One Bag Each (Part 2)

Well, we did it. We stuck with one bag each, the Spooner, the car seat, and a blankey. At the last minute the boy decided to wear his robe instead of a hoodie, but that and the blanket could be rolled up and attached to my backpack so it was no biggie (it’s a thick robe so it couldn’t fit in the bag). I also ditched the water bottles before we left and we didn’t really miss having those.

Advantages:

No checking bags, and no use of overhead bins. No trying to roll a bag into a restroom stall or onto an escalator, no bumping into things and people with the rolling bag (can you tell I’m a bad rolling bag driver?). We definitely brought enough items to keep our minds and souls busy on the flights and at my brother’s house, and I got all the homework I brought done because I didn’t bring every project I have pending for the next four weeks, as I tend to do when I travel. And I was more focused on my homework because I wasn’t able to work on anything else.  I only brought one book, Journal of a Novel, and didn’t finish it so I was not bookless. And having just one book is a good idea for me; I felt more focused. It made me think I should start reading only one book at a time. Might try that, not sure though.

Disadvantages:

I probably needed one more pair of pants. My jeans got a little too baggy after so much wear. Or maybe I needed a different pair of pants, something more light weight. Weather definitely affects the packing, so I think it would be way easier to be a minimalist in the summer. The Bootie Boy says he didn’t notice any disadvantages or advantages. He had his Spooner, his robe, his pajamypants, his vans, and he basically moved through the airport looking like a 6-year old Spicoli.

My assessment is that minimalist travel is possible, but you have to pack carefully.  It can be done though, and I think it was a good experience for me, because it reminded me that I really need very little to be happy.

One Bag Each (Part 1)

I have been reading a few minimalist blogs lately (2012, my year of letting go!) so I am trying an experiment: minimalist travel. Tomorrow the Bootie Boy and I are off to San Diego to see my brother and his sweet family, and we each get one back pack to take with us. That’s it. At first when I proposed this idea to the boy he said, “Sure, sounds good, but can I bring the blue roll-y bag too? I need my robe and Long Blue (his blanket) and Fluffy Dog (his stuffed dog who is bigger than our real dog), and…” the list was long. I told him two bags is not one bag. He said, “Hmmm. Right. Well, can I at least bring my Spooner?” I conceded to the Spooner as long as he carries it. In case you are curious, a Spooner looks like this:

So here is the packing list:

Me:

Mind and Soul: I am taking my journal, the  current letter I am writing to my Atascadero friend,2 pens, one pencil, one article/assignment for school (no laptop, no textbooks), two books: Vagabonding and Journal of a Novel, ipod, phone and charger, boarding passes, wallet, cash.

Body: travel size shampoo, conditioner, contact solution, toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, deodorant, soap, glasses and contact case, travel Clorox wipes (cooties!), shorts, one long sleeve and one short sleeve t-shirt, flip flops, underwear, pajamy pants, socks, water bottle, canvas rucksack for day use.

The Bootie:

Mind and Soul: The boy will take his DS with a few games, ipod, Diary of a Wimpy Kid book, journal (“it’s a journal, not a diary”), crayons and pencils, his new Who Would Win animal battle books, Would You Rather cards, and whatever toys he can fit in his backpack after I put clothes in. And Long Blue. He has never slept a night without Long Blue, so, there you have it.

Body: toothbrush and toothpaste, flossers, extra pants (one pair), shorts, one long sleeve and one short sleeve shirt, pajamy pants, 2 pairs underwear (he would not mind at all going 4 days with the same underwear, but good to be prepared I say), socks, water bottle. Carseat (“Not the purple one Mom.” Noted)

Is this possible? I will report back.

http://www.becomingminimalist.com/

http://www.theminimalists.com/

http://mnmlist.com/

Response to Intervention: Does it Work?

**Please forgive my deviation from such vital topics as movie night, shoe shopping, road trips, book reviews, cake raffles, and water parks. Today I am using the blog for school. Read on….

Cool RTI Graphic:

The Quickie Wiki Definition of RTI (translation: of course it’s not that simple): A method of academic intervention used in the United States to provide early, systematic assistance to children who are having difficulty learning.

Response to Intervention (RTI) is a three-tiered model that can be used in any subject matter as a way to identify students who may have a specific learning disability. Click here for more info. But make sure you come back.

Does RTI Work?

What I have heard from those who use RTI is that it requires a lot of training, documentation and research that it is costly and time consuming, and that it ultimately impedes a teacher’s ability to interact with students and individualize instruction. Teachers say they have a set way they like to teach, and they don’t like to be forced to change that. Response to Intervention requires frequent progress monitoring, and research-based interventions, and teachers tell me that the system doesn’t work because their administration can’t spend the money on the professional development needed to make the program successful. Teachers also say that RTI eliminates the “wait to fail” philosophy of education and allows students in need of interventions the help they need sooner, and that they therefore like the process.

What Scares Me About Implementing RTI:

What concerns me is that teaching strategies that work but may not have been researched and proven to work may be eliminated. Good teachers have a million tricks to teach content, and they can find many creative ways to get students to grasp concepts. For example, they may write a song to help students remember math facts, or create their own graphic organizers that help students write papers. My concern with RTI is that these types of teaching tools and intervention techniques would be shunned, or worse, disallowed until proof could be found that they are effective. What drew me to teaching is the ability to find creative ways to help students learn, and I wonder if RTI would not allow that. Another worry I have is that I might place a student in the wrong tier, or that a student may not receive the special education services he or she needs because RTI becomes a panacea for students who are struggling and then the Child Find aspect of IDEA stops. If I were working at a school that used RTI, I would be concerned about keeping up with the additional paperwork that the program requires and that I would miss teaching opportunities and interactions with my students because I was constantly assessing. I also wonder about the impact the program has on students, if they are being assessed too often or if they feel that they are stuck in one tier forever. I’ve also heard that first-year teachers are very busy, so I’d worry about my ability to get it all done and still serve my students in the ways they need.

Despite my fears, my personal take on RTI is that it can work, if you have the time and money to implement it properly, and if you have the buy in of the teachers. I think it has to be a school wide requirement thought, not an optional addition. And I feel that anything that can help students get access to more learning opportunities, the better resources we all wish we had more of: time and money.

Because I don’t have personal experience with RTI, I am appealing to those of you who do. If you are a teacher, post a comment. If you have a child in special education or general education and you have an opinion (good or bad) about RTI, post a comment. If your grown-up child could have been impacted (good or bad) by a program like RTI, post a comment. If you are a student in K-12, post a comment.  If, after reading this post, you have an opinion about RTI, comment! I’d love to hear what you have to say.

A Few Links

http://www.washoe.k12.nv.us/rti/

http://www.washoe.k12.nv.us/rti/rti_process.pdf

http://buildingrti.utexas.org/for-parents

http://www.beyondthecrayon.com/Beyond_The_Crayon/Home.html

Well, Don’t You Look Comfortable?

I don’t actually like clothes. I’m not saying I want to run around naked, because that would be horrible for everyone, but I’m just saying I really don’t enjoy the consideration of what to wear, especially if it involves matching, accessorizing or paying attention to current haute couture. I never think about what all of you all are wearing either. I would never say to someone, “That’s a cute shirt” unless perhaps there had been a precursory, “Hey, what do you think of this shirt?” beforehand. And seriously, no friend of mine would ask such a question because they’ve seen my face go red and heard the “uh, uh, uh….” answer I generally give if asked to offer clothing input.

My clothing aversion stems from childhood battles that go back to the70′s. It started with a pair of black ruffled panties (so many stories do start that way, don’t they?). I was 2–years old, and I’m fairly certain I was supposed to want to wear those big-girl panties instead of a diaper. Well, I kicked my mom on the face while she was trying to put them on me, a fact I only remember because the story was recounted every time my mom and I went clothing shopping together. Something along the lines of, “You never like what I pick out for you, why, even when you were 2-years old, I had these cute panties with ruffles all over the bottom, and you, you kicked me! In the face!” Sorry mom, but those were some ugly panties.

My mom didn’t give up easily, despite the foot to the face incident. Maybe if I’d had a sister she would have let me off the hook and worked on her instead, but I’m the only daughter, her only hope. She succeeded in making me wear a white first communion dress and I know she marked it down on her daughter-dressing-appropriately-girly tally sheet as a day of success. I’m sure I did it for God, not her. I’m pretty sure they told me I could not be a Catholic if I did not wear that ruffled, itchy white dress and stand quietly and daintily with my new rosary and bible, looking angelic but internally fuming. After I took that dress off, the fashion war between my mom and I really began, each of us claiming tiny victories and suffering disappointing setbacks in the clothing battle of my youth.

My mom would say she knew what was best for me, and that I had no style, but she wore muumuus, so I think I could convince a jury to take my side.

When I was 6-years old, I found a pair of my brother’s corduroy Toughskins and claimed them as my own. The knees were still stiff but they were oh so comfortable. They were blue and broken in and when I wore those pants I thought there was no cooler kid in the world than me. I could do anything, be anything, run faster, and jump higher. I decided to wear them for the rest of my life. And then, they disappeared. I know my mom took them, but I have no proof. Then, to pour salt in the MIA pants wound, she bought me an ugly yellow pantsuit with cows all over it and told me I could not go on the field trip to the zoo unless I wore the horrible outfit. What can I say, we were travelling to the zoo on a double-decker bus. I conceded.

After the pantsuit embarrassment (I don’t even like typing ‘pantsuit’ honestly), I claimed my own victory. I needed new shoes and I broke her down with daily pleading for the can’t-live-without pair: Wallabees (it was the late 70′s, what can I say?). I thought I had the upper hand on the clothing battle after I got my shoes, but when I boldly told my mom I wanted a pair of red Dee Cee overalls for the first day of 4th grade, she retaliated with pink plastic short alls. “What, those are overalls!” she told me when she saw my crestfallen face. I actually cried over those ugly overalls, because I believed her when I came home that summer day and she told me she put the overalls I wanted on my bed. I shoved them in the bottom of my underwear drawer, and never wore them.

The overalls incident gave me new resolve. She offered up knickers and knee socks and I told her I’d not be caught dead in that outfit. She suggested turtle necks and I laughed at her. She even had the nerve to tell me that she thought culottes looked like cute idea for me. Was she nuts? Did she know me at all? I begged for Shrink-to fit-501s for the first day of 6th grade, and she actually took me to Miller’s Outpost for them. She even threw in a few button up shirts. I knew I had won the battle, but eventually we both won the war because she gave up and let me be myself. Hallelujah. Thanks Mom.

 

In other news, 41 is going to be fine, just like 40 was fine and 39 was fine. I have noticed though it’s getting harder for me to clothing shop as I get older. Which for me means nearly impossible. I went to the mall yesterday with the bootie boy and the make-up kiosk chicks were missing me. I mean “Miss!” “Miss!” Miss!”-ing me. “Miss, can I ask you a question about your make-up routine??”  Ugh. NO, not even if you call me Miss like I’m 15-years old. Anyway, I needed shoes and had a surprise insurance refund check to spend on whatever I wanted, and you know what? I couldn’t find anything. The nice sales lady asked “How can I help you?” and I wanted to say, “Listen, do you have shoes that make me look tall and thin and young but not like I’m trying too hard to look  young, you know what I mean? I want shoes that are comfortable because sometimes my feet hurt, but not ugly and nothing that says ‘tone-up’ or ‘shape up’ on the box and do you think I can pull off Vans with red flames at my age?” Instead I just told her I was in a weird shoe-buying space and headed off to Cinnabon. Today I went to DSW and got shoes that can be described as sensible, but the Vans are still waiting for me. I’m getting ‘em.

My new favorite blog: http://simplifyyourlife.tumblr.com/

It fits 2012, my year of letting things go.

Movie Night

There will come a time when Friday night will not mean movie night. There will be no dragging out of the blow up mattress so we can sleep in the living room, no careful lining up of tiny cups full of skittles, sour patch kids,  M&Ms and sour ropes. No big bowl of popcorn and no Shirley Temples. I know there will come a time when Friday night means “going out with my friends, Mom.” But right now, tonight,  it’s movie night. A stop at Sonic, a stop at Dad’s Quick mart for candy, and time to set up for the movie we’ve probably seen 20 times. The line up right now: Diary of a Wimpy Kid (1 and 2), Despicable Me, Yogi Bear, or Gulliver’s Travels. Yep, one of those. I won’t complain about the choices, because movie night rocks. The mantra of my life is Be Here Now. This is the only moment, and really, most of the pain we give ourselves is worrying over past events we can’t change or future events that most likely won’t happen. I know, deep huh? Maybe I’ll make tea cake. Which has nothing to do with anything but sounds good.

Have I told you about this blog?  http://www.bemorewithless.com/

Gather Around the Family Table. Oh Wait, We Don’t Know How.

Table, a Definition from Webster:

1.  An article of furniture consisting of a flat, slablike top supported on one or more legs or other supports: a kitchen table; an operating table; a pool table.

2.  Such a piece of furniture specifically used for serving food to those seated at it.

3.  A group of persons at a table, as for a meal, game, or business transaction.

1979

I’m sure that some combination of the above definitions is what my parents envisioned when they bought the dining room table at Trash to Treasures Antiques in Morro Bay in 1976 and loaded it onto the bed of my dad’s old green Ford pickup, carefully placing it on top of his brown, unzipped sleeping bag, the one with the ducks and hunting dogs all over the inside. The sleeping bag, like the table, was a ruse: nobody hunted in my family, and nobody used that table to serve food or gather as “a group of persons for a meal, game, or business transaction.”

The sole purpose of our antique oak table was to collect and hold all of our homeless junk. It was a beautiful table, made of dark oak with beautiful matching chairs etched with curlicues that a small kid finger could trace for hours in avoidance of homework. But in our house, you could not see the beauty of the table for the years of accumulated life paraphernalia of three kids and two tired adults. After a while even the chairs took on the job of holding the raw materials of our lives.

The mantra “A place for everything and everything in its place” did not apply to my childhood home. The words most often spoken in our house were, “Where the hell is the….?” The answer, always, was “Last time I saw it, it was somewhere on the dining room table.” Among the detritus of junk mail, unpaid bills that threatened shut off of services, pencils, tape, scissors, broken toys, and enough back issues of Women’s Day and Family Circle magazine to keep a prisoner in self-improvement articles and quick-and-easy recipes for a life sentence, was the center piece of the mess: my mom’s Singer sewing machine, thick with dust and too heavy to move, its pedal hanging like a noose from the twisted cord skirted messily around its unused body.  

The table was littered with Butterick and McCalls envelopes and tissue-thin brown patterns, one of which was carefully pinned to fuzzy white fabric that was supposed to be a bunny costume for me, circa 1979. I was 8 years old that Halloween, and I wanted to dress up as a bum. .My mom refused to allow me to wear a “boy costume” and I refused to relent. In a fit of inspiration on October 27, Mom decided she would sew my costume. I told her we had no time, knowing her history on projects in general, but she exclaimed, “Don’t be silly, I have Vivarin!” and dragged me to Beverly’s Fabrics to sit at the row of big pattern binders, assessing girly costumes for hours. I conceded to the bunny idea, but I guess the Vivarin ran out. When it became clear the thing was not gonna get made, she drove me to the Thrifty Drug Store on October 30th so I could pick out a plastic Casper the Friendly Ghost costume. Better than a bunny, but not as cool as a bum, I thought.

2011

What happens sometimes is that I begin to think that my parents messed up in so many ways, and then I look at my own grown-up dining room table.

There it is, cluttered with the silver bowl of orange Cuties, the wicker box full of Family brand napkins, Bed, Bath and Beyond and Cost Plus World Market ads, Pizza Plus coupons, the half completed diorama on Tanzania, clay animal remnants sticking to the marker-stained wood, and silver paint spots globbing everywhere because we learned during our research on Africa that only the mouths of black mambas are black, so we had to paint the black clay snakes silver. Next to the diorama is the advent calendar, all doors opened 1-22; the crappy-tasting chocolate ornaments in a coffee cup beside it. We learned on December 1st that the foil-wrapped chocolate ornaments are too prettily decorated to throw out, but too disgusting to eat, so there they gather in the Santa cup, waiting for an unsuspecting Christmas Eve guest. One thing is certain, no family can sit and eat at that table without shoving our collection of mess aside.

So there we are, standing in the kitchen, holding our plates on the flat tables of our own palms, forks in mid air as we stop eating to discuss what fact the bootie boy should write about Mt. Kilimanjaro for the required report that accompanies his diorama, throwing out facts as if we are contestants on Jeopardy.

“It’s the highest point in Africa?”

“It’s a dormant volcano?”

“It means snow covered?”

He throws down  the chicken tender he has been thoughtfully chewing, and it lands on a glob of silver paint as he picks up his yellow pencil, and shouts “Yes!” He leans over, so close to the page his nose just might touch it, carefully writing the last sentence of his report as his elbow nudges the clutter of our small, overworked dining room table.

 

This holiday season, I hope your table holds all that you hope for and more. Happy Holidays!

Conversations

Who knows what the boy might come up with on any given day. His brain is always percolating. Always.

Bootie Boy: “I made this card for you Mom.”

I read the card out loud: Mom. I love you. Cuz you ar nise.  ”Thank you buddy, it’s beautiful. You did a great job,” I say.

BB: “The red stuff is blood and the green stuff is slime.”

Me: “Oh, ok.”

BB: “Ya, blood and slime.”

Me: “Well, I love it. Thank you.”

Sometimes the boy comes up with crazy random things.

“Mom, if you ever come up to a black mamba you should not climb a tree, because a black mamba can climb a tree better than you can.”

“Oh, what should I do then?” I ask. I’m game for this what-would-you-do type of scenario. It’s good to be prepared I say.

“Oh, you’re gonna get eaten.”

“Oh, alright. Well , I hope I don’t run into a black mamba.”

It kind of bothers me, knowing there is no hope for me in the black mamba showdown. But then, I’m not really surprised. I mean, I run like a 12 minute mile.

BB: “Mom?”

Me: “Ya buddy?”

BB: “Do you also wish that our back yard was Six Flags, like I do?”

Me: “Hmm, that depends. Will everyone be coming in to use our bathroom or are there bathrooms out there?”

It was in that moment that I felt old, when I answered that way. The boy just looked at me. I learn so much from him. His perspective on the world is unique and bright-eyed and curious. I remember feeling that way as a kid, and really, I still feel that way now. Admittedly not as often. Life shakes it out of you sometimes.

My semester has gone crazy, but I’m reading a really fun book called How They Croaked.

It’s interesting, full of tidbits about the lives (and deaths, of course) of  famous people.

The Cake Raffle

At the Fall Festival at the Bootie Boy’s school, there are twelve cool Halloween-themed cakes to be raffled off. We buy two raffle tickets to try to win a cake.  There must be about 100 tickets in the little coffee can. Little Tommy is all excited to win a cake. He keeps asking me when they are going to start pulling tickets. He patiently waits. Finally, at 5:00, they start the raffle, and the boy goes and stands by the cake the wants, an orange pumpkin-shaped one with a green leaf on top, and just STARES at it. The rule is, if your name is called, you can pick any cake you want. Winners are coming up to choose their cakes, but nobody takes the Bootie’s cake. He whispers to me “I’m GUARDING my cake, Mom.” Soon, it’s down to 3 cakes, and a parent decides to move the remaining three cakes to a table by the person choosing tickets and calling out names. The boy moves with his cake. He stands in front of it, staring at it, unblinking. I begin to think, This can’t end well. There are a lot of tickets in the can and we only bought two. Statistics are against us. But still, the boy is there, by his cake, ready to hear his name called. I’m preparing the you can’t always win, let’s go get a Kit Kat speech in my head.

Suddenly, the person pulling tickets and announcing winners comes over to me and whispers in my ear, “What is your boy’s name?” I tell her, and she pulls a ticket. “The winner is… Tommy!”  Of course this is not our ticket. The boy throws his hands up in the air, “Yes! This is the best day of my life!”He picks up his cake, turns to me, and says“Come one Mommy, let’s go.” The whole crowd is smiling.

On the way to the car I tell him, “Dude, you set your intention and you got that cake.” He says, “Ya, I knew I was gonna get one.”  It was an awesome moment.

It reminded me about believing. This boy believed he could win. He didn’t look at all the tickets in the can and decide to give up and hit the road (which is what I wanted to do, to beat the exit traffic, I’ll admit). And I know that he was helped by the kind parent, that his ticket wasn’t actually chosen, but his intensity about winning made it possible. So Tommy has again taught me a lesson, this time about setting your sights on what you want, and not giving up.  And about believing in possibility.

The cake was pretty tasty too.

Hello Cable, My Old Friend

I really do want to be one of those people who doesn’t like to watch TV. Or who is so busy pursuing a creative passion that Top Chef Season 9 and 3 football games on Sunday holds no interest for them because you know, they are at the pottery wheel or whatever.  I am in the Survivor pool but could not watch the show, and my chica got herself booted anyway, so I got my money back. Mine was the granny shot spoken word artist whose claim to fame was having a video on Youtube. I know, I was surprised she didn’t make it either. I mean, when you are camping and have no coffee or Pringles or Jiffy Pop or a tent, don’t you love it when people recite poetry to you?  Yep, me too. Side note, if Billy Collins is ever on Survivor, he can recite as much poetry as he wants. I know Billy loves his coffee though, so I doubt we’ll see him on that show. Anyway, after a brief respite from cable I have learned that I do in fact need a little bit of outside world channeled into the house in the form of Billy the Exterminator, Parenthood, and other wholesome shows like Extreme Couponing.  And now, we’ve got the Biography Channel. This makes me very, very happy.

Head’s Up: Top Chef Season 9 begins November 2nd, clear your calendar my friends.

New book recommendation: I am listening, not reading, I should clarify: The Invisible Wall by Harry Bernstein. Reminds me of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, so you know it’s good.

Also reading Walden. Thoreau makes me feel better about the fact that I hardly ever buy clothes and soon will no longer be  a home owner. So thanks for that Henry. or David. Or whatever you like to be called.

Say Yes to Water Park

At the water park we met a solo mom, whose kids had declined the offer of a day of slides and sun, snow cones and man-made waves. Her 17-year old reportedly responded, “No Mom, I actually have friends.”  Her 11-year old did not want to go for reasons unknown, so she hit it alone. I had to laugh at the response of her oldest child, because at 17 I doubt I’d have gone to the water park with my mom either.  But there she was anyway, doing all the rides at the water park without the cool kids. She and Heather hit the Black Widow together, and those chicas flew out of the tube so fast they were a blur. The mom rated the Eye of the Dragon as “Okay, not too fast.” She seemed game for  all of it. And after slides, she was headed to the adult-only section of the park for a big-girl beverage and hot tub time, a luxury some of us can only observe wistfully as our kid dunks us in the Lazy River.  And while I do sometimes long for the bar called Kokomos and a book and some quiet, there is nothing in the world that is better than lying on the hot pavement next to the Bootie Boy, making wet body marks as we dry off in the sun from our Lazy River laps, talking and singing along to The Lazy Song. Especially because I know that soon, not right away but what will go by in a millisecond soon, I will be the mom who is not cool enough to be his water park buddy. But until that time, yes son, we can do whatever you want to do together at the water park.

Today, say yes. Tomorrow, say yes.