Betty Duffy

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Music for the Already/Not Yet of Advent

Well, it's been a busy Fall. Busier than expected due to the out-of-nowhere gift of making contact with two very talented women who were riotously game for making an album of Advent music over the course of a very intense month or so.


I have so many thoughts in mind about this project, about my faith-filled, talented partners, Kaitlyn and Elise, about the gift of working creatively with women, about the fruitfulness of the Holy Spirit, about each of these songs...

For now, I'm just going to put the music here without delay, so that you may have it. I hope you love it as much as I loved helping to make it.

Here's Elise on some of the impetus we felt for doing this:

Eight weeks ago, two friends of mine here in central Indiana and I got together to ask what it would be like to do an album for Advent. Elizabeth and Kaitlyn were meeting each other for the first time. Their respective three-year-olds were hiding behind maternal legs and sizing each other up with sideways glances. I was on and off my work email. But something felt immediately fitting and right about the project. Three mothers, with varied challenges to our time and energies - three creative types, wanting to do art in a way that would connect people - and ourselves - to God. Three human beings, frustrated with an idealized model for creativity that requires freedom from dependents and large chunks of uninterrupted time.

We thought about incarnation, about the real demands of parenting and working and providing for the needs of others. We thought about a creative life. And we decided to try an experiment. We would do an album that was truly incarnational - music that could be born in our real lives, just as they were - and we would do it for Advent - a season when we celebrate God’s taking on our flesh - and a season during which we are reminded, forcibly, that all is not yet well. That we are still groaning for God’s coming. That we are trapped here in the already/not yet. And that yet, because of Jesus, we do this compromised living with hope.

There's more to read on our Sister|Sinjin Blog, including some explanation of our name and patron saints.

And here's Kaitlyn on doing creative work with kids:

What if creativity does not flow best into the limitless space we strive to create around ourselves? What if, instead, it is pressed out of us by the constant, repetitive, unending cycle of daily life? What if creativity is not the result of acting on our every desire, but rather what’s found after everything else has been drained from us?

Maybe there, in the uncomfortable realities of our lives is where creativity is expressed, because it must be in order to survive the exhausting and the mundane. Maybe creativity is more incarnation than transcendence.

Creativity of obligation requires us to show up with all our baggage and create something anyway.

I know the text on our blog is a little difficult to read, due to my horrible web-design skills. Any minute now, I'm going to go back in there and figure out how to change the background to white and the text to black.

Until then, a very warm thank you to all of you who have supported us by sharing links, and buying copies. It's all been so much more than expected.


You may also enjoy the solo work Kaitlyn and Elise have done. I love to trace the cross-pollinations of sound that occur when we work together.

 (I especially love track 4)

Here's a link to Elise's most recent album Valley: Hymns for Travelers.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Recent Posts at Good Letters

Stiff Necked Church Lady

And so you will have confidence that you are doing the unimpeachable will of God, though it’s been eons since you’ve consulted God with any uncertainty and really begged of him an opinion, sitting in quiet and patience until The Answer answers.

In short, you will have gritted your teeth to a human concept of holiness while running your body into physical exhaustion, and your soul into a position of supreme spiritual laziness.

Glorying in Flawless Skin and God's Love

“Do you think I should say mean things about myself?” my daughter asked. “People always say that you shouldn’t put yourself down, but if you say good things then they say you’re boastful.”

The Crazy Sex Lady at the Solitary Banquet

What do you do when you’ve tried to set a banquet for your family and you are the only one who wants to attend?

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

A Slightly Darker Liturgy

I think of November as the start of the barren season: the beginning of my season of longing. Aside from the liturgical calendar and the purgation of Advent, there are a number of penitential markers that reenter my life in late fall.

Cross country season is over, for one, and I know it’s weird to think of a running sport as a happy time, but picture your children in peak physical health, bounding nimbly through fallen Autumn leaves, while the sun shines bright, but not hot, at it’s longest and most enduring evening slant. The sport calls you out every night, every Saturday, to some of the most beautiful parks in the state. 

And, I don’t know why, but I am almost always undone by a race. Long after the first runner has crossed the finish line, I’m watching each athlete’s white-ringed lips gasping for air, seeing the stiffness set in as lactic acid accumulates in their muscles, and I hurt for them. I just feel so proud of their exertion. I cry every time, and I have to hide myself.

Then comes wrestling season, dark gyms, the thick musk of a sweat that never quite washes away. I’m grateful for the morning practices that call me from bed early in the darkness to drive my kids, and for the streetlights that reflect red, yellow and green on the slushy black roads all the way to February. Otherwise, I’d find it difficult to face  the mornings.

Already, I sit here, not yet dressed, a brief lull in my daily calendar before I downshift into full winter gear, and I think, yes, I could sleep through the whole thing. Part of me wonders if pre-evolutionary man didn’t hibernate completely, because this urge is so chemical and so consistent. 

Or maybe it’s something in the Midwestern atmosphere, the four o’clock solar surge that coaxes the roses into one last glorious bloom before dropping moodily into an evening frost. I’m going down.

So, my children are saving me again with their perpetual hope of candy and presents falling from the winter sky. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, food, food, food, requests for shopping trips to the Goodwill for costuming and books, and a number of parties on the docket have made them immune to my darkened liturgies.

And speaking of darkened liturgies, the summer has ripened a few fruits in my own life that I am happy to carry into the cooler weather. The Latin choir that a friend and I started almost two years ago has become a regular Wednesday night singing of Vespers with Adoration and Benediction. People are coming. It’s not just us anymore. We used to print the liturgy each week on home computers, but we’ve had to move to the Parish office for printing because there are that many people.

We, of course, had nothing to do with this change. We would have gone on singing alone in the Church basement indefinitely, but we were assigned a new priest this summer who is very excellent, and said yes to all of our requests, and then some. 

He not only agreed to give us the Sanctuary with an open Tabernacle, and to let us sing in Latin; he burned incense, he set out the Monstrance, he processed around the altar incensing the Host. He explained the purpose of Vespers in the Liturgy of the Hours. He suggested to everyone gathered that we divide into two choirs, one on the left side of the Church and one on the right, and that we alternate verses. He led a procession with incense to the Blessed Mother after he repositioned the host in the Tabernacle, so that we could close our prayer chanting the Salve Regina.

New faces have become regulars and participants in our prayer. So much so, it’s not even “our” thing anymore. And I know it never was “our thing;” it was always for God. But it was also for us, because we wanted to experience unquestionably beautiful liturgy in our own parish whose Sunday Masses remain under the tyranny of too many untrained chefs in Dan Shutte and Marty Haugen’s liturgical music kitchen (when the praise band isn’t playing, that is).

Our schola has been asked to sing at the Saturday Mass in two weeks, which is planned in honor of a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. We still don’t have a green light for Latin during the Mass, but we are allowed to choose the hymns, accompanied by our newly-refurbished great organ. 

I think our parish just doesn’t know what’s possible in the realm of liturgical music. Some individuals are finding themselves at home in the somber modalities of chant as we slowly introduce it in the limited ways we are able. If God wills, the movement will grow. I pray my ego doesn’t get in the way, as I am not only too eager to claim the church’s ancient music as my own personal modality, but I am also terrified of singing for the larger corpus of our Church. And God forbid, I become Connie-the-over-eager-cantor in my forties.

I figure I have maybe a decade of good range left before my voice acquires old lady vibrato. I may as well use the time, but I have this steady aversion to putting myself up as a singer.

Nevertheless, I have been put up as a singer. My mid-life-rock-band crisis has continued from the summer, through the Fall. We had gigs into early October, and we developed a few staples in our repertoire on which I sang lead, my favorite being "Angel From Montgomery." I also sang back-up to our lead vocalist, who returned mid-summer from her maternity leave.

Gigs slow down, like everything else, in the winter. But we have friends in town who own bars, and who have said that we can come in any night of the week, and treat our rehearsals like gigs for the daily drinkers. We wouldn’t get paid. It would be for the sheer love of music and possibly to the detriment of career musicians elsewhere who would experience a possible downsizing of the paid market. But who knows. We need a reason to keep getting together.

Also, weirdly, I was asked by a dear friend to participate in a musical collaboration that was clearly a movement of the Holy Spirit. She saw that a connection should be made between a female musician who recently moved here (who plays violin and mandolin), herself (a vocalist and pianist), and me (cello, banjo, guitar). We all three have a mutual friend who owns a music studio, we had some prepaid studio time, we had two weeks to arrange a few standard hymns, plus a few new compositions, and a vague plan to record an Advent mini-album, and before we knew it, we realized we were a girl-band with an album in the works.

It will be ready in one month. I can’t adequately explain how quickly this all came together, partly by necessity, because we are all mothers and didn’t have time to dally. But it was also in obedience to an otherworldly compatibility of personalities, faiths, musical gifts, voices, resources and timing. I couldn’t have foreseen it, couldn’t have planned it, and don’t know if it will ever be repeated.

But I’m looking forward to providing links. It is so close to being finished, which boggles my mind.

In the meantime, I wrote a post for Good Letters that makes a really jilted attempt to express what I believe to be the source of whatever beauty elicits, not only from these creative endeavors, but from any aspect of creation. 

“My happiness lies only in the belief that beauty belongs to God. Love belongs to God. Good works belong to God. Redemption belongs to God. It’s his work if I radiate or create something of beauty. It’s his work when I recognize something as beautiful. It’s his work when I am able to recollect myself in his presence. His presence is now. His presence is good. His presence is regardless of me. His presence redeems the moment.”

I want to add something to the above thought, which I read this morning in the meditation for Magnificat by Sister Ruth Burrows: That the opposite of sin is not moral rectitude, but faith in Jesus.

If such is the case, then the sin-state can occur to anyone who relies on her own strength for redemption. On one hand, its titillating to imagine that grave-sin isn't only for drunkards, fornicators and gossips but also for people who think saying certain devotions, wearing certain clothes, speaking only with certain people, etc. will ensure their salvation. I know Jesus said as much when he rebuked the pharisees, and I will also suppress my temptation to delight in the sins of others.

But I feel joyful of the ongoing revelation that I am free to live and work in the redeemed present by Jesus’s love for humanity consummated on the Cross. His sacrifice washes, not only my horrible self love and nostalgia for a perfect self that doesn’t exist (which arrested my spiritual development for so long), but it also checks the ego that abides in me still, that continuously threatens to claim whatever good I do for myself. 

Jesus, I believe in your redeeming power, and will not be afraid of my sin. Holy Spirit, I believe in your silent word, and will not be stiff-necked and doubting when I sense you prodding me into uncomfortable fields. God the Father, you are the source of all goodness, holiness, and beauty, and I give thanks for whatever share of it you offer me.

Monday, September 12, 2016

Just a Life Free of All Conflict... that's all I ask for...

I spent several minutes this morning trying to decide if I wanted to go to walmart and purchase some cleaning products, and really attack this house with the full force of will and thirty minutes in each room, or if I want to blog. You see what I chose. Though I keep looking around this house and thinking, Someone really needs to do something about this place. And I keep doing nothing, because anything feels like too much.

We pick up every day. It's the darker issues that need addressing, hairballs under the furniture, spiderwebs on the light fixtures, the ceiling fans. These are jobs for someone with lots of time and concentrated energy, which I probably have, but can't bring myself to use on these particular tasks.

It's homecoming week at the high school, so the kids were supposed to dress like their favorite super hero. Only one of my high schoolers takes fancy dress days seriously, so he was dressed like Ironman, and by that I mean, he had on a t-shirt with a picture of a personified iron on it.

The conversation in the car on the way to school was, "If you were a super hero, what would be your achilles heel?" And they were taking great delight in pointing out each other's weaknesses.

They asked what mine would be, and it gave me pause, because I have too many, but apparently I'd spoken enough about some of them because my oldest said, "Mom's would be a plate of dry condiments. Somebody frisbees a plate of crusty mustard at her and she just crumples."

Explanation: My kids eat hotdogs, they leave pools of mustard and ketchup on their plates, they leave the plates on the counter or in the sink without rinsing, and a couple hours later, when I pass through the kitchen I feel like I'm going to barf.

It is one of the few things in my life that always requires immediate action. There's something about the look and smell of dry condiments that kills me every time, and I will actually walk upstairs to find the offender (this is no small thing), and I will march them to the dirty dish and have them handle it. Because I don't want to touch it.

Mayo too. Gosh, it grosses me out. Can't stand it when people toss the mayo knife into the sink without rinsing.

My daughter said her achilles heel would be when she sees people alone; it breaks her heart. She just has to go sit with the lonely person. And I asked her what she does to discern whether the loner is alone by choice or circumstance.

"Why would anyone would choose to be alone?" she said (which explains so much).

"Sometimes I like to sit alone and stare at the wall," said Ironman.

"Well, you're sort of an odd person," said his older brother.

"But the wall is interesting. It has all these specks on it, and if you look cross eyed, they start to wiggle."

And this led to a discussion of Ironman's odd new friends he met in the chess club, with my oldest analyzing each of their oddities and discerning which was his favorite.

"I hope you're not judging other people's oddities and deeming yourself superior," I said.

"I judge other people's oddities," said Ironman, "and I think: this person is very odd, but I'm not sure he's odd enough to be my friend. I'll keep watching..."

I really do sort of treasure our time in the car.

On bad days, they fight ruthlessly over who sits where. We've had assigned seats, and consequences, and people getting left behind because they refused to sit in the way back. We've even had a broken windshield when two of the kids fought for the front, and one of them put their feet on the window to push the seat back forcefully.

It can be a nightmare.

But on good days, the seats aren't an issue, and they'll become uninhibited in their conversation and reveal themselves in interesting ways.

For instance, Yesterday on the way home from church, they took me to task for not disciplining them harder when they are mean to each other. "I wish we could be as nice as the Collins's are to each other," my daughter said.

"Yeah, Josh got grounded from his phone for three days for shoving his sister," said my oldest. "It's like, zero tolerance over there."

"You should get grounded every time you shove me," my daughter said to her older brother (incidentally, these two are the ones who were responsible for the broken windshield, and they did get grounded and assigned to the way back seat for several months).

"If I had a phone, Mom could take it away from me," said my oldest, "but I don't, so...."

And I've thought about this before, that maybe I really should give them something that I could take away in a pinch, so that I have more options for providing consequences to negative behavior, but the rationale, here, just seems... weird and sadistic... Especially considering the obvious solution to their quandary, "You guys know you have control over how you treat each other, right? If you want a more peaceful relationship, you could both make sacrifices and compromises to maintain each other's dignity."

Nope. Too hard. We just want to lose control and have you fix it for us, Mom.

"And I don't want to micromanage your relationship." It occurs to me here, I could be giving them some tools for expressing their feelings when they get angry with each other. If we weren't always under stress and running late when these conflicts happen, I would have them each write down how they are feeling and exchange letters, Retrovaille style.

Anyway, the car is a place of discovery and learning. There's nothing like putting eight people in un-air-conditioned cramped quarters every day for team building.

We also have bicycles, and this has been sort of a fun new activity for us. I used to cycle a lot, did a couple Little 500 bike races in college for instance, and spent most of my teenage years getting to friends' houses and to school on two wheels.

My husband also biked and camped his way up around Northern Michigan and the UP after college for a summer. But since we had children, quite a few of them who were small all at the same time, we quit riding our bikes. I hadn't been on a bike that fit and was comfortable to ride for about fifteen years.

So my husband remedied the situation. He's been outfitting everyone who's able with a bike this year. And he's a bonafide, helmet and lycra wearing cycler again.

Yesterday, we went for a ride--with my husband, my oldest son, and my dad (who's still in pretty darn good shape for being almost 70)--and it was probably the most beautiful day of the year, at the most beautiful time of day, in the most beautiful part of our state, Southeastern Indiana with these curvy, hilly, narrow, rural  roads over stone bridges, and the smell of backyard fires and drying corn fields, and Goldenrod that makes you sneeze. It was almost as if I were crying at the glory of it all, especially considering it was a similarly gorgeous September 11, fifteen years earlier...but I just had allergies, see.

We formed a peloton and drafted off each other to maintain a speed of around 16-18 mph for about 20 miles, and I was so, so tired. When we got back to our road, I had to drop out of the group and piddle the last three miles, which is what I like to do on my bike more than anything else...piddle, not pedal.

Dad circled around for me, "What are you doing? You ok?"

"Yes, I just decided to enjoy myself for the last few miles."

"Enjoyment is beating back your opponent."

So maybe there is some genetic predisposition to competition in our family. I'm just not sure I inherited it.

Anyway, I wrote something for Good Letters. "I Have No Idea Where I'm Going"

Friday, August 5, 2016

Let's learn about reasonable confrontation

So, one good thing about blogging is that you begin to notice patterns of behavior that are potentially problematic.

For instance, in the past 48 hours, I've had several moments of panic in which it seemed that something was out of order:

The first thing I do is bounce my response off other people.

Oh, no one's freaking out? Everybody's cool with this? I guess it must be ok.

And then I glide forward, comforted that no one else has a problem with the problem.

I'm looking around, I'm judging that this family over here has well behaved kids who are respectful and smart--and they let their kids have iphones.

Or on a different day, when I'm feeling differently, I'll look around and say, that family over there has disrespectful poorly behaved children, and their children have iphones.

Either judgement can be a salve to my mood, depending on the day. What I'm mostly concerned with, the thing that most influences my decisions, is whether or not I feel alright. I have a predetermined idea of what I sort of want to happen, and I seek out the evidence, and the particular witnesses that support the conclusion I want to live with.

Yesterday, I had this whole theory written up about about how it's all the fault of the media that I cannot hang onto a conviction for longer than ten minutes. Because I have empathy fatigue, you see, and in those times when I've allowed myself to really FEEL the horror of what's happening in the world, when I've cried over the kitchen counter and behind the steering wheel about the culture my kids will inherit, and the potential horrors they may encounter--I end up feeling so wasted and helpless. And it's exhausting.

It's true that I am at the age where many of my friends have encountered real sorrow and loss, and I want to walk with them in the reality of their experiences. It's difficult to do that while also shriveling up into a puddle of hopelessness every time I read the news, so I've developed coping mechanisms, which include just limiting the amount of empathy I can exude for people I don't know in real life. Click on through to the heartwarming story of triumph, to the video of goats dancing, to whatever makes me feel that the world is a livable place.

Plus, I don't like confrontation. Real confrontation anyway. My husband's convinced, "We're dumping pre-school."

But I've expended all my outrage on two unsent email drafts and a blog post, and now I'm wondering if maybe I overreacted.

If I'm going to be a grown-up about this issue, I'm not going to send the apocalyptic email drafts schooling the principal on all the research I've done on the effects of technology on early childhood education (research which included telling my husband "If we're going to ask for our money back, can you at least Google up a couple of peer reviewed critical articles that make our point so it looks like we have no choice?").

I think I must be able to have a non-reactionary real life conversation, where I calmly express my concerns and ask if they have any suggestions about how they might be able to work with us.

But that makes me nervous!!!!

Just like having a real encounter in real time with a suffering person at Walmart makes me nervous.

Why? Because it's moving forward in blindness? Because my whole day might get sucked into it?

What exactly am I protecting when I am unable to remain faithful to the initial horror I feel in the face of suffering?

Maybe it's just resistance. I see the good, but I do not do the good I wish to do.

Or maybe it really is that I'm not empathy exhausted, but that I've always been a little empathy limited.

I kissed my older kids off to school this morning with a poison tongue.  ....Because we have one shower for the eight of us, and they are always, every one of them, waiting for the last minute to use it.  And once they're in it, they stay in it So I shut the water off on my oldest after several warnings, even though he had soap in his hair, and he just didn't have time to rinse!!!! 

I gave everyone a big lecture on how I have no empathy for this argument, because I used to have to take three minute showers in cold rusty water, and how many people don't have running water, and yada yada, and if your hair is crusty today, it's your own fault.....! And I'm leaving at 8 no matter what, and if you miss your ride, you ride the bike, and you were still in the shower at 7:55, blah blah blah...

Save your tears for a time when you really are suffering. I mean, maybe that's a legitimate message they need to hear. No one is persecuting them by asking them to plan ahead, to shower during "off" hours when no one else needs the bathroom, to limit shower timing out of courtesy to the rest of the family.

It's just the way I deliver the message that is unsavory. These are the blind, reactionary confrontations I never avoid. I go in for the HARD correction at the exact moment I discern a need for it, with little plan for getting out of the conflict, and no thought to a charitable delivery. And it really does eat away my whole day, because I repent of my poison tongue the second they're out of the car, and I weirdly miss them, and think Oh, they're just kids. And I loooooove them! But I'm SOOOO BAAAD At showing it.

One small victory:

My new Freshman was not waiting outside the door when I'd made it through the pick up line after school. I'd already spent 20 minutes in the cattle pen at the elementary school, and I needed to be at the Middle school simultaneously to pick up my daughter who would be waiting in the 90 degree heat (to say nothing of the poor AC in my car).

Couldn't wait because there were cars behind me, so I went ahead to get my daughter, which meant long lines at two four-way stops. The after school traffic is so bad, that it takes about 20 minutes to travel around the corner a mile away. Finally made it back to the high school to get my freshman, and the gates were locked so I had to send my daughter to look for him inside.

And of course, every minute that passed was another minute for my irritation to grow. I was planning a big lecture again about courtesy and timeliness.

When she finally came back with him, and he was smiling this big apologetic smile, I was able to say when he got in the car: "First I would like to hear about your day, and after that I'm going to deliver a lecture about after school protocols, because what happened today does not work for me."

And that really was all that needed to be said on the issue.  He knew it. I knew it. If I'd lectured first, there would have been no way back to pleasant conversation.

That's the problem with confrontation, I think, is that I haven't developed peaceable exit strategies.

And I wonder, outside of therapy, how this is done: How do you speak your truth, calmly and rationally, while providing everyone involved with a dignified pathway forward?

What tools do I need in my toolbox, aside from expecting everyone to subjugate themselves to my demands?

Help me, internet!

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Maybe I'll die alone on this hill, but computers for kids are a bad idea

Today I am incensed, which is a funny word to mean angry, since I associate it with thuribles and sweet smells rising to Heaven.

It was pre-school open house this morning, and I've never, ever started a child in pre-school this early--three years old. The older kids didn't start school till Kindergarten. I'm not sure what made me think this was a good idea. Lured by the two mornings a week I'd be able to exercise, plan appointments, write without interruption, just be alone.

But I discovered this morning that the three-year-olds (and the four-year-olds, of course), USE IPADS!!!!!!!


Maybe it went over my head in the promotional materials, all the "letters, play time and fine motor skills" they'd be learning, and the parent app where you can watch your child's progress. I thought, oh no, that's just the teachers uploading their finger-painting... It showed a book icon and said something about keeping a journal--both of which were apparently figurative.

How often do they use them?

"Well, it's a "station" they rotate into, but I can hold your daughter out of that station unless it becomes a problem and she feels left out, or you change your mind. Sometimes kids who need help focusing use them in the morning as well."

Is there any three-year-old on the planet who does not "need help focusing?" And have you ever been in a room with an iPad where every child in the room wasn't hovering around it, jockeying for a better view?

This is a Catholic school, which --my children unanimously voted--has the worst library in town (And we've attended four different schools, plus the public library).  It's volunteer staffed and donation only, but somehow the school has funds to put iPads in the hands of three-year-olds.

In June, when the kids were released for the summer, my husband and I bought a lock box and put all the tech in the house in the box to be "checked out" only with permission. Our hopes were that the kids would have a normal summer, riding their bikes, digging in the dirt, calling friends, just being horribly, horribly bored.

Of course, in their boredom, over the course of several weeks, they:

  • Stole the key to the lock
  • Jimmied the box
  • An finally, cut the lock

We had no choice but to evacuate the computers completely from the house. My husband put them in the trunk of his car, and took them with him to work.

Here's the thing about people (not just kids): they always increase the intensity of their rebellion right before they concede. If you can bear the worst kind of acting out, the worst tantrum, the worst stonewalling, name calling, etc.-- there is peace on the other side.

When the kids realized, without a doubt, they weren't going to get what they wanted, they dug in and made the best with what they had. Which happened to be nerf guns, matchbox cars, books and bicycles.

Really, after the first couple weeks, I think we had the best summer of our lives. My oldest, who is fifteen, spent his "lame" summer doing nerf gun modifications, custom spray painting, re-wiring, making his own nerf darts out of foam pipe insulation and hot glue. When he needed tools, he rode his bike to the hardware store himself. Learned more electrical information than in a year of engineering tech class (incidentally spent on screens).

I even talked to the engineering tech teacher, and was like, "I thought this was more of a shop class, where they'd be doing hands on work with tools and machines."

And he was weary, completely weary: "Yes, I used to teach a lot more of that," he said, "but the standards have changed. The tech is online. You can't even begin a project until you to know CAD." Forget the drafting table. Forget the math.

Which, speaking of math, my fourteen-year-old completely faked Algebra for half a year, because the whole class was online. He used Mathway ("an exceptionally smart calculator"--he said), which allows you to plug in any math problem on earth and get an answer.

At the semester exam, the first time they used paper and pencil to assess student knowledge, it became clear that my son had acquired no skill in Algebra in five months.

"We're not raising thinkers anymore,"--this from the AP Biology teacher, who also shrugged his shoulders, helplessly.

There's just no other way to steer this sinking ship. The parents, the employers, the test writers and curriculum developers, all demand: start the tech AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. And be sure to solve every problem you encounter with more tech.

"Drill these things into your children, day and night, when you are home or away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them on your arm as a sign and let them be as a pendant on your forehead." (Dt 6:7-8)


Don't put your kid in the dumb pre-school class, even though you've pre-paid. Maybe they can use her tuition to buy some books for their stupid library.

It only took most of the summer to surrender, but the kids finally played in the dirt.

Wednesday, August 3, 2016

Hits and Misses (mostly misses) for the first day of school

The first problem is that every year the school board elects to make critical changes in the schedule, so we've switched to early releases on Wednesdays, and a balanced vacation (which means decreased summer vacation), and this year, the high school kids begin class at 8:30 rather than 7:30, which felt really late.

Late enough that after everyone was ready for school, I had time to sit down and fold some laundry--because I like to pretend that I, too, am getting back to business at the start of the school year.

Sitting down is a bad idea with teenagers around, because they all sat down as well, and then at that moment when I'd intended to stand up and rush out the door, nobody budged. One of them was working on his summer assignment for AP history that he started last night at 9 P.M. [that's 75 vocab words, and 10 research charts (don't know what those are) to be completed before falling asleep. Unsurprisingly, he did not have the adrenaline to pull the Ace out of the hole]. So we all had questionable intentions, and no aces. The kids were late.

I had so much confidence going into this week that all we were missing was the glue sticks. But this morning I realized that I'd forgotten to consider lunch.

The older kids had money to carry over from their accounts last year, but the younger kids are back in Catholic school, and there you have to order lunches on the 25th of each month. If you fail to do this, you must bring your lunch, which, theoretically is not bad, but if you're not planning to pack a lunch, good luck finding fresh fruit in the house, or a portable beverage, or a sandwich bag, or your lunch box from three years ago.

The easy fix here was to send the kids without lunch, run to Walmart after the drop-offs, and deliver lunches to school before 11 A.M.

Walmart was vaguely interesting this morning. When I rounded the checkout lane, a man was lying in the middle of the aisle with a woman giving him chest compressions and mouth to mouth.  A smattering of people intermittently looked on and went about their business.

"Has anyone bothered to call 911?" I thought, followed by, "Surely, everything here is under control," and I went ahead and unloaded my groceries on the conveyor (I said a Hail Mary too, because I'm not a complete animal).

But it seemed like a long time before anything happened. My checkout person was oblivious. Other patrons just looked at each other and shook their heads like there was nothing to be done.

Remind me not to die at Walmart.

Fortunately, I passed the man on the gurney on my way out, and he was sitting up looking a little stoned. EMTs were not particularly hurried, so all's well that ends well.

Also passed an elderly woman not wearing any clothes. Really, she had on a slip, completely see-through, down to her wedgie grannie panties. And again, "Should I intervene? Is this woman lost?"

But nobody else seemed alarmed, so I soothed my conscience that all was as it should be. She was pushing a cart, after all. She had direction. And while I was currently dressed in real clothes, since it was the first day of school--I have more than once pushed through Walmart in sleepwear.

Because this is Indiana, Baby. Who could live anywhere else?

This morning is reflecting rather badly on me, so I'd like to note a couple of small victories:

I was initially registered to attend a writing conference this week, which would have left all the first week of school mistakes up to my husband. Of course, he's a man of excellence who probably would have at least gotten the kids to school on time.

But I am here, fully available, to enrich the lives of my children with my partial attention to detail.

One decision and course of action, not completely marred by self-interest.

Speaking of writing, it turns out, I have another post at Image up today. I wrote it in 2010, but it still holds, I think.

I remembered to put a frozen roast in the crock pot, which could potentially be thawed and cooked by dinner time tonight, if we eat at our habitual 8 p.m hour (should probably start scooting that up).

I may also make some bread for this afternoon, which is the only way my kids will eat the prolific yellow squash in which I foolishly invested a whole row of our garden. I can't even pay my friends to take this stuff anymore. I dropped off a load at Salvation Army, and they were like, "Woman, we will take your squash. If no one takes it from the food pantry, we'll mix it into dinner."


Now that I've done a quick examination of what went right and what went wrong with the morning routine, I will go forth, and likely change nothing. I still didn't see glue sticks at Walmart--because their school supplies are thoroughly picked over. I cannot guarantee that I won't sit down in the morning during the hurry up and wait part of it.

I do have lunch foods that I can pack now, but I'm going to continue to regret not ordering school lunches for the month, because that's one guaranteed hot meal a day with vegetables that I don't have to choke down the kids' throats (We've got a tomato barf-er here, and just try not cooking with tomatoes this time of year. The squash I can negotiate, but there are people drooling on insta-feeds for tomatoes such as these.).

And look, I never got to Jesus this morning. I knew blogging was a bad idea.