC Bank, Courthouse, One Summit Square, and Lincoln Tower Bank. (You may have noticed the real Downtown has these buildings in a different order. But when you drive South through the buildings on US24, they appear just as the boy built them.)

Finally, here's a sample of his Logo-writing:

Earlier the same day, as the kids were turning a cardboard box into a "Drive-thru," he reached out the window we had cut in the side and wrote "Burger King" so that it appeared correct to the "cars" that would come. This means he wrote it upsidedown from his vantage point.

I would have taken a picture of the McDonald's or Taco Bell signs he drew (complete with 3d Bell), but he wouldn't cooperate. (sigh) Even with his superpowers, he is still a kid.

****
Anyway, all of this to say, my job isn't always difficult. Sometimes I get to pick little brains and let them WOW me with just how incredible they are. With that, I'll sign off by posting a final example of student art I like to call, "Who Needs a Canvas When Miss Amanda Has a Back?"

Math, Daycare Style

Okay, what's 15 kids times 400 decibles, plus 3 teachers and 2 volunteers, combined with an assortment of disabilities, tendencies, and tricks, divided by a 7-hour-shift? Answer: A loud, exhausting day. Points if you got that right.

Now, what happens when you take the same equation and SUBTRACT 8 of the children... Extra credit if you answered: the decible level goes UP, and you must factor some blood and lots of urine.

If you've ever heard a teacher complain about the first day of school after a long weekend, this is why: it's hard to teach children about patterns, logical thinking, and arithmetic when our grumpy, sun-burnt, class of seven dishes out more noise and tearful drama than a full group...

Yes, wet pants, skinned knees, and the sudden inability to talk without yelling or play without hitting. It was a long day. But I'm hopeful for a good Thursday/Friday, after we extract the last bit of Independence Day from their systems... And I take comfort in knowing our next holiday is more than a month away.

(Now, what's 10 weeks of summer break, minus the three weeks since it started...? Please tell me Daycare Math doesn't affect the timeframe for Back to School...)