The Arrow That Flies

Mathnawi VI: 3667-3671

2008-10-23T14:51:00.000-07:00

If there are a hundred religious books, they are but one chapter:
a hundred different religions seek but one place of worship.
All these roads end in one House:
all these thousand ears of corn are from one Seed.
All the hundred thousand sorts of food and drink
are but one thing if one looks to their final cause.
When you are entirely satiated with one kind of food,
fifty other kinds of food become displeasing to your heart.
In hunger, then, you are seeing double,
for you have regarded as more than a hundred thousand
that which is but One.

translated by Camille and Kabir Helminski

Me, today.

2008-10-08T05:25:00.000-07:00

Not literally. But German mid-termally.

I hate to say it, but... Lapkins.

2008-10-07T11:01:00.000-07:00

Okay, this was our first "official" school day since the craziness with moving to Virginia started in mid-October. Just as we were getting into our rhythm (yes, it took us that long) I had to stop everything and use our homeschool days to pack up boxes and run errands. All you unschoolers out there---yes, I know running errands can include learning. Trust me: these didn't.

Now we're ensconced until December at our temporary lodgings, and today I began implementing the slightly ramped-up lesson plan for Ezra's reading (as compared to normal Waldorf learning). The three of us recited our fall verse three times, then I wrote the first line for Ezra on this itty bitty chalkboard for him to copy in his main lesson book, with accompanying illustration. In case you missed it before, this is the verse:

"Come little leaves," said the wind one day,
"Come over the hills with me and play.
Put on your dresses of red and gold;
Summer is gone, and days grow cold."

After that, I read a made-up story about a nomad girl named Tarak from The Story of the World Volume 1 and we talked about what archaeologists do and how they discover things about the past. Although I'm pretty much dead-set against introducing such abstract concepts to children at such a young age, Ezra continues to defy my every expectation for what he can absorb, comprehend, and make his own. After that lesson, we went outside for a nice long play session. While Isis filled her watering can over and over and went around watering everything from dead plants to Jeep tires, I sat in the shade and read from School as a Journey by Torin M. Finser. Meanwhile, Ezra collected some tools: a shaving cream brush, a stick, a tiny shovel. He disappeared for a while an came back with quite a collection, which he decided to show me just as I began to type this entry.

"See the one... it's breakable. Very old wood probably (sagaciously said). That's breakable too. You can look at my rocks, and this wood is crumbly mumbly wood. I found all this under the dirt!"

Anyway, I started this entry to talk about teaching children. This may seem obvious, but everyone has to figure these things out for herself and I' finally understand a piece of it. The first thing is, how you say something is just as important as what you say. I might repeat, "Ask a question, don't make a whine" or "Be reasonable and respectful" until I'll blue in the face, but the same sibling squabbling keeps cropping up time and time again--- this morning was a perfect example. I try to stick to a single phrase, so that I don't have to wrack my brain to think of some new defense against juvenile arguments. It's boring to say, so I figure it's boring to hear and hopefully behavior will adjust accordingly.

My father did this with us. Every night at dinner he would say the most vile, despicable, unimaginative, horrible, atrocious phrase: the most disgusting words to ever be strung together, bar none, to date. "Napkins on your lapkins." I shudder now to think of having to hear that--- how it would just put you off your food, no matter what mom had cooked. To outsmart him, we learned to slap those napkins on top of our thighs before he even got a chance to open his mouth and announce the dreaded words.

I'm not a big fan of the vast majority of my father's parenting ideals, but this one actually does seem to be worth emulating. Only, I've noticed that my robotic, half-concentrating repetition of my own stock phrases seems to be having little effect on my own small band of rogue anti-napkinists. Probably because the words are robotic and issue from a distracted, hands-full mother who has thirteen other things on her to-do list that top "solve war of who gets the blue crayon first" in priority.

So I tried a new tack today, one that I've read about countless times in Waldorf-related journals, books, and curricula. For young children, the rhythmic stability of a song has more impact than a reasonable request given in a rational voice. I know this works in other areas--- take math, for example. Ezra is learning his times tables through songs that I make up: "2, 4, 6, 8, who do we appreciate? 10, 12, 14, knights, fairies, kings and queens. 16, 18, 20, share your toys and we'll have plenty." These verses really stick with them--- even Isis can rattle off "4, 8, 12, here I see some little elves."

When I sensed that their natural competition was about to develop into something nasty, I called them over in a conspiratorial tone and chanted, "I need two scouts to help me out. In the mailbox lives a letter--- working together makes it better." I sang it two more times, and then they both got the idea and raced outside to get the mail. After lunch, I needed two scouts to help me out with cleaning up. "I need two scouts to help me out. Each boy and girl has a task; working together makes work go fast."

Okay, so maybe these aren't Shakespeare-worthy rhymes, but I'm keeping the tune the same. I'm addressing them directly, at eye-level, and speaking as if I'm imparting the secret of a great mystery. I'm also begging myself not to forget how well this is working--- the next time I'm presented with a Kid Problem, I need to flip on my cheerful rhyming switch instead of delivering a stern mandate.

Which brings me to the fact that teachers have a "teaching persona." It's easy to keep up that level of energy, that focus on appropriate tones, kind looks, and gestures worthy of imitation, when you're with your army of carpet sharks for six hours a day. Homeschooling parents don't have that luxury. Even when there is no main lesson learning going on, we have to maintain a grip on the family rhythm, keep everything mild and co-operative, watch our words, be worthy.

This is something that I could definitely use help on. I know that when I first started teaching Latin at the Waldorf homeschool co-op, I was amazed at how much parental "education" went into the learning experience. The moms and dads felt that they also had a personal duty to learn and grow in order to be better humans and therefore more suited to be better teachers.

Although I don't subscribe to every article of Steiner's Anthroposophy, I do feel that this one idea is vital to being a successful parent and homeschooler. We as adults have so far to go before we can assume the responsibility of teaching a child--- for myself, I should probably start by learning from them first.

“Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.” Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

Snippets

2008-09-26T19:17:00.000-07:00

A recipe for Spiced Apple Tea from Bianca of Organic Learning Homeschool:

*Brew camomile tea with one stick of cinnamon and one or two cloves (camomile means earth-apple in Greek)

*Add apple juice and simmer.

Pour into a mug and enjoy!

Also, a William Butler Yeats poem, The Song of Wandering Aengus, shared by Jesse of Spiral Pathways:

I went out in the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to the thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire aflame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some on called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old and wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will found out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

and pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

Before I forget

2008-09-23T19:24:00.000-07:00

This picture of Ezra has nothing to do with autumn, but it's just so him to jump in the ocean with his clothes still on that I felt I had to include it somewhere.

When I woke Ezra up on Monday, I said, "It's the first day of Fall! Wake up, we have pumpkin muffins to bake!" And he opened his sleepy eyes, snaked his arms around my neck with a dry kiss and said, "Happy Golden Leaf!"

Isis took a deep breath outside today and said, "I wub da fell (smell) of da sun. You just breed it in and fell the fell of it. When you breed it, da sweetness comes down."

Fall plans: poll

2008-09-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

This picture was taken near Townsend, Tennessee, about forty-five minutes from where we are. I look at this and I feel so lucky to live here. I've vowed to enjoy the beauty of Nature more while we're so close the mountains.

I was wondering what the plans were to celebrate the upcoming season: short term, long term, fantasy, reality. Autumn Equinox, harvest, Rosh HaShannah, whatever it may be. I'll start.

Autumn technically begins this year on Monday September 22nd, so we'll have apple cider and make pumpkin bread that morning for breakfast. I'll be off to school until 3:00, but I'm planning to do a gnome/squash hunt at the apartment playground when I get back. If we're really lucky, it will be nice and crisp outside and we can all bust out our sweaters.

Michaelmas is September 29th, and I have a beautiful version of St. George and the Dragon illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. I was given the idea of a Michaelmas Dragon Puppet by the ever-inspiring Kristie Karima Burns of Earthschooling and the Waldorf Channel fame, and I think we'll do that. If we have time in the afternoon, I'd like to do some painting. Maybe we'll paint what courage looks like. We'll see. However, since Tuesday the 29th is moving day for me (our stuff is going to live in Virginia until I finish my degree in December) we'll be celebrating Michaelmas on Monday. Shhhh. Don't tell Ezra that the date is wrong, it'll spoil the whole thing for him.

Of course, the month of Ramadan will be ending around that time as well. Since I will probably be out of town and miss Eid parties, I'm going to try to include the children in some thankful harvest-time giving of dry goods. I've set some aside already, but we'll likely go the store and let them pick out something that they would like to donate. (No Isis, we don't need to give Tofutti Cuties to Second Harvest.) This is more likely to happen in mid-October than in the next two weeks, given how busy we will be.

There is a nebulous plan for us to visit my sister and nieces on the 25-27, providing that the apartment is packed up, and I would love to throw a visit to a corn maze or something like that in the plans.

And of course, one of my favorite times of the year is October 28th, Ezra's birthday. I'm working on surprising him with a scenic ride over the Smokey Mountains to see the fall foliage for the occasion. He can take a friend, and that will be that. I hate to rain on the kid parade, but I'm really over gift-giving in general. He'll be receiving plenty from other family members, so I'd rather just make a memory.

Okay, that about sums it up. Wish me luck on getting 20% of it actually accomplished. Now let's hear from you!

Morning

2008-09-16T08:28:00.001-07:00

A six-legged friend appeared this morning on the window of the foyer of our apartment and occupied everyone's interest while the muffins were baking. (Which reminds me--- we are definitely unschooling. On a morning when the moving men hauling our upstairs neighbor's belongings right past our front door was far more interesting than anything the Brothers Grimm might have to tell us, it pays to just chuck the whole lesson plan and look at a praying mantis for an hour.)

Mantis abandoned, Isis and Ezra enjoy oatmeal-peach muffins. Okay, peaches are not very autumn-y, but they looked so sad sitting on my counter. The last vestiges of summer fruit, begging to be be-muffined. Ezra gives us a look that expresses his lack of enthusiasm for Mom's new camera. I have to promise that I'll post this on my blog where the world can see it. His ego was appeased.

The brother and sister gnomes of Autumn hath emerged! Work on the Nature Table (okay, we actually have a Nature Shelf) began shortly after breakfast.

They got so into it that another shelf had to be cleared off so that the Gnome of the Lava Mountain (Ezra's idea) had a "secret lair" among the pumpkins. I love how eccentric and evil these gnomes can be.

The finished product, which is of course constantly changing. Our nature table is a play area, so they'll be moving the acorns and inhabitants around periodically. Look closely, and you can see teal-colored derriere of the "Gnome Of To Grow The Stuff" under the ground on the lower right. On the left is the mountain (NOT a Lava Mountain, Ezra wishes to remind you) made out of a green scarf that my husband turned gray in the washing machine and some big glass containers of tea leaves that he brought over from Sardinia. Despite what he says, those tea leaves which will never, ever be consumed. I'm actually quite proud of finding a use for them (three years after the move from Italy).

Crunch time

2008-09-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

Come, little leaves, said the wind one day.

Come over the meadows with me and play;

Put on your dresses of red and gold;

Summer is gone, and the days grow cold.

--George Cooper

All right, so it's not officially autumn yet. And it's still pretty warm outside. And we've yet to bust out Cardigan One.

But I've never claimed to be a patient woman and I am officially In Denial of Summer. That beach-scene nature table is coming down tomorrow, and we're just going to toss some acorns and who knows what else on a brown cloth and dig out the orange-hatted gnomes.

I also love this season because it heralds the approach of Ezra's birthday, which means that we get to do all sorts of really wholesome red-cheeked harvest-type craziness as if in preparation for the day. He'll be six this year, and I've been too caught up in life to even give consideration to marking this occasion. In this past year, I've very much reverted back to my old Waldorf ways, so I'm thinking of making something for him. I know he'll be inundated with plastic nonsense, but that's all the more reason for me to try to put a spark of something simple and loving in his childhood memories. I'm also thinking of getting a Birthday Ring which will be an heirloom I can use for Isis as well, up until 2017.

What the heck, let's have another poem. My sister Hazel can't read Emily Dickinson without hearing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" in her head, but I think you just can't beat these verses--- especially for kids.

The morns are meeker than they were---

The nuts are getting brown---

The berry's cheek is plumper---

The Rose is out of town.

The Maple wears a gayer scarf---

The field a scarlet gown---

Lest I should be old fashioned

I'll put a trinket on.

Letting it go

2008-09-11T09:32:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons why I think the Waldorf philosophy is so vital in our modern lives is that it really brings us back down to earth in terms of what is really important for children. While sometimes I despair that the sort of lazy, down-shift, pj-loving attitude of my kids means that we rarely "get anything done," lately I've been reminding myself that Stuff and its Doneness is not what I should be focusing on when they are 3 and 5.

(Break for Ezra Science: "Before the cold couldn't get inside (the corndog) [with accompanying noises of cold air--- phh, phh, phh] and before the steam couldn't get outside [ssssp, ssssp, ssssp, ssssp]. But when Isis pulled the crust... the bread off, they (the steam and the cold air) could go the other way. And the hot could go outside and the cold could go inside. Bye-bye. See you tomorrow. The end. Write that part down mommy.")

As I was saying... well, that was sort of a case in point. We sort of skipped our main lesson work this morning because the kids were playing so nicely for once that I felt like it would be akin to putting mustard gas inside the UN of Sibling Relations if I broke them up. I read the Brothers Grimm story "The Vagabonds" over breakfast. We did do one of the oil + water experiments that Ezra loves so much--- here I have to completely give props to Alyssa, our nanny, who gamely covered the kitchen counter and table with a variety of similar experiments while I was in class yesterday--- but that was about it.

So am I worried that Ezra isn't learning "enough"? Well, he hasn't done a single worksheet since early May. He hasn't had to sit at a desk and be alternatively bored and frustrated. He's stayed up ridiculously late to look at Jupiter and the four Galilean moons with his father, he's heard countless books and stories, he's learned about causality and the manipulation of space/time, he's practiced Roman numerals and the Fibonacci sequence, and spent more time in a tri-corner hat in Colonial Williamsburg than any sane person would voluntarily spend.

I asked him to tell me something that he's learned since he started homeschool. "To eat people's eyeballs," he said, simulating a chomp at my own.

Well said.

Sincere apology

2008-09-07T13:14:00.001-07:00

Ezra was playing with one of those silicon palm-gripper can-opener thingies today. You know, the type of thing that is sold in a "kitchen items" store to dupe people into thinking that using the shirt tail is ineffectual (it isn't, just twist harder!). Anyway, Ezra was employing the item in various ways and eventually came to use #67, the silicon palm-gripper can-opener weapon.

My mother reports that he smacked her with it. "Ow, Ezra!" she said. "You may not use it that way."

"Oh, Amah, I am sooooo sorry," he crooned, looking concerned. "I didn't mean to hit you. I was trying to hit Isis!"

1, 1, 2, 3, 5

2008-08-23T18:44:00.001-07:00

What happens when you turn an Asperger's five-year-old loose with a bag of gemstones and the first few numbers of the Fibonacci sequence?

A spiral that covers your living room carpet and may not, under ANY circumstances, be moved. I wish I had taken a picture. We were all tip-toeing from the kitchen to the bedrooms for an entire evening. God save the person who had to go pee and accidentally moved a gemstone with an errant toe.

This week we only had one "real" morning of homeschooling, where Ezra made two books, learned a couple form drawing shapes---- (You guys know this: there once was an old woman who back was bent by the weight of all her wisdom, and she carried a strong oak branch for a walking stick. And her greatest joy in life were her three granddaughters)---- and spent the rest of the morning getting his Fibonacci on. My aspirations of doing a little with him when I got home from school on Wednesday and Friday were sort of subsumed by the kids' desire to play The Princess (Isis) and the Very Unwilling King (Ezra) Build Multiple Forts. Gymnastics on Friday morning pretty much rounded out our first official homeschooling week.

Next week plans: new form drawings, start the folk tales. I've been such a slacker on the bedtime reading lately! We're all climbing into bed completely knackered; it's been hard enough to bend over and kiss them without me staggering over from exhaustion (hyperbole interlude).

Ezra and Fibonnaci: match made in heaven, or recipe for me to be stepping on gemstones in the middle of the night until he's 18?

Isisisms

2008-08-13T20:25:00.000-07:00

*Bain: mainly used as an expression of schadenfreude, or else in sympathy with the pain of another. "Bain, mommy, you hurt you toe?" or "Baaaaaain, no more cookies if you use dem mean words brudda."

*Bujrilla: a large hairy primate, known in English as "gorilla."

*Buhyurt: a confection or treat eaten after a meal. "What is for buhyurt? Ice cream? I WUB ice cream!"

*Bejakes: an exclamation of frustration, exasperation, or a soothing expression meant to calm someone down. Etymologically similar to "For Pete's Sake;" however, much more emphatic. "Bejakes, bejakes, if you just wisten to me!"

*Buguito: a blood-sucking insect pest. To prevent bites, use buguito pray.

*Butar: a six-stringed musical instrument. "I *do* wike red butars."

*Bideo: a movie or cartoon.

*Bujerious: a state of being solemn and earnest. "I'm BUJERIOUS, mommy!"

*Bun: a pastry made from bread dough, but also a term of endearment. "Less you were MY bun, mommy, you could sit on my nose and I wouldn't eat you" or "I wub you, Bun."

*Less: an untranslatable word, similar in usage to the English terms "unless", "if", "because", "in view of the fact that", and "since".

*Fack: a rapid hitting motion, similar to a smack or thwack. "I facked dat buguito! I was facking him wib my Tinkerbell phone!"

Fatch: to observe, to look at. "Fatch me, mommy! Fatch me!"

Suspartment: a residence within a building containing several similar homes. The English equivalent is 'apartment'. "Do we hab to go to our suspartment?"

the Rot is everywhere

2008-08-06T20:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, a long hiatus was necessary. This summer, with no school, no work, nothing but hubby and kids time, was necessary. All that sand in the floor of my car... I guess that was necessary, too.

So as this month begins I am finishing my thesis and still, still, STILL on the search for that perfect individual whose position (encompassing nanny, tutor, cook, chauffeur, naturalist, and art teacher) is best described by my children as morah--- Hebrew for teacher--- is as yet unfilled. We have a good prospect, the best so far, who is currently in Kenya. Don't ask.

And I'm really appreciating the fact that I've gotten to know my kids a lot better this summer. I've been able to have the time to really see them, acknowledge their interests, and feel comfortable with my decision to take them from their various formal education environments in favor of something more relaxed, holistic, hip, and messy. So I'm sitting on the couch this evening, enjoying a little me-time after a late night of popcorn and goofiness with the offspring. I'm flipping through the pages of this parents/family magazine, Wondertime.

My infinitely wise sister Hazel gave me a subscription to this magazine as a winter holiday gift. Brilliant, this woman. I'd picked up a copy from the supermarket before, desperate for something that was a shift from the saccharine, line-towing, homogenizing, materialistic DRIVEL that passes for a mother's magazine. Wondertime was different. It was modern, it was funny, it was helpful and gave me that "Aha! Now I know how to do THAT!" kind of a feeling. Something in between those publications which teem with formula ads and articles on the Ferber method, and the self-satisfied eco-crunch epistles full of advice on how to co-sleep on a bed made with organic cotton sheets, hand-picked by vegan Ecuadorian mothers who are given a fair wage and taught to recycle.

In short, I wanted something real. I breastfed, I used cloth diapers, but hey--- I like Target. I sent my children to preschool (dangerously more mainstream than the crunchy SAHMs), but my kids have never eaten dead animals (take that, Gerber Graduates). Wondertime is my Goldilocks of motherhood: juuuuuuuuuuuuust right.

Except. Tonight as I'm flipping through, I decide to go online to renew my subscription. I had decided to let it drop after the expiration (yes, I'm cheap) but then I was reminded seventeen times during this evening's read why I loved it. Yes! Re-subscribe! I encouraged myself. From what other source are you going to get a recipe for kid-friendly protein balls AND an article on Froebel AND a headlice survival essay?

Brace yourself: Wondertime is Disney.

Because, of course. What isn't? And while I struggle to keep Barbies from darkening my doorstep and wince every time Isis mentions that Pink Plastic Princess tea set (which I totally, unabashedly, with no regrets, threw away without telling her because it was a disgusting meaningless piece of gender-specific consumerist trash).... while I wage war against Mickey Mouse and his entourage of appealing junk in the toy aisles, while I chuck every Dora the Explorer item into the give-away bin, while I don't even use paper towels, do you understand me?!?!?---- while all of this is going on, I've been unknowingly snuggling up in my couch corner with the literary equivalent of American Rot.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.

So now I have to think: does Hazel know? And then I think: if she knows, she doesn't care. She sees the value in it, without needing to compartmentalize or eschew it.

And then I think: does this mean that Disney, in some tiny part of its evil plastic corporate heart, is actually not that bad?

And then I think: ooooo, that's what they want you to think. They plant publications like Wondertime to lull you into the belief that Hannah Montana is an acceptable role model. Or Bratz dolls. Or whatever it is that they sell.

And then I think: Yeah, but those recipes.... Those Thoreau quotes!

A very tiny, whimpering, auugh.

Humans

2008-06-21T08:48:00.000-07:00

So, what does this stylish Roman matron have in common with me? (Hint: it has nothing to do with Latin.)

Like the woman upon whom this statue was based, I too cover my hair. Everyone knows this; the reasons are legion, but among them is not any sort of religious dictum. However, it is only extremely rarely that a passer-by doesn't assume that I'm from some sort of strict sect of Jainism or similar. Okay, I've never been called a Jan... but the short list is Mennonite, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, Rastafarian, Catholic (i.e. a nun), and once an airline woman assumed that I had cancer and patted my hand sympathetically, which made me gag. So most of the time my thought is--- wow. I'm part of an international movement superseded by geography, religion, and culture. All around the world, people take a square of fabric and wrap it in some way around their head. Go, us!

But the rest of the time my thought is, Why is it so necessary to put a label on it? When people ask me what country I'm from, they seem disappointed when I answer that I'm an American. The question that never fails to follow is, "Then what are you?" to which I always reply "Human." Silly questions get unhelpful answers, and I'm not disposed toward giving a long explanation that would mostly boil down to: I like scarves. I like covering my hair. I like covering my hair with scarves. There's more to it, of course, but I don't like discussing my personal philosophy on modesty and femininity with complete strangers.

The "best" part undoubtedly has to be wearing a scarf AND being married to a sailor. My experiences on military bases beat, hands-down, anything I've ever encountered in the civilian world (including that creepy airline lady---- as if someone has to have a terminal illness to wear a scarf. I think even J-Lo wears scarves. Sure, she's got problems, but do we automatically go, "Ahh, pobrecita, it's cancer!")

To men in uniform, any woman wearing a scarf in any style, no matter what the rest of her clothes look like, is a hijabi. And is probably at that moment plotting their destruction. You may think this is an exaggeration, and it is, but not as much as you think. While some people go out of their way to be friendly (a sort of, "Listen, I'm cool; I can be in the military and not be xenophobic" reaction), others are clearly so uncomfortable with even standing next to me that they can't hide the unease in their voice and make all sorts of strange movements. Hey, I'm just in line for my latte too, lieutenant.

But more than anything, I think it's a reflection of my country's deep insecurity with herself that a yard or so of cotton can put her citizen's teeth on edge, even more so when I try to explain that it has nothing to do with religion. Cheers to all my friends and family who have never said a word about it beyond, "Oh, I just love that scarf." Thanks, I like it too.

Higher education rant

2008-06-19T05:34:00.000-07:00

As if I haven't invested enough time and money (well, technically I haven't so much invested money as taken out enormous loans)--- but time, oh yes, that has been invested. Nights of hardly-homecooked-meals. Getting up at four a.m. to do homework. Weeks of moving through life in a sort of auto pilot brain setting just to get the kids up, fed, dressed, off to school, drive to the university, find a parking space, curse freely about not finding said parking space, run to class, need more coffee, borrow a pen, spend lunch biting inside of cheek and doing homework for next classes, surreptitiously read PhD comic and eat sugar to wake self up while tenured professor drones on interminably, run back out to car, speed to Isis' preschool, speed to Ezra's kindergarden, come home, shoes in the basket, start dinner, play with kids, no pulling your sister's hair, don't put that in your nose, serve dinner, I don't care if you don't like it, you get what you get and you don't throw a fit, kids in bath, pajamas, teeth, final pee, bedtime story, bedtime story again, mama come back in here for one more kiss, stumble out to stare at my Hebrew homework glaring balefully at me from the top of my backpack.

This has more or less been my life since January of 2006, except for the really fun times when I also had part-time jobs, or that one semester when I took twenty hours (what?!?!). I really have to question why I put myself through this when plenty of people can have the satisfaction of being stressed out and neurotic and NOT have papers due and strange Greek verb tenses to choke on. I think it's called Life, and I really wanted something different. Especially for the kids--- yes! I have guilt! Maybe if they'd been in a groovy place smelling of lavender with peach-blossom lazured walls instead of loud, bright, soccer-mom-filled, challah-baking madhouses. (Well, the challah part is redeeming I suppose.)

And with just one more semester to go, the diabolical prospect of an administrative snafu looms directly over me. University of Tennessee students refer to this as the Big Orange Screw, the tiny little clerical error that you discover your senior year that whumps you right back to 90 hours or completely obliterates all those Natural Science with Lab credits you so painstakingly accumulated AGAINST JUST SUCH AN EVENTUALITY!!!!!

So, all of the hard work and guilt-inducing absence from children has been for The Purpose: less the piece of paper and more the Rosie the Riveter bicep salute of knowing that I've accomplished it, when lesser women have whimpered in fear and gone back to their tanning beds. And now the prospect of having it all sickeningly tossed out the window is making me gnash my teeth. Like in Where the Wild Things Are: they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

I'm trying to remember now if that describes me or the happiness-devouring money pit that is higher education. If it weren't for my friend Nicanor, I might have thrown my laptop across the room yesterday. He put things in perspective for me: I do not, at this time, nor have I had at any other time, blood under my fingernails from a bike wipe-out and a road rash over most of my body, alhamdulillah. Still. That thesis isn't going to write itself, and I find myself glumly wondering what the point is--- the temptation to procrastinate and read The Inimitable Jeeves is so overwhelming it makes me giddy.

ocean side

2008-06-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

I started Early - Took my Dog -

And visited the Sea -

The Mermaids in the Basement

Came out to look at me -

And Frigates - in the Upper Floor

Extended Hempen Hands -

Presuming Me to be a Mouse -

Aground - upon the Sands -

But no Man moved Me - till the Tide

Went past my simple Shoe -

And past my Apron - and my Belt

And past my Bodice - too -

And made as He would eat me up -

As wholly as a Dew

Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve -

And then - I started - too -

And He - He followed - close behind -

I felt His Silver Heel

Upon my Ankle - Then my Shoes

Would overflow with Pearl -

Until We met the Solid Town -

No One He seemed to know

And bowing - with a Mighty look -

At me - The Sea withdrew -

-- Emily Dickinson

Yes, Virginia

2008-06-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

The homeschooling journey has officially begun. And, as it turns out, I'm not nearly as un-prepared as I thought I was. A few months ago, in a flurry of if-you-put-forth-an-investment-you're-less-likely-to-back-down-in-August, I purchased the Barbara Dewey "Waldorf Without Walls" curriculum and a decent amount of art supplies and main lesson books for Ezra to use. I re-stocked our playcloths and led the garish Chinese toys (thanks, former in-laws) in another massive exodus from both my apartment and Jason's house. I even managed to match up all the socks (not homeschooling related but brag-worthy nonetheless).

And, in my recent research, I've found that I actually have some of the "core materials" that everyone says are must-haves for beginning homeschooling with young children. I have "Seven Times the Sun" by Shea Darian, "Waldorf Education: A Family Guide" edited by Pamela Finner and Karen Rivers, a headful of fairy tales and myths (thanks to my study of ancient and classical history--- and people always asked me what I'd do with all that Latin, ha); and kudos to my friend Tiffeni Goesel of KinderHaus Toys in Williamsburg, VA, I recently acquired "Math Lessons for Elementary Grades" by Dorothy Harrer AND the fabulous and inspiring "Heaven on Earth: A Handbook for Parents of Young Children" by Sharifa Oppenheimer. When I stand back and assess, I almost almost almost feel like I can say to myself, "You can do this."

I haven't been posting nearly as much because the end of the semester had me spinning my wheels with last-minute projects and finals, and the rush into summer meant that, instead of having relaxing free time with the children, I was actually having to learn how to be a mom again. Okay, I'm still learning this. It's been so long since we've had this much time together that nobody knows what to do with each other. Sure, for a Saturday and Sunday I can keep my head on and everyone can flow in (mostly) one direction, but for weeks on end....? It's been A Process.

One of the better things that has come out of this sink-or-swim stay-at-momhood re-experience (how's that for hyphenation extravaganza? I'm blowing Dickinson out of the water) is that I've decided to try to finish my last semester as an undergrad doing online courses. I cannot envision a way in which I can establish the rhythm I want for Ezra and Isis in the midst of being shuffled back and forth between houses/tutors/caregivers. If at all possible (meaning my department head and thesis advisor don't turn purple and implode with frustration). Having reviewed my academic transcript, I have to wonder if *I* won't implode with frustration at the prospect.

So. We are currently in Virginia Beach, VA while my husband goes through some civil affairs training with the Navy. We have been to the beach, in one form or another, every day for the past week. I'm beginning to feel a bit like that Joni Mitchell song "Carey," with dirty fingernails and beach tar under my feet.

Ezra and Ashurbanipal

2008-05-12T08:33:00.001-07:00

Moving

It's been several weeks since I updated, since final exams took up most of my time and mental energy. Two new developments occurred in the family, however. The first is that Ezra, Isis and I will be moving to Yortkown, Virginia around December of this year (either after my finals are over or my husband is back from deployment--- whichever comes first). This is really fantastic news, because between the beaches, the historical sites, the museums, and the friends I've already made in the Yorktown area I know we're going to have an exciting couple of years on the East Coast. The kids will be 6 and 3 when we move--- too young for sailing lessons? Okay, they can just learn how to make hemp rope for lines. That way when we sail around the world they can practice their Urdu AND keep their hands busy, i.e. thevoyageofbluesky.com

Sensory Integration and I.Q. tests

Second development--- the developmental psychologist, Dr. A---, who evaluated Ezra (a long-haired vegetarian, what's not to love) met with Jason and I last Friday to discuss his findings. That hour was the best I've spent in terms of parenting since Ezra's birth. I've known for a long time that Ezra was a bright child: I've tried to foster his curiosity, steer him towards excitement and discovery, spark his imagination, and support his ability to get messy and learn for himself. Clearly, however, in this case nurture has been trounced by nature. He's a genius. (I'm not being flippant, but I am now eerily reminded that he had---possibly still has---a plush stuffed Einstein doll since the age of 9 or 10 months. Okay, we sort of doomed him.)

Words I would have previously used to describe Ezra might include--- smart. clever. sharp. quick. Words that indicate the depth and variety of his abilities, but not anything that might indicate a quantified understanding (on my part). While I might be quick to dismiss tests, numbers, and assorted other compartmentalization of the human being, after I recovered from the shock of seeing Ezra's scores it occurred to me that I've been both over- and under-estimating him.

I have over-estimated Ezra's ability to keep it together and handle tasks and situations that are easy for a "normal" child (I really hate that word, but saying "neurologically average" sounds horrible). At various times and situations during the past, say, three years, I've expected too much of him in terms of his behavior and capability.

The reverse of this is that I've downplayed his true giftedness, from a combination of a desire to be a mother who is modest in her praise and from an ignorance of Ezra's acumen. After all, how can something like that be measured? Sure, you can chart parts of someone's knowledge and compute a figure that way, but to measure the intelligence of an entire person---- I'm still skeptical.

Still, I do understand that these are comparative tests. For example, Ezra is comparatively smarter than any three or four thousand adults that he may be in a room with. It doesn't mean that he knows more than them (after all, he's five. He still can't tie his shoes properly) but his aptitude is greater. He "skipped" a year into kindergarten, and could now skip to second grade in some subjects. How much more frustrating for him to be around his peers. It's no wonder he has a difficult time, Dr. A--- reminded us. Most of the time, Ezra is right and they are wrong.

Mission: to find an occupational therapist to work with Ezra on his Sensory Integration Disorder, to integrate Waldorf homeschooling, and to find social activities that involve only one other child (semi-private pottery lessons?). Protocol: to bite our tongues in terms of the A-word (Asperger's) and use as few labels as possible, letting Ezra mentally thrive once the environmental factors are conquered (lighting, electronic noises, smells, and fabrics can all spell certain doom to a peaceful family afternoon). Equipment: a pat on the back at the end of each day and a good drink or two. For me, Shiraz. For Jason, Wild Turkey.

After all, it won't be all that bad. If you can get Ezra to stop arguing with you about the efficacy of re-establishing the Mercury rocket vs. the fuel-guzzling Apollo program, you might actually get to enjoy his silly side. If he doesn't know you're listening, he'll sing They Might Be Giants in a very silly voice. "We're the Mesopotaaaaaaaaaamiiiiiiians, SarGON-Hammurabi-AshurbaniPAL and GilgaMESH."

Waldorf rescues breakfast

2008-04-25T08:20:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I spent the day home with the children (whose respective schools were closed for the Pesach holiday). I let them sleep in, as they'd been up late playing with their friends at Navah's house. Isis bounded into the living room where I was having my coffee, sweet-tempered and snuggly, but Ezra was far more grumpy. I attempted to interest them in making muffins, a favorite breakfast treat, and the suggestion was met with indifference.

Isis ran off to go play dress-up, and for another hour and a half I tried to convince everyone to come to the breakfast table. Our ritual for meals is this--- they each pick out their own cloth napkin and put a fresh cloth on the table if necessary, while I get their drinks ready. They help carry things from the kitchen to the table--- they use the same bowl for nearly every meal, they take their forks or spoons over, carry milk or tea with two hands--- and then we all sit down and I light a beeswax candle and say the blessing.

Earth who gives to us our food,

sun who makes it ripe and good,

dearest earth and dearest sun,

joy and love for all you've done.

Blessings on our (dinnertime, snacktime, breakfast).

What with Isis' dress-up and Ezra's obsession with--- what was he hung up about? I can't even remember--- the snuggly late morning and peaceful breakfast I had imagined were destroyed by squabbling and frustration. I tried to keep my cool. "Let's go sit at the table. We'll have left-over banana bread," I suggested, in a kind, soft voice. More bickering. Soon they were both yelling at me and each other.

It occurred to me that they were waiting to be told what to do. Not to be ordered to the table--- that would have backfired. But for me to set the example. Here I'd been trying to convince them to be reasonable little people, and my efforts were failing miserably. I had been sitting on the couch trying to reconcile them after an argument, and I simply stood up and walked to the table. Everything was already laid out (I had done this myself because I couldn't get them interested in helping), so I just sat down, lit the candle, and started to say the blessing.

They both immediately STOPPED shouting at each other, walked over with no tears, and sat down. Ezra climbed into his seat, and Isis onto my lap. They hurried to not miss the rest of the blessing. It was exactly what they needed. They dug into breakfast cheerfully and without argument, amicably dividing up the banana bread pieces into three equal parts.

I have resolved to ignore their bickering more often, and simply set the example. Trying to be a peacemaker has its time and place, but modeling will be my ultimate contribution as a parent to my young children. Blessings on our blogtime.

A little Mentat

2008-04-22T04:47:00.000-07:00

Now that I know what to look for, I can recognize when Ezra is reacting to a situation in a purely Aspergian way. While his father Jason has finally mastered (at twenty-nine) the social necessity of small talk (I still find this hard to believe), Ezra is still struggling to understand why his friends and sister are frustrated, angry, or hurt with his treatment of them.

Yitzhak is the son of an Israeli woman, Navah, who lives in our apartment building. She and I have been acquaintances for a few years and our little families have become fast friends. Isis plays with Yitzhak's two-year-old sister Levona, and Ezra and Yitzhak terrorize the playground together. Yitzhak is a very mature, active, and generous boy; his competitiveness feeds Ezra's instinct to always be right, always win, with the result that Yitzhak is almost always frustrated. I like the fact that Ezra has a boy to go ride bikes with, run around and get sweaty with, but I can see already the difficulty that Ezra is going to have with friends he tries to control.

Most of Ezra's peers can't appreciate his instinct for debate and reasoning, which he's honed to an admirable skill. Ten times out of ten, Ezra will want to discuss with you how what you did was logically incorrect, and therefore why he was not in the wrong. Couple this with the dozens of tiny things that annoy Ezra physically on any given day (the way his socks are bunching in his shoes, how bright the light is, the whine of machinery, the itch of his bike helmet, the scratch of his t-shirt tag) and you have a little rationalist attorney, highly sensitive, on the verge of a meltdown if just one more thing goes wrong.

In no uncertain terms, the administration and teachers at his Montessori school have made it clear that for Ezra to attend for first grade there, he will need a shadow tutor with him. He is easily distracted during times that he needs to work by himself, but thrives brilliantly with one-on-one attention. Rather than spend the money for private school tuition and a tutor (and preschool for Isis) I am still determined to find an alternative solution. My hope is for some lively, creative (vegetarian) person who can work thirty hours a week as a nanny/tutor for both of them, but so far this dream individual has yet to appear. More than likely Isis will have to endure a few more months of preschool, and Ezra will piggyback with another homeschooling family from August to December (when I finish my own degree).

Homeschooling does seem, at this point, the only conceivable opportunity for Ezra to learn to his abilities but not be disturbed and distracted by a "school" environment. I feel like this first year has basically been a scratch---- it's true that he's learned things he was "supposed" to learn, like letters and numbers. It's how he learned them that really concerns me. Ezra has no reverence for meaninglessness, and I struggle to find what was meaningful for him in kindergarten. Art class, he tells me. And chess.

Progress

2008-04-15T18:14:00.001-07:00

Ezra was grinning ear to ear when I picked him up from school after his chess club. I did not ask him how things went. I did not ask how many lessons he did or if he had a good day. I just said, "Hey Bear."

He wanted to go to Amah's house ("To FLYYYYYYYYY airplanes!") and since we had two hours to kill before the kids were due at their father's for dinner, I figured what-the-heck. On the way there, he regaled us with bizarre, cheerful tales that just bubbled out of him. At some point he offered to hose me down with his jetpack, which had tanks for sun, fire, and water. At some point, I decided that we should build a rocket out of all the junk that's lying around in my parent's garage.

We worked outside for an hour and got a decent start. He drew a control panel on the inside of a cardboard box, complete with buttons, dials, and a viewing window with a ringed planet, the digital caption of which read: "SADRN" (Saturn).

When he started to whine, get demanding, and otherwise freak out that the red-painted board wasn't standing up by the booster engines, I suggested we stash the fuselage materials on the porch so that the aliens who inhabited the planet wouldn't be able to find it, and go inside to think up more ideas for our rocket ship. This met with approval, mostly because I delivered the whole suggestion in a stage whisper while looking around furtively. We tiptoed around the backyard, gathering our supplies and running to hide them. Then we had to watch out the bathroom window for a while to make sure the aliens weren't going to find the rocket parts.

After that, we ravenously entered the kitchen. Isis was watching the Backyardigans with my mother in the living room, and Ezra made a bee-line for the water bottle. I pulled out tortilla chips and spinach-artichoke dip, which Ezra shoveled into his mouth without even asking what it was. Then we dipped tofu chicken nuggets in ranch dressing, chugged more water, and finally each ate a mini Cadbury egg to top it all off. The whole time, I just let him talk to me. The sun and physical labor outside had relaxed him, made him open and adventurous and ready to tell me about the new basketball court at recess, his Montessori time, and his friends.

When it was time to leave, he didn't slouch or whine or protest. He just slipped his arms into his coat, kissed his grandparents, and bounced out the door. When I dropped him and Isis off to spend the night at Jason's, he ran back outside and gave me a huge, hard, extra-long hug, with strangling kisses and strong tight elbows. Fan-tastic.

Hazel's spell

2008-04-15T18:08:00.000-07:00

My sister Hazel is by far the best mother that I know.

How's this for conflict resolution?

In times of a major encroaching battle (example: my niece has locked herself in the parents' bedroom after hitting--- an event that would warrant GENERAL INSANITY in my own home), Hazel very calmly removes a trash bag from underneath the sink, and gives it a merry little shake. When my niece hears this ominous crinkling, she knows that the Toy Monster is getting ready to put her toys in a bag and throw them out. She is instantaneously recalcitrant and helpful.

Now, if you're thinking "My god. This mother threatens her child with the loss of her beloved playthings?!?! That's just diabolical!" then remember: major conflict. Shake of a bag. Problem solved.

Hazel should be hired by the United Nations.

This bit of magic that my sister performs reminded me of a birthday present she once gave me. A turning spice rack full of glass jars, which in turn were custom-labelled. The "pizazz" flavor was the best. She's a mensch.

The Cave Riddle Part II

2008-04-15T05:59:00.000-07:00

"Tell Amah your cave riddle," I prodded Ezra at dinner last night. He shakes his head, his mouth full of Tofu Pad Thai.

"You do it."

"Okay." I begin to tell her, pausing at the parts I'm unsure of. It turns out that I'm telling it WRONG, according to Ezra's mushy whisper in my ear. He's re-formulated the riddle since last night.

"You have a mirror and table," he hisses. But "table" sounds like "cable," and last night I'm pretty sure he said "rope"----

"You have a mirror and a table. You see what you saw. You use the saw to saw the table in half. Two halves make a whole, and you climb out through the hole."

I almost collapse in delight.

The Dangerous Quest for Bedtime

2008-04-14T08:26:00.001-07:00

There's a Far Side cartoon that shows a boy trapped inside a wasp's nest being shaken down for all his lollipops or similar. It's a pointless drawing, but very amusing because the title is "It was Late and I Was Tired."

That same attitude--- the willingness to delve into absurdity due to sleep deprivation---was what urged me to go along with Ezra's game last night. He and Isis are in pjs, Isis waiting patiently on her bed with twenty-five more books than I asked her to pick out, and it's an hour past their bedtime. The weight of the Dreaded Monday Morning is crushing me at the base of my shoulders, and the knowledge that I need to call my husband before he goes to bed is making me irritable.

Ezra decides that I will not be putting them to bed in a timely manner. He blocks me at the doorway, doing a lunatic dance. "Mom," he says. "Mom." He repeats this five times, very excited. "You have to guess the riddle. And if you get it, you can take a step forward."

I try to brush past him, making a bee-line for the bed so I can start the storytelling.

"NO!" he dances in front of me and politely but firmly shoves me back out of the doorway. "Mom. Mom. Mom. You have to guess. It's a riddle. It's a secret."

"Okay," I agree. In the manner of the best epic tales, clearly the hero must outwit the clever beast to reach the end of her quest: the bedtime story and lights out.

"So. How do you... howwwwwwww...." Ezra is clearly making this up as he goes along, but he's still wiggling around in his spot. "Okay. You're in a cave. There are no entrances and no exits. There are no holes in the floor. You have now way to get out. How do you get out?"

"I find the river or stream inside the cave and I swim up it until I can get out."

"No, there is no river in it."

"Yes there is. How do you think caves are made? The water hollows them out."

"No, sometimes the wind does. But you're wrong. There's no river in this one."

"Okay..." I'm beginning to wonder if I've missed something. "I climb through a hole you didn't know about up at the top."

"Noooooo, there ARE no holes. But you do have a mirror and a rope."

"I give up, Ezra. How do I get out?"

"Okay." More hopping and dancing, but he's clearly already formulated the answer. "You take the mirror, you shine it on the wall until you bright up a spot, then you loop the rope in two and place it on the shine and a doorway opens!" This illustrated with elaborate operatic gestures. It actually makes pretty good sense the way he describes it. "So you can't move yet."

"Gimme another one," I tell him. Isis is meanwhile shouting her suggestions for getting out of the cave, a minute too late.

"How do you... how do you... Mom. Okay. Mom. How do you--- if you have a book, and there's a dragon in it, how do you get the dragon out with just an ORDINARY stick and a drop of water?"

This time I'm ready for it. "You put the water on the page and it opens a door and then the dragon can crawl out onto the stick."

Ezra looks at me suspiciously, as if he can't believe that I didn't guess the correct answer right away. "No, Mom," he explains, patient but clearly disappointed that I didn't see the obvious. "By magic."

Two things

2008-04-03T11:54:00.000-07:00

One of my professors, whose son has Asperger's, have lent me two books.

"The Out-of-Sync Child" by Carol Stock Kranowitz (New York: Skylight Press, 1998) and "Look Me In The Eye: My Life With Asperger's" by John Elder Robinson (New York: Crown Publishers, 2007). Who knew that Augusten Burroughs was his brother? Not me. Here's what Augusten says in the forward, on encouraging his brother to write an accessible book for other people to understand Asperger's.

"Aren't there any proper books for these people? I wondered. To my amazement, I discovered there was not all that much out there on the subject. There were a few scholarly works, and some simpler though still clinical texts that made people feel the best they could do for their Asperger children would be to buy them a mainframe computer and not worry about teaching table manners."

Okay. That's kind of funny.

I know that what I'm staring at is huge. I know that understanding what is going on with Ezra at this early stage will be a blessing for him throughout his childhood. Because most Aspies are so intelligent, many adults are able to "fake it" in social situations and not appear, on the surface, any stranger than your average geek. For children, it's so much more difficult. They struggle with sensory perception, being able to express themselves, interacting on very simple levels with family members, AND all of the normal "kid stuff": stubbornness, siblings, school, weird food, unreasonable bedtimes, no candy. I have nothing else to say about it. Except that I know it's huge.

My sister Hazel also gets props here. She's the only person who can build something sturdy and sustainable from what most people would consider candy floss. I wish her the best of luck in her groovy, community-centered, tikkun olam endeavor. Nobody tikkun olams like my sister.

Twice in the past she's reminded me of Enki, a way of teaching children that I'd run into a while ago and sort of forgotten about. Turns out Enki focuses a lot on sensory integration and some parents of Asperger children have found it extremely helpful. Once again, way to go sis.

This ( http://www.enkieducation.org/html/holistic-homeschooling.htm ) was enormously helpful for me to read. Goal for the afternoon: stop trying to engage Ezra in conversation like I'm a @#$*(#U&!! boyscout troop leader. I desperately want to know what he's thinking, and in the end he just clams up.

Supermarket insanity

2008-04-02T14:38:00.000-07:00

It took all of three minutes in the store for something to go wrong. They were both firmly grasping wooden mushrooms and a forest gnome each, enough magic to keep them safeguarded through what was bound to be a mild-to-moderately hellish experience. We needed soymilk, orange juice, jam, and dinner. Water bottles and ziplock bags would also have been nice, if time allowed.

After a little mini-skirmish over what sort of plastic car we would put the groceries in. By the time we went down the FIRST AISLE, Isis had already pinched the bejeebus out of her brother and there were tears and screaming.

"Isis! Out of the cart!" I said. "You need to walk beside me for *two minutes.*" This was met with defiance and tears and howls on her part. By this time I only had the "dinner" component in the cart. Isis wanted to be picked up and carried, which I wasn't about to do while pushing a large cart. I gave her the options: walk for two minutes and then get back into the cart, or, if she continued to throw a fit, we would leave.

Fit continued.

I tried to return the frozen organic pizza to the freezer with as little annoyance as possible, but the kids were suddenly DESPERATE that we remain in the store. Ezra, who had done nothing at all, was heart-broken that the pizza was going back on the shelf. "Ezra," I hissed placatingly in his ear, "we can order pizza for dinner. You're not losing anything."

"But that was a speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeecial pizza. And you're putting it baaaaaaaaaaack!" Ezra sobbed. Meanwhile, Isis trotted along beside me. "I WILL walk! I WILL walk!"

Everyone turned to stare as I resolutely marched from the store, now two fit-throwers in tow.

Carseats were buckled in the midst of the battle, and I settled into my seat and turned the car on. Ezra's loud whining was starting to wear on my nerves. "I. will. order. pizza." I told him.

"But-but-but you put back my PRECIOUS PIZZA!" came his reply, a long howl of sorrow, and he flopped back miserably into his car seat.

I had to stifle a laugh. Isis, who had started the whole thing, was now staring placidly out the window at the passing forsythia blossoms. Ezra, his previous pizza gone forever, hunched down with a furrowed brow and a sulky lip. And I just kept thinking, "Damn. We REALLY needed soymilk."

Update: The fact that a new box of beeswax had arrived from Kinderhaus Toys when we got home meant that any lingering unhappiness quickly vanished. The kids ran around outside stealing flowering redbud and forsythia branches for the nature table, and then we went inside to play with the wax and wait for the pizza. As a favor, their dad Jason brought milk and juice by and slipped it into the fridge while I was reading bedtime stories. All in all, what could have been a disastrous evening ended fantastically well.

I almost forgot. Ezra used his new Stockmar block crayons for the first time tonight, too. We both drew a practice page with a blue border and alternating red and yellow horizontal strips fora writing space. Tiffeni Goesel of Kinderhaus had explained how I could tell a story about the Three Bears (using different sides of the block crayons) while Ezra drew. This genius idea worked like a charm, and soon Little Bear and a friend were walking down garden rows in straight, bold lines. When he'd finished, he wrote: "Im am Ezra. Cannons go boom. Bi." And then drew a picture of all the parts of a cannon disassembled. The axle holds a special fascination.

Let's not forget the motivation for it all

2008-03-31T17:55:00.000-07:00

I was so wrapped up in my last post that I forgot to post a picture of the kids. Whew boy. First, Ezra and Isis try on colonialism in the Williamsburg Governor's Palace. Second, Ezra clings to Thomas Jefferson for dear life.

Just sit here and do nothing

2008-03-31T16:50:00.000-07:00

This is funny.

Now that I've decided---come what may---to homeschool Ezra starting in August, I took a little time to review my state's laws regarding this method of educating children.

Here are my three options:

1. Register with the Local Education Agency. This involves the famous Notice of Intent to Homeschool, receiving a packet from the district's "homeschool coordinator," and filling it out. It's pretty simple stuff--- name and ages of children, plus a lot of other stuff that isn't required by law such as social security numbers, notification of address change, and subjects to be taught, as well as a calender that has to be submitted that says your child has been in school 4 hours a day for 180 days in the year. You must submit to state testing. Your child is considered an "independent homeschooler."

Independent as opposed to what? The answer is...

2. Register with a CRS, or church-related school. Don't even get me started on how only certain institutions are approved by the state, all of which are (as far as I can tell) Protestant Christian churches. Too bad for you Catholic or Jewish kids. Or, for that matter, you Bahai homeschoolers. Using this approach, your child is essentially a student of a church school completing his or her education through distance learning. You are required to use the school's textbooks, have your child take their tests, meet with school personnel, and (for all but a handful of schools) sign their statement of faith.

Oh boy. So, for some Christian families this might be a valid option, if they can deal with the headache of red tape. This is less "homeschooling" and more "school at home." Maybe that's your style. Or maybe you prefer to be a...

3. Satellite school under a CRS. Thanks to something called the Jeter Memorandum, you can get a CRS to view your home as a satellite extension of their campus. Your child is now a "private schooler." You must still follow all of the CRS' regulations, but you don't have to register with the Local Education Agency or have a bachelor's degree to teach your high schooler.

And my response to all this? CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE.

Hmmmm, I'm thinking. Lots of state laws about who can teach what and in what manner. Lots of parents having lists of "friendly lawyers" in case they're ever hauled off to jail on truancy charges. And all this a little over two hundred years from the time when a group of homeschooled guys got the radical idea to overthrow the tyranny of the English government.

You know. I'm talking about George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, John Quincy Adams, James Madison. (Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Edison were also homeschooled: imbeciles, both of 'em. Okay, I digress.) Thomas Jefferson would eat his wig if he knew about this.

Of the three options, the only one even worth considering is the first. And most of the secular homeschoolers I know go for that option. But why, I ask myself, should I agree to let my choice of curriculum and my teaching methods be scrutinized by a non-expert? And by non-expert, I mean anyone who hasn't spent the first minute with Ezra to glimpse what a unique little human he is and to understand what his needs are. Forget about the fact that nobody is ever going to force my children to take those ridiculous standardized tests, which aren't worth the paper they're printed on. I just protest on principle.

All of the Californians out there are groaning and rolling their eyes. Stop it! They say. You have it so easy! Take advantage of the chance to legally teach your child at home!

Yes, the Californians (those imaginary ones that are talking to me right now) do have a point. My state has provided a comparably non-intrusive way for Ezra to learn at home, and all I have to do is provide the Local Education Agency with some personal information that is NONE of their business.

But let's give California parents their due. They are fighting Justice H. Walter Croskey, who is possibly one of the most disgustingly brain-washed judges to have beamed his chipmunk grin form the high seat. The enlightened Croskey said that parents do not have a constitutional right to homeschool their children. Well, this isn't a surprise. That's been on the books since the 1950s, but Californians (being Californians) just chose to eat granola and ignore it. What's really disturbing is what Justice Croskey would prefer for children:

"A primary purpose of the educational system is to train school children in good citizenship, patriotism and loyalty to the state and the nation as a means of protecting the public welfare."

What? WHAT?!?!?! "Training school children in good citizenship" just smacks of the Hitler Youth. In fact, the whole thing is just revoltingly Orwellian. Croskey's main concern is that children learn patriotism and loyalty in school?!?!

He has never heard of the Three Rs. Apparently.

But more to the point, I started to wonder (spurred on by disgusting individuals like Justice Croskey to stubbornly DISOBEY the law), "How does one commit civil disobedience for homeschooling?" I had done it a few times at my friendly neighborhood nuclear arms facility, which (in violation the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Act of 1978) continues to manufacture nuclear weapons components and styles itself the "Fort Knox of enriched uranium." This was low-level civil disobedience, involving me as a teenager getting shouted and scuffed at by local police while joining arms and singing "Redemption Song." Nothing much ever came of it, due to my status as a minor.

This somehow seems much different. The anti-arms rallies were really more like meaningful outdoor parties for people who wear clogs and burn Nag Champa. They were very public, lots of support, and you knew what you were supposed to do (bring down The Man, mostly).

But how do I go all Thoreau on their asses when it comes to homeschooling? Do I send in a letter on formal stationery to my local superintendent? "Dear Sir or Madam. Up yours. Sincerely, Amelia." Do I hang a flag in my window beside the Ron Paul posters? "Citizen thinking for herself inside! Arrest immediately!"

I began to realize: I just sit here and do nothing.

Peanut Butter Super Good with Caramel Sauce

2008-03-29T06:18:00.000-07:00

First you get the crackers. Ritz.

Then you get two Ritz crackers out of the package that you opened.

Then you get some peanut butter out of the cabinet. Then you get some peanut butter and spread it on one cracker and then you put the two crackers together.

Then you buy some caramel sauce from Argentina (at a store in Knoxville, though); then you open the caramel sauce.

Then you put a big glob of caramel sauce on the top of the cracker and then it will be SUPER DELICIOUS!

dictated by Ezra 1-14-08

Wanted

2008-03-26T06:17:00.000-07:00

A chilled-out, eccentric polymath in the Knoxville area with ample free time and a creative soul to guide my children on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays in unschooled home learning. Prefer retired teacher, childcare worker, or parent who is currently homeschooling his or her own child(ren). Will provide all curriculum, materials and supplies, and nutritious vegetarian lunches. Must include art and outdoor play every day. Must be willing to say "screw it" on some days and just let Ezra and Isis roll in the dirt or climb trees. Must not be obsessed with worksheets, proper spelling, and times tables. In exchange, I will pay you a small stipend and teach you or your children as much Classical Latin, Greek, or Hebrew as you can stomach.

All interested parties reply.

Piranha Panic

2008-03-10T07:31:00.000-07:00

I woke Ezra* up today with the promise of his getting to play a new board game, Piranha Panic. He immediately got out of bed, wrapped his arms around me, and squeezed tightly. I had turned off all the lights but two low ones, which I had to dim even further.

My mother, Ezra's Amah, bought this game for him yesterday. I'd planned on letting him open it and play it next Sunday or later, as a new treat during our week-long trip to Virginia and my husband's new post in Yorktown. Ezra was heavily disappointed about this. Every sixty seconds for the better part of two or three hours, he kept asking me to change my mind. First he just wanted to open it in the car. No, it's for Virginia, the marbles will go everywhere and I don't have scissors. Then he wanted to play it at home. No, it's for Virginia, we're going to a birthday party. Then he wanted to play it as his father's house after the party. No, it's FOR VIRGINIA!

When Julio sends me a box, which I know is full of pictures, chocolates, tea, or other treats, the first thing I do is rip it open as soon as possible. And I'm twenty-five. How can I expect a child, especially one with a highly developed one-track mind, to act any differently? Ah, but now if I give in then he'll learn that all he has to do is hound me for three hours. I was wrong, but how can I reverse my ruling and save my parental authority?

Screw it, I thought. He's just a kid.

So we opened it this morning. And we played it, the two of us, before Isis woke up.

And he had a great day. Five beans. A library visit after school. More Piranha Panic at Amah's house. Perrrrrrrrrrrrrfect, he told me.

Isis has a computer, she says. Is it an Apple? asked Amah. No, Isis replied. It's a Strawberry.

Others

2008-03-09T15:50:00.001-07:00

Ezra doesn't like to look at me. When I demand that he looks at me, he'll glance my way for a moment and then turn away with either an expression of humiliation or defiance.

Ezra hates lights. As a baby he would cry when the sunlight hit his eyes. His says florescent lights make his head hurt. He complains that screens are too bright when watching a cartoon or playing a computer game.

He can't stand tags on his clothing either. Or turtlenecks. The seam on his socks has to be perfect in his shoes or he'll have a twenty-minute fit until I fix it. I tell him, "Just deal with it! Fix it yourself!" Another twenty minutes of fit.

Ezra can't stand to have water on his face. But he does like to float.

Escalators are a problem. But lately he seems to be getting over this gripping fear.

Going barefoot is not fun for Ezra.

He cannot transition well. He also has a knack for obsessing over a single topic and not dropping it for hours. Should I give in? Would I be spoiling him or just picking my battles?

Ezra can sense when I'm tense or upset. He will come and put his palm on my chest and give me a dry-lips kiss.

Ezra takes his art very seriously. For which we are all thankful.

His favorite food is sushi. He loves the color orange. He is not interested in your explanation.

Submarines are amusing.

And worms are his best friends, he says.

Ezra has a death grip and likes to be carried around.

He is very concerned about his teeth.

He says he would prefer to stay home and play Lincoln Logs. Wouldn't we all.

Professor Fizzwizzle

2008-03-09T06:04:00.000-07:00

Last night Ezra* played a demo version of Professor Fizzwizzle, a computer game that involves logic and puzzle-solving. There was a limited offering of what he could do, since it was just a free download, and when he'd finished with it I told him it was time for dinner. Isis* and I were in the kitchen chopping bell peppers and cooking pasta according to her directions. Ezra had a melt-down, including screaming and fists.

Was this just a case of bad behavior? Or was it an instance wherein he didn't understand what it was that I wanted and was so frustrated he just lost it? Are they one and the same? It was hard to keep my cool, when he was insistently asking the same questions and using the same arguments over and over. Even if Ezra knows I won't change my mind, he grasps onto this incessant badgering like a lifeline. He seems almost desperate to make me feel as freaked out as he feels.

He flipped again when it came to what we were having for dinner, even though he'd helped make it, and almost refused to eat it. However, it turned out to actually be really delicious and I was generous with my praise for their efforts. He tried a bite and sweetly said, "Oh, you're right."

They were wired and didn't go to bed until midnight. At some point I told them that I just couldn't stay up any longer, that as long as their teeth were brushed and they'd done their "final pees" (right before bed) that they could stay up and play and come to bed when they were ready. This is a new system I've started for nights when forcing them to sleep would be useless and a waste of energy. I climbed into bed with a glass of water and The Master and Margarita, and they came trotting in about ten minutes later. It took them another twenty minutes to settle down, select their books, arrange their animals, chat about what books their animals wanted to read, get back up to turn the lights off they left on, and finally slide under the covers. Still, that's half an hour that I didn't have to stand there like a fire-breathing gorgon insisting that they hurry up and just go to bed already.

"Mama, will you tell me a story?" Ezra asked. "Make it a good one."

"Okay Little Bear, let me think of a good one," I put my arm around him and promptly went to sleep.

It Feels Like Pitch Black--- Friday Night

2008-03-08T08:40:00.000-08:00

Ezra*, Isis* and I went to go see The Children's Dance Ensemble last night. It's hard to believe that these incredible, hard-working girls are as young as they are (8-17 years old). The choreography of the pieces is dynamic and the dancers look like professionals. The inclusion of children in the dances in no way diminishes the mature nature of some of the topics (egotism, technology, homesickness, etc).

After intermission, the girls performed a piece called "It Feels Like Pitch Black," which portrays the world of an autistic child, the arc that the family goes through in discovery, frustration, and finally acceptance of their child's world, and the way in which society reacts to children whose sensory perceptions are atypical. It was amazing. While the rest of the audience was giving a standing ovation, I was hugging Ezra and Isis with tears rolling down my face.

I told my husband Julio* that I was slightly weirded out by the two obvious references to autism following our finding out about Ezra's neurodivergency. Either I'm more attuned to these references now, or the universe is trying to remind me of how lucky I am. Ezra is almost, ALMOST normal. While it seems like a difficult task for us to cope with his behavior problems and help him adjust to expectations at school and home, he is really a bright, cheerful, friendly child who can interact in a mostly normal way with the rest of the world. I watched the girl on the stage rocking back and forth, shaking her hands in distress, swaying to the discordant music. And I kept thinking, I am so blessed.

*Names are changed

Thursday evening

2008-03-06T16:50:00.000-08:00

I determined that, no matter how he had done in school today, I was going to give Ezra* a nice afternoon. So much of what we do in the evening depends on how he did at school, but Jason* and I are beginning to see how futile reward systems like that are for him. Ezra needs instant gratification of a really strange kind. Example this morning: for every subtraction question you get right, you get to have a sip of vanilla soy milk. Example from Jason: help me pick up these legos and we can jump up and down like crazies. This is the type of motivation that works for Ezra--- so I decided that I wouldn't even ask him about his school day or how many dried beans were in his jar (he's supposed to get five per day; a last-ditch effort on the part of his teacher to get him to behave, which worked okay for the first two weeks and was rendered pointless by Ezra's simply not caring about beans in general).

I picked up Isis* from her preschool after reading a story to her class (and as an aside, found out that the two teachers I liked best at that facility are more than likely leaving before August classes begin... which just really makes me wish I had enough money to hire a nanny and keep them both at home) and we drove the two miles to the Day School to get Ezra. As usual, it took forever for him to come out the door to where I was waiting in the carpool line. I found out a couple weeks ago that it's because he has this system for organizing his backpack, a sort of vital after-school ritual that involves an almost militaristic folding of his sweater and positioning of his lunchbox inside the backpack. As much as I don't relish entertaining Isis in a waiting car for fifteen or twenty minutes, it is nice to know that Ezra enjoys a sense of order when it comes to his personal belongings--- unlike the rest of the apartment, which he would happily wreck in a quest to design a couch that can blast into space.

Ezra hopped in the car, ignoring me as I buckled him in and asking his sister about the red cardboard Dr. Seuss hat she had assembled that morning. They then had a lengthy and heated discussion about who would hold Foxie and who would hold Forcie (i.e. Horsey, i.e. Isis' stuffed zebra). "Well," Ezra finally volunteered, "I can't play my DS tonight." (Part of the original plan was that four or five beans would earn him a 30-minute cartoon or some time with the hand-held hell machine.... I won't even start on how low I've sunk as a parent that I'm using television and video games as a reward for doing what any other kid is supposed to be doing in the first place.)

I understood him to mean that he hadn't reached the desired amount of beans. "No problem, Ez," I told him, with what I hoped was warm sincerity. "It doesn't matter to me. We'll still have a good time today."

"Yeah..." he looked out the window as we drove away from his school. "It's hot. We should get ice cream."

"No way am I letting you guys eat ice cream unless we go to the playground first and get all hot and sweaty," I counter, watching in the rearview as his grin erupted.

"Let's go to that one place where they give dogs ice cream!" (Brewster's)

"No, that place is too far---"

"Let's go where they have ALL THOSE FLAVORS!" (Baskin Robbins)

At this point, Isis weighs in. "DOG ICE CREAM!" she cackles.

"C'mon mom, let's go where we USUALLY go," Ezra insists excitedly. I have no idea what he's talking about. Eating dairy, much less non-organic dairy, much less sugar-filled antibiotic-laden dairy, is pretty rare for us. Our usual ice cream consists of Tofutti Cuties on the porch steps, but I'd had mind the small cartoon of mint chocolate in the freezer. Ezra clearly thinks this should be an outing. I agree to take them to the Marble Slab at the mall close by, but only after they've suitably worn themselves out on our apartment's playground.

I chat with my sister Hazel* on the phone while the kids race across the lawn toward the swings. I tell her what the psychologist said. She offers me the benefit of both her intuition as an astrologer and her advice as the stepmother of an autistic daughter. We kvetch about the lack of non-traditional schools available (I include in the term "traditional schools" state-sponsored public schools as well as church-affiliated private schools that teach a version of public school curriculum), to the tune that in most cities your options are either homeschooling and Montessori (if you're particularly lucky, you might get a Reggio or a Waldorf thrown in).

What if, I'd asked Ezra's teachers, Montessori is just not the right environment for him?

We thought about that, they told me.

I watched Ezra help his little sister clamber up onto the slide equipment. He was very attentive, very excited. Telling her exactly where to put each of her feet and hands. Offering her options and critiquing her form.

I gave them each pushes on the swing and couldn't resist playfully patting their bottoms as the swings came back toward me. Isis pushed hers out every time the swing came toward me. Ezra whined and twisted away. "Now you've messed up my swing path!" he sulked. For the record, I had done no such thing.

An older kid, a tall chubby dark-haired boy, Brian* ten years, sauntered over. He had an incredible speech impediment and otherwise seemed sort of dazed, but extremely kind. He asked Ezra and Isis their names and ages, told them that he was going to a birthday party of another kid in the apartment complex, and offered to give Ezra a big push. Brian and I pushed the children in silence for a few minutes and then Brian asked if he could have a turn. Sure. I scooped Isis up and we sat on the sidelines. Ezra hummed softly to himself, intent on keeping his stuffed fox wedged between his knees as he pumped his legs. Isis copied the way I sat, arranging her skirt over her knees.

Other kids wandered up--- the kind of older, rougher children you know are going to accidentally-on-purpose knock your little precious clementine off the monkey bars. I started feeling that itchy let's-go-now restlessness, but I'd promised a playground visit. To get Isis and Ezra on their own, I quietly suggest we go play a game. "You mean the jumping jacks game?" Ezra seems interested, but declines. He has to finish swinging.

Isis and I begin the game. It involves a sequence of gross motor activities that increase in difficulty and number as the game wears on. First one. Run to the tree, touch it, and run back. Second one. Run to the tree, put a piece of mulch behind it, and run back. Third one. Run to the tree, run around it twice, reach for the sky, then run back. Once Ezra joins us the two of them are racing each other, Ezra easily outstripping his three-year-old sister, but it soon becomes apparent to the older kids that Ezra and Isis are having way more fun than they are having, slouched on the playground equipment and throwing jabs at each other.

I try to include the other children, assuming my teacher voice. It becomes obvious that Brian has no sense of personal space. He is crowding and touching the other children, leaning in uncomfortably close to their faces to talk to them. He's obviously such a good-natured, amiable kid that it's just pathetic how the other children react to him. But then again, I feel a bit of their revulsion when he bends toward me to talk.

I'm trying to steel myself to set a good example, represent Switzerland on the UN of the playground. Brian is not a "normal" child. He has two parents, presumably, who cope with his needs, his speech problems, his strange behavior. He has a sister---who I saw---who ridicules him every chance she gets. We're with this child for twenty or thirty minutes, and he makes the strongest impression on me.

Why this afternoon, after Jason and I had spent two hours talking to a school psychologist about Ezra's atypicality? The whole thing made me very uncomfortable. I made the children say goodbye to Brian, ignored the gang of urchins throwing basketballs at each other's heads on the slides, and herded my two away.

"You guys didn't do anything wrong," I told them as I buckled them in the car for the ride to the mall. "We didn't leave early because you misbehaved or couldn't find your listening ears." I drew a breath, about to explain, but Ezra finished it for me.

"It's because of those bad older kids who are mean and not safe," he said, more to Isis than me. I stared at him briefly. To my knowledge, he hadn't once talked to any of those children, let alone observe them while they were rattling their sabers on the playground equipment. His brief encounter with them when a few had come over to play racing games with us was limited to what he could glean of their personalities while he was running beside them. I want to just grin at him, cover him in kisses--- my beautiful, perceptive little serpent. Instead, I just nodded, now anxious that Ezra not form an elitist opinion of those children for eternity, conscious that I have a tendency to over-isolate my own.

"Sometimes kids have a bad day," I explained, "and that makes them act that way. It happens to everybody. It doesn't make you bad."

Isis doesn't care. She is fiddling with her Forcie. Ezra says, in a voice that also sounds like he doesn't care, "Yeah, except those bad kids. Can I have strawberry ice cream?"

*Names are changed.

Yes, your child is a weirdo: When it feels good to hear what you already know

2008-03-06T10:25:00.000-08:00

Today, Ezra's* father and I met with his teacher, the school director, and a child psychologist who had come in to observe the classroom with specific attention to Ezra and his continuing inability (or unwillingness) to work within his school environment.

The school is very small: 16 kids grades K-3. It is Montessori-based, and run by a family of superlative individuals who are Orthodox Jews. They include Hebrew immersion and Jewish learning in the curriculum, as well as karate, art, music, and drama. In our smallish city in the buckle of the Bible Belt, this school was an excellent option for us. Despite the fact that we are by and large a secular family, the level of academics offered at the Day School and the concern for the well-being of the child within his community is unparalled in our region, and I doubt many big-city private schools could offer the level and quality of parental involvement that the Day School gives us.

Ezra is proof that you can never cover all your bases, even with the best of intentions. He was "technically" (as in, according to the arbitrary age = ability system used by most schools in the United States) a year early for kindergarten, as his birthday was a month after the cut-off date. However, there was no way on earth that he was going to be able to stomach another year of preschool, and the Day School was happy to take him as he was clearly academically ready.

The initial concerns of his social behavior were by and large attributed to the newness of the environment, the transition between schools, the raised expectations, his immaturity as a four-year-old in a class of five- and six-year-olds. But as the school year wore on and things didn't improve, the director, teachers, and I decided to seek an evaluation for him.

Ezra's father Jason*, my ex-husband, has Asperger's. Although he was undiagnosed as a child, there is really no getting around it as an adult and his diagnoses has clarified many of what appeared to be personality problems. He is fortunate to be on the extreme low end of the disorder, which to most people probably makes him appear as the shy genius type, but without the endearing and compassionate emotional side that Hollywood always adds in. In short, it is brilliance that is largely unmitigated by sensitivity to other people's reactions or feelings. Productive conversations with Ezra's dad involve a lot of repetition, so that he and I can make absolutely sure we know what each other is expressing six ways from Sunday. Actually, if you come armed with a thick skin and the ability to explore conversational tangents, Jason is a delightful guy. Definitely one of my top five favorite people, even if he didn't give me back that bookshelf until we were already divorced.

Much of what Ezra does now precisely mirrors his father's behavior at that age. Of course, Ezra's grandparents trotted his father from one psychologist to the next without a concrete diagnosis or, from my understanding, a reassuring explanation as to why their obviously bright son was doing so poorly in school. Of course, when we sat down to make a mental list of what Ezra is about, as a person, it wasn't exactly as if "THERE'S AN ASPIE HERE!" was marked out in blinking lights. If anything, to me he just seemed like a cool, smart kid:

Ezra is a collector. His first collection was balls, at less than a year old. 17 of them. Touching them, lifting them, and rolling them could entertain him for at least an hour, if someone was there with him. Following balls were wine corks, candle wax (scented or unscented), rocks, small containers (from coin purses to empty film canisters), and other tiny objects that he finds interesting (a broken barrette, an interesting bit of pine sap, a scrap of printed rice paper).

Ezra is a builder. Blocks, legos, Tinker-toys, Lincoln Logs, Erector Sets, those magnetic sticks that you attach with balls, furniture stacked on top of each other in constructions that defy physics, piles of books and toys arranged in complex and indecipherable patterns around his room.

For someone who's so messy, Ezra is a perfectionist. He has to have things just so. He comes to a project with a clear organization in his head, and God help whatever pipe cleaner defies the process he has ordained. Stickers, paper, writing utensils, paints, boxes of puzzles, and pillows all must be arranged perfectly. This is his own word. Perfect. It is the highest compliment he can give you (and for the record, not a word either his father or I used in praising him, preferring terms such as "Right on" and "Sweet").

Ezra loves to cook. If the choice is between watching a cartoon or helping with dinner, nine times out of ten he will drag his chair into the kitchen. In this aspect, he's an incessant bother, but to be fair to him he does an excellent job of understanding safety rules and the limits parents have to put on children around things like fire and sharp edges.

Ezra needs to know why. And if he doesn't accept your reason for why, he will have to ask you repeatedly until you come up with a different way to explain it. Then he will illustrate, using examples from his previous life experience and observations he's made on the world at large, why you are hopelessly incorrect and in what ways and how often he should be allowed to do as he originally proposed.

Before he was three, Ezra was explaining to adults how velocity worked and its bearing on gravity. Ezra physics are a riot.

Ezra displays some tendencies that do not seem in accordance with his otherwise advanced abilities. For example, he is very resistant to getting himself dressed, brushing his own teeth, putting on his own shoes, wiping himself after using the toilet, doing his part to share and help out. In this aspect, his three-year-old sister far surpasses him in terms of maturity. Ezra never had much of a "No! I do it myself!" phase, despite our repeated efforts (for the sake of saving time, if nothing else) for him to learn to do these things on his own.

Ezra is an ignorer. Up until today, I vacillated between thinking he had a hearing problem, was a naughty child who just didn't listen, or had a genuine inability to understand when something was being requested of him.

Ezra has a good eye for chess, puzzles, and manipulatives, but he also loves to run around and play outside. He is an extremely nimble climber and is not awkward or clumsy when he jumps around and plays. He is daring: he likes to climb into places from which it is impossible to descend unassisted. He likes to be observed doing this.

Ezra hates performing. For being a non-native speaker of both Hebrew and Spanish, he has an excellent understanding of both. But he will very rarely communicate in either of these languages. Nor does he like to recite things he's learned, or show you a trick that he knows. He can also tell when you are trying to slyly coax this out of him. He will, however, talk with adults in a very animated and un-shy way, if the topic of conversation is right. Recent good conversational hits that various adults have scored in the past three months: electronic dreidels, the Cranium game Cariboo, the location of South America in relation to other continents, the way in which gypsy children will take your money, what needs to happen before humans can live on the Moon. If you want Ezra to make eye contact and talk with you, you have to give up the pretense (which most adults don when communicating with children) that you really have no idea and are waiting to hear the quaint and adorable way he will explain it to you. Ezra can sense patronizism a mile away. He's more likely to be interested if he thinks you think you know everything already--- because then he can tell you something you didn't know yet.

Ezra doesn't understand how he hurts people sometimes. He displays very little recognition when others tell him that they don't like what he's doing. He doesn't seem to internalize when he's seriously offended another child until they are so completely frustrated that they burst into tears. With adults, Ezra has a very limited reaction to disappointment or admonishment expressed by grown-ups. In some ways he seems to have blinders on, unable to realize that he's acting inappropriately and has been asked to correct it. On the other hand, if he realizes what he's done he will be genuinely remorseful, offering very kind words and strangling hugs.

Despite all of our friends and family insistently assuring us to the contrary, the official (although non-specific) word is back. Ezra is an extremely intelligent child with atypical neurological development. More testing is required to pinpoint any more. He is often verbally aggressive, has an inability to transition between environments and tasks, has trouble working with a partner or in a group setting, and in his own friendly way is very disruptive. His teachers assure us that he is one of the best students, in many ways advanced beyond his peers--- when he chooses to do his work.

Now, I have a marked disdain for worksheets and meaningless exercises. Two years teaching Latin at a Waldorf school inured me against the idea that busy work was still good because it was work. The Montessori environment, I had hoped, would allow Ezra to follow his own interests and work at his pace. The thought of my sharp, sneaky little boy sitting silently in a row of desks all day was anathema--- this school truly seemed like a compromise between what I wanted (some sort of bizarre unschool home-learning where science, language arts, and history are all combined in a lesson on Roman road building) and what was offered in the area (soulless, depressing public schools or trendy, hip private schools with empty educational philosophies).

It's apparent that even in this child-led environment, a compromise must be struck. Today, it was decided that Ezra needed more direction in his lessons, which seemed like a good idea at the time: keeping him focused and interested instead of bored and disruptive. Now I realize that very little was actually decided to address his... I'll call it his unique social skills.

I just want to grab him and swing him around in the sunshine. There's nobody else who can make me laugh like he can.

*Names are changed.