Ordinary experience versus "an" experience; A Deweyan Perspective

Dewey explains that, to have an educative experience, a student must have an anticipatory feeling and be able to immerse themselves in that learning environment. Students that attend class may experience new concepts or ideas through lecture or activity and while they are a part of that body of learning, they aren't necessarily having "an" experience. One can participate in the classroom environment, but if the lesson doesn't allow a real opportunity to begin, develop, and have a meaningful conclusion, the learning aspect is not integrative in a real way that can be used for retention and further development. 

Think about it in terms of learning a skill versus having a skillset. When a coach has a group of 5th graders trying out for the basketball team, would it make sense if the athletes were only taught and practiced passing the basketball? No, of course not. Passing is one aspect of the game! The team needs to also learn how to shoot, rebound, dribble, and play defense. If the only skill the coach focuses on is passing, the game would never make sense to players (or fans!). It's in the learning of the entire repertoire of skills that make up the game of basketball, and when those goals are clear, the game makes sense to the player. 

A basketball player cannot watch the coach shoot and dribble and learn how to play. Likewise, a player cannot understand the mechanics of a bounce pass or a bank shot perfectly and thus be able to preform the skill. They instead need to learn how their body moves across a court in conjunction with their teammates and opponents, anticipate where a missed shot may come off the hoop so they can be in position to rebound, and feel the ball arch from their fingertips during a free throw. The combination of skills and practice is what provides "an" experience, which can be practiced, honed, and tweaked.

Wise Integration of Technology

In this blogpost, I will summarize two useful models for incorporating wise technology practices into the classroom. 

The first framework I'll introduce is the Triple E model, which is intended to help educators create lessons that allow students to use technology to meet and add value to educational goals. 

How can we use technology to extend, enhance, and engage student learning opportunities?

Framework Models - Triple E Framework

The Triple E model is useful in that the type of tool used is less important than the instructional strategies employed by the teachers using the tool. Well, why might that be beneficial? With the expansion of technological tools available and the growing trend to incorporate these tools in a classroom setting, the focus of Triple E is to hone the skillset of instructors, regardless of the tools that may be available. Districts that focus on instructional strategies could provide a better equilibrium even with a discrepancy in funding. Teachers that are trained to best use the technology they are provided places the emphasis less on the tools and more on the learning goals and practices. 

The second framework is the SAMR Model. I found several useful graphics that explain the premises of this method of technology integration in the classroom. I will briefly expand on each part, and I've shared a couple of graphics below: 

S: Substitution - This is the use of technology to present findings, rather than expression with pen and pencil. 

A: Augmentation - This is the practice of using technology as an additional source, or an augmentation of traditional school tools.

M: Modification - In this practice, technology significantly alters the learning objective. A student creates their own presentation, or collaborates with peers, and the technology is actually part of that learning objective.

R: Redefinition - The creation of an entirely new experience, by students, using technology. Here, technology is not only key, but part and parcel of the learning goal. Students connect knowledge both inside and outside the classroom.

See the graphic below. The "S" and the "A" parts of the model are examples of technology use as enhancements in the classroom, while the "M" and "R" focus more on ways tech can be transformative learning. You can see that, as you travel across the model from left to right, learning experiences and depth of knowledge becomes more reliant on the use of technology. 

An alternate graphic, below, shows the use of technology as a task of complexity using coffee orders as an example.

                                                        Image created by Jonathan Brubaker (@mia_sarx)

The SAMR framework can be used with both classroom enhancement and transformation. Educators and students can jump into whatever "cup" suites the needs of the given task. 

No matter what framework is used for wise integration, that different processes are studied and executed in schools means that teachers will continue to have opportunities to learn and place appropriate tech in classrooms as available.  

The Great Debate! Clark vs. Kozma

 Well, here we go...

Clark states that media do not influence learning, while Kozma argues that media has a great impact on learning. I think from the time frame the argument began, both scholars had valid points. Clark points out that learning MUST happen in the least expensive way, with broad reach. Kozma claps back with a "Hold on, kid! We've barely scratched the surface on relevance, process and data collection!"

The basis of this argument, in my opinion, is how to deliver gainful learning as an educator. Clark seems a little stuck on his idea that media cannot influence learning regardless of the ways in which it can be used; that it is the instruction that is the bottom line of whether learning is "caused". I can understand that point. Delivery of information is important, and humans learn with a conglomeration of information which they use relative to what they already know to be true. 

Kozma argues that learning is a response to what is already known, combined with a construct of new information that is processed and stored in relation to factors already present. 

What these guys agree on is there are no concrete data measurements on which to rely. 

 

Despite this great debate, here we are in 2024, and I think media hugely influences learning. The ability of technology to simulate open heart surgeries, flight, physics, economic patterns...really any academic field, any service field, has exploded. There are innumerable resources available to find out information and learning anything new will activate prior knowledge regardless of the delivery method of those findings. 

Perhaps the delivery method can be most efficient with further instruction. For instance, if you want to learn how to paint a hot air balloon, you might want advice from an art teacher who can point you in the direction of a website designed for amateur painters. But even without a personal reference, a novice painter could easily search for resources that would coach one through a first time painting exercise. In this example, even if a person's painting turned out to look more like a sunset than a hot air balloon, would they not have learned how to use certain brushes, palettes, canvases? No! Regardless of how their painting turned out, they would receive a wealth of knowledge to use for their next project, and that transfer of knowledge IS learning. 

EDT 619

 Grad School Blog! 

About Whitaker

Baby Whitaker Steel, born 9/11

Those sliding glass doors. The sound of them swooshing open. That's one detail I remember so clearly; standing alone, slack armed in front of the doors leading to the emergency room at the Children's Hospital. Such an odd recollection.

I remember the red ropes too. Waiting in line between those bright red ropes imprinted with a teddy bear. They directed me toward a desk, where sat a beautiful black woman, her makeup somehow both garish and gorgeous; bright pink and blue lids shimmered under impossibly extended lashes. She was perfect. When she asked me where I was headed, I just wept, embarrassed, barely able to say aloud that I had come for my son.  She'd prepare and hand me a sticker to wear on my shirt, a proclamation of my visitor status to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. And she'd look right at me, her eyes filled with remarkable kindness. She never once avoided my eyes, swollen and ugly with shock. I remember her looking at me as if I were not a person falling apart, but one who was whole. I loved her for that.

I remember too, how long the hallways were, how it took a century to get from the elevator to my baby. And how not one of the rooms on the way to him, was empty. Each room held a tiny body in a tiny crib, strange hues of blue or orange or yellow emanating through the hush. I remember the beep of machines, and how Seth and I talked about whether we'd dream with that sound in our brains someday, if we ever all came home. If we ever slept.

I don't remember giving birth. I didn't see or touch Whitaker when he was born. I didn't hear his first cry, didn't see if his eyes were open wide with wonder or confusion or pain or whatever he felt when he made his way to the world. I don't know if his skin was wrinkled or how he smelled. I don't know who it was that first touched him, who bathed him, who diapered, wrapped or rocked him.

When Whitaker was born, and for several hours after, I wasn't even conscious.

This is the first time I touched him, several hours after he was born.
I don't have any memory of this moment in real life, only this picture for proof.

I had an awfully intense and very short labor that culminated when an OB (who I'd met only once before at a routine prenatal appointment) marched into an already chaotic room, and announced "I'm calling a code."

And because my medical background consisted of nothing more than watching Grey's Anatomy, to me a code meant someone was dying. I didn't know if it was me or my baby, and nobody spoke to me again until seconds before I was put under anesthesia.

I remember that too, how I was laying on my back surrounded by the turmoil of 20 people shouting instructions to each other and metal things banging against other metal things. They were prepping my body for surgery, but nobody said a word to me. Not. One. Word. A woman finally appeared above my strapped down, laboring body, and explained that I would feel a needle in my neck and then go to sleep. Maybe she recognized the utter panic in my eyes. Maybe it was that or maybe she was just doing her job, but right before I felt the sting of the needle, she said "It's going to be OK."

So Whitaker, due to a sustained, substantial decrease in heart rate, was brought into the world by emergency C-section. It was less than ideal, and I think he was moments from being born the old fashioned way, but the result was a six and a half pound gorgeous baby boy.

And for a little while, things seemed pretty normal. Grandparents smiled broadly as they held the new little bundle. Lakeland became a proud big sister, and Seth and I settled in, startled by the surgical part of Whitaker's birth, but relieved to have it all behind us, and the wonder of a new baby in front of us.

My three favorite faces.

Relieved and so completely in love.

There was a slight movement in Whitaker's arm that first day, an odd tic that was barely noticeable, but seemed strangely rhythmic - almost like a hiccup. I asked a pediatrician about it, and was assured that newborns just do weird shit when they adjust to their new environments. Unconvinced, I videoed it with my phone and showed another pediatrician, and in those moments, with the right person viewing a 14 second video, everything changed. We learned that Whitaker was experiencing seizures, and with urgency, a swarm of doctors started tests to garner as much information as possible, as quickly as possible, about his condition.

After a painful lumbar puncture and a slew of other tests I've long since forgotten, Whitaker was prepared for transfer to the Neonatal ICU at Children's National Medical Center.

One day post surgery and out of my mind with terror, Seth and I began negotiating my release from the hospital. And then I was in the front of an ambulance while a critical care team wearing full on freaking jumpsuits sat next to a high-tech plexiglass crib containing our newborn.

What the team wore - minus the helmet.

The critical care ambulance that transferred
us from Virginia Hospital to Children's National.

Whitaker met his first week of life with a barrage of examinations. His tests included EEG's and MRI's, along with tons of antibiotics in case his condition was the result of some kind of infection. He was given dose after dose of anti-seizure medications.

His small body was bruised everywhere, his lips so chapped they looked like swollen little pillows. Whitaker spent a prolonged period of time attached to an EEG and we weren't allowed to hold him. We just waited on diligent watch for any sign of seizing, while the electrodes attached to his head wrote a squiggly-lined story on a monitor about what was happening in his brain.

And because it's impossible to explain the torture of not be able to touch, help, feed or soothe your baby, I'll share some of the pictures we took during those days Whitaker was in the NICU.

These pictures are intensely private, but important too, in unveiling Whitaker's story.

Seth snuck his dingy old raggedy-ass childhood Pooh-bear into the hospital room.

Whitaker's head wrapped in what looks like a long stocking.
Underneath that white gauze, EEG wires are attached to his head
to monitor his brain activity. I think the test was 36 hours or so,
and during that time, we couldn't pick him up.

This was after the EEG was removed. He was so dry from the lamps, and I longed to nurse him. 
Seth and I wet his lips with our own saliva. 
Both of his feet are wrapped in bandages, one holding a 
monitor and the other a needle for administration of his medications.

Our tiny peanut. 

Here Whitaker is being prepped his first MRI. He slept through the whole thing,
and his neurologist got images that allowed her to diagnose the problem.

Whitaker's medical team discovered that he was seizing due to a subarachnoid hemorrhage. His seizures were long and intense, 6-10 minutes compared to the average newborn seizure of 60-90 seconds.

I remember sitting in a room full of brilliant neonatal neurologists, dumbly looking at films of Whitaker's brain. Seth would engage in conversation and ask thoughtful questions, one pen-wielding hand poised over a notebook, the other on my knee. (Seth was a champion from the time we arrived at the birth hospital until we arrived home as a family of four. The drive to the hospital while I was in labor however, was like a scene in a romantic comedy movie - Seth was swerving in and out of traffic while I yelled at him for his lack of driving skills.)

In each meeting, I just sat there stunned, quietly crying. Not understanding. Only wanting to hold my baby, only caring when I could feed him. Never even wondering when we might go home but with needs simply centered around when I could mother my child.

On the 17th of September, Whitaker got to come home. Seth and I learned how and when to administer his medications. We set alarms as reminders and established a medication station in the kitchen. Every blanket and burp cloth was stained pink with spat out phenobarbital. It was fucking awful.

Those first months, we scrutinized Whitaker's every move. The need to be alert and attentive to anything out of the ordinary was exhausting, but the acute gratitude for his just being alive proved a heavy counterweight.

After follow up EEG's and MRI's, in mid-December we learned three month old Whitaker could be weened off the anti-seizure medications. It was loosely determined that his hemorrhage was due to a "one time event", as there were no signs of arterial or venal abnormalities. I feel so sure that the trauma of birth was to blame. The poor kid could literally see the light at the end of the tunnel and was abruptly yanked through time and space, up and out a completely different opening.

A follow-up EEG on October 6 still showed
some abnormal "blips". Note how cute he is,
even hooked up to all the scary wires.

December 11 EEG was normal! Look how excited he is!!

Whitaker had the best medical care imaginable. His doctor was brilliant and instinctive and aggressive. She was forthcoming and concise. She saved our baby, and she's saving more babies right now. That's what she does. She saves babies. I now know a woman who saves babies for a living, and that's pretty much awesome. Not as awesome as a healthy baby would have been, but nonetheless, I know an actual hero.

Our family received love in every way, in bounds, from places near and far. There were phone calls and messages, flowers and gifts, random queso drops and bacon deliveries. People checked in often, sent jokes and well wishes, and bought plane tickets and flew to us. That too, was amazing.

The thing is, you can never imagine the feeling of loss when you give birth and have no memory of the experience. Can't fathom the nightmare of walking into your house without your baby in your arms. You can't anticipate that you might be a person standing in between those red ropes, waiting for a name tag so you can see your baby in the intensive care unit.

You can never know what you are able to endure until you have no choice but to withstand that thing.

I wish that I didn't know these things, that my family didn't experience this hardship. But I know that we are lucky. We got to walk out through those sliding glass doors, baby in arms. I'm thankful. And that's the story about Whitaker.

Perfectly Imperfect

Some time ago, I watched this TED talk about how the U.S. doesn't provide paid maternity leave. The discussion focused on how the lack of resources for women forces many postpartum mothers to return to work well before they are ready.

I had a tearful, painful sort of reaction to it, and frantically began writing about the delicate balance between mother and child, and how forcing their separation was cruel. Emotions poured from my fingertips. I typed and typed and typed, but my words were all wrong. I deleted huge swaths and started again, only to repeat the sequence.

Motherhood is difficult to write about, I think. Occasionally I tiptoe through the minefield and though I've gotten a few scrapes along the way, have found a sort of protection in just being honest.

Sometimes you can learn a thing or two about yourself when you are really honest. Like, I learned (relearned?) that I can be horrifically near-sighted. 

I very much wanted to write about what I was feeling, but what I'd managed to cobble together for my blog was shaky at best. So before I hit the publish button, I asked my aunt if she'd read my draft and give me some feedback. Her response:

"I had to grit my teeth to get through it."

Then, maybe to make me feel a little less like a jerk, she said it was well written, it was difficult subject matter, and she saw the humor where intended, but that it was a selfish perspective and it sounded "preachy".

I suppose some part of me knew that and kept me from publishing a kind of intense piece of writing all willy-nilly, but I needed someone to say it to me. (Thanks, Aunt Carol!)

Because the truth is, I have no idea what it feels like to be separated from my infant. I've worked almost exclusively from home since giving birth to Lakeland 6 years ago.  My boss at the time allowed for a full time, work from home position for that first year after Lakeland was born. She set a high bar, and made expectations clear. I've always felt an almost crushing degree of thankfulness that she allowed me the option to work from home. Though she had to return to work only two weeks after the premature birth of her son a few years prior, or maybe because of her unfortunate circumstances, she allowed me that opportunity.

So instead of writing in ignorance about mothers returning to work, and pretending to know how that feels, I'm going to share what I know about, and that's working from home with (now) two kids.

So back to that TED talk, which starts out showing examples of internet images that are meant to portray working mothers.

I googled "working mothers" as suggested, and sure enough, one snapshot after another popped up showing women and children seated in clean work spaces, where not a coffee stained cup or empty bag of tortilla chips lingers. With pencils sharpened, shirts ironed and nails painted, the women happily hold their children while clicking away on their keyboards.  There are no gray hairs to be seen, no bags under any eyes, and no bloated diapers on the babies, who are all fully dressed and probably recently bathed.

Take a look at these scenes:

There's no way actual people live here. Where's all their stuff? Two kids, each holding a teddy bear for amusement? Come on! Also, my back aches just looking at this woman's body position. Nobody voluntarily sits like that.

I'd totally kick my feet up and work from the couch. Except I can't. Because my couch doubles as a folding table for laundry and also because I would fall, mid email, into a deep, deep slumber.

Hey Mommy, you better put down that land line and your herbal tea because that baby's about to go APE. SHIT. ON. YOUR. ASS.

Allow me to share my typical work surface with you:

It's 6 feet of pure chaos. Papers, trash, vitamins, glow sticks, kid books, teethers, markers, flashlights...our whole freaking house is on this table.

Also allow me to introduce my typical work positions, with the little bodies of my children perpetually pressed against me:

Baby on lap, facing screen. With only beginner's neck control, I had to be diligent with pillow positioning or he was sure to bash his little round face on my Mac. Probably his diaper needs changed, and we are both still in pajamas. This is how you'll find us on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8am-1pm.

This position demonstrates what Seth calls "Throwing a boob in his mouth in order to get some work done", a pretty accurate description. Notice the baby is only partially dressed, and those dark circles around my eyes are the Real Deal.

The fifth snow day in a row resulted in a tough morning for this little one.

Baby Whitaker likes to kick his feet up on the edge of the table and push back against me, so technically, I'm resistance training in this image. Bonus!

I am a working mother, and this is what that looks like. Baby nursing, headphones on, no makeup and unwashed hair. Pajamas and coffee and breakfasts of dry cereal. Bored kids, toys everywhere, nobody dressed. It looks nothing like those google images. It's not perfect. Hell, sometimes it's not even palatable. It's messy. It's frustrating. Really, really frustrating.

And if I tilt my head the right way, it's beautiful. And it makes me feel full of love and life.

Even looking at the pictures of partially completed chores and messes in progress, I still feel the "luxury" of being able to work from home while raising my children. Like everyone else, my days can feel incredibly long. Unending. But along the way, I've learned to survive. I've picked up a few tricks, like how to ignore whatever is least pressing - could be children, could be piles of laundry that may or may not be emitting visible wisps of odor, could be an email or instant message.

Now that you've all heard of my proclomation of jerkiness, seen my house looking like the pits, gotten a preview of me in my pajamas nursing a baby with no cover, and caught the complete insanity of my "desk", I'm going to wrap this thing up. If you'll just allow me to briefly and ever so tentatively climb up on the little soapbox that I have no business standing on and whisper, with averted gaze, to all of the mommies that returned to work before they were ready:

I think you have unbounded courage and you are so loved. For all the times you've endured the phrases: "It'll get easier.", "It's harder on you than it is on the baby.", "Just get through the day, minute by minute." I wish I could have been there to just bring you a coffee and sit quietly beside you.

And to all of you mommies that excitedly packed your satchels and had your clothes laid out and ready to go that last day of your maternity leave, looking forward with great anticipation to returning to your jobs:

I think you have unbounded courage and you are so loved. Thank you for representing the strength and determination that lies within us all, and taking care of yourselves and your families while kicking real-world ass.

And to all of the mommies that put their babies down on their cluttered floor, threw some snacks and toys at their toddlers, and logged on from home, turning a deaf ear to the voices of their children, ignoring the fussing and the utter chaos:

I think you have unbounded courage and you are so loved. I wish I could play with your babies and fold your laundry while you returned emails. Thank you for contributing your best through the push-pull of child rearing during the work day.

Not one of us looks like the women in those working mother google images.

We are all perfectly imperfect.

More stuff.

I am not about to tell you that I'm nailing it at parenting because that'd just be a bold faced lie.

I swear far too often, my patience is sometimes as thin as silk, and pretty much every day, I forget Lakeland is only 5 years old. Which means I act like a real dick when she spills at the table, I interrupt her before allowing her the time she needs to finish her sentences, and sometimes, I eat her candy without asking.

But one parenting area where I thought I was at least up to par, was teaching Lakeland the importance of family and friends, that being kind and thoughtful is valuable, and that material possessions are less important than human connections.  She seemed to really glom on to these concepts in her own little ways, and has on numerous occasions, embarrassingly, brought me to tears with her generosity and gentle spirit toward others.

Until she didn't.

What else could she possibly need? Cape, hat,
bunny, broom, boots (from her friend!), petticoat.

Here's what happened:

We were walking home from school, hand in hand, shooting the breeze. I was all "How was your day? (good), Did you eat the veggies in your lunch box? (no), Did you learn anything? (not sure)" ...and then she said, "My friend had another new dress on today."

"How nice!" I prattled, not quite recognizing her tone of voice.

(I'd like to just pause quickly to tell you guys that this friend that Lakeland is talking about is freaking AWESOME, and she does have a lot of stuff, but she totally shares with Lakeland, and lots of times, just gives away her toys and dresses and shoes. She's a great kid with amazing parents.)

"But mommy, she always has new dresses. All of my friends have a lot of shoes and dresses and toys and books. And they get to play with cell phones and ipads. And they even have Barbies."

"Well...?" was my completely unreassuring and teetering response, but I didn't blurt out "Fuck Barbies" like I wanted, so...see? Nailing it!

"But why don't I have a lot of new toys and dresses? And SHOES! WHAT ABOUT SHOES!? Everyone has more stuff than me," she whined.

And there it was. My teachings over the last 5 years flung right out the window.

As usual, these more grown-up conversations pop up sooner in life than I expect them to, but at least I'd anticipated this one.  So Lakeland and I had a heart-to-heart. I told her that daddy and I decided that mommy mostly wouldn't work so that I could take care of her and her brother. And that daddy works really hard so that she can be home with me. "We're called a 'one income family' buddy, and that just means less money for stuff." I soothed.

Lakeland, unmoved, simply raised her eyebrows. I bit my tongue, as I so often do, and instead of blasting her with lists of all the things she should be grateful for, forged ahead with an alternate explanation.

"So there's this saying in the world and it goes 'The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side'".

At this, Lakeland showed a slight, though wary, interest.

I persevered. I drew her a picture of two hills and two little girls, and explained that when each girl looks down at her own little patch of grass on her hill, it kind of looks dingy and brown, but when she looks across the way at the other little girl's hill, it looks really bright and green.

I told her that it was totally normal for her to feel like she wanted all the same stuff other kids have, and that sometimes, her friends might wish for what she has, like walking to and from school with mom and dad, or baking cupcakes in the afternoons. Or lazy visits to the library, or playing ball outside together, or going to the playground, and all the other fun shit we get to do together after school.

Then she reminded me that I owed the swear jar some serious coinage.

I carried on. "So you see honey, every family makes choices that work for them, and this is what works for us."

And she said:

"Yeah. Mommy? Can you just go to work? I'd rather have the stuff."

He Changes 1 out of 100 Diapers

Here are some of the dumb things my husband says about diaper duty:

I couldn't find the diapers. 

~ The location of the stored diapers has not changed since the birth of the baby six months ago.

I thought you already changed him.

~ I did. 5 hours ago. 

I saved his diaper for you, so you could see it.

~ Yeah, like this one particular diaper is a real game changer.

I change at least one out of every ten diapers.

~ Just a ludicrous suggestion...

I wasn't sure what to do with his diaper, so I just left it on the stairs.

~ I just...no. Not acceptable.

I had to use a disposable because I didn't know stuff about the other kind.

~ You didn't know "stuff". Like, all of a sudden, cloth diapering is outside of your realm.

I didn't use the butt stick.

~ No shit. (Poor rashy baby.)

I forgot the cream.

~ No shit. (Poor rashy baby.)

I didn't need wipes. He only peed.

~ That's not a thing. You gotta wipe his butt, dude.

I did my best.

~ Oh my GOD. WHAT DID YOU DO?!?

A Moose Among the Gazelles

I was up and running on the trail early today, which meant I was sharing the footpath along a rocky creek with real runners who actually enjoy lacing up on Sunday mornings.

Having 8 miles to complete at my slothy pace gave me plenty of time to observe the people around me. Plus, focusing on others drew my attention away from the fact that my feet felt as if attached to blocks of concrete disguised as shoes.

Here are my observations from this morning:

While others were smiling at the robins and the playful chipmunks darting across the trail, I'd be grimacing and dodging the little assholes. 

Even though it was a chilly 37 degrees, I was pouring sweat and beet red in the face. By contrast, the other runners I saw were dry skinned with just a gentle splash of pink across their cheekbones. How everyone else was just barely flushed at double my pace, I'm not sure. But it could be because...

The foot strikes of my fellow trail blazers were feathery; they made not a sound. My footfalls on the pavement basically shook the very foundation of the earth. The others glided past and opposite me, their feet landing and then lifting their lithe bodies up and propelling them forward, as if they were running on the surface of a trampoline. My stride being far more more ploddish, seemed to sink into the pavement. I had to yank each foot forward as if there were gum wads attached to my soles. It's possible that...

These trail beauties all weigh in at 120-some pounds and so their gazelle-like legs can easily handle the slightness of their upper bodies. I've thrown 50 extra pounds into the mix, so my poor hooves and joints have more to handle. I am a moose. This was particularly noticeable when...

I paused when needed (mostly the tops of hills), and gulped down water while hunched over, hands on my knees. My counterparts would take a quick swig from their Camelbacks while running in place and checking their various fitness devices for split times. I felt fairly accomplished not because I was setting any records, but because I'd actually completed some serious mileage without shitting myself.

It's the little things.

Deer Lakeland!

Once upon a bright and sunny November day, one mom got dressed and asked her daughter to put on some hiking clothes.

Her daughter took a long look at her mother and headed upstairs to her room to change.

She came downstairs (like a freaking hour later...why do kids take soooo long to get dressed?) wearing a proud smile, a matching outfit, and shouting "TWIN BEARS WHAT WHAT!", and then insisted she take a selfie of the two matching girls.

Her technique could use some work.

So blurry. Can't see faces. Oh well.

And off they went, on their merry way to Sky Meadows State Park for a brutal hike. (All walks in our family, regardless of length or difficulty, are referred to as "brutal hikes". Even walking to school 0.3 miles is a brutal hike.) Their one and only goal: to touch the Appalachian Trail.

Upon arrival, the young girl bounded through fields and posed for majestic pictures.

She also walked through a pricker bush, which made her itchy and incredibly whiny.

"Mom, how much longer is this brutal hike?"

Once the two had traveled approximately 70 feet, they encountered a few giant swarms of those black gnats that fly directly into your eyeballs and also some starving mosquitoes trying to get their last meal before winter, and the child upped the whining to straight up crying. The exasperated mother took a video because, well, someday perhaps the daughter will think it's funny. Maybe.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smq1dD0TnJ4

It was clear pretty early on that this brutal hike wasn't going to last long. The mother tried encouragement. She tried distraction. She dug deep and told stories of her own misadventures on the trail, including whipping her bloody hiking boots off the side of a boat. Eventually though, the whining daughter wore the exhausted mother down.

They were so close to the AT, but seriously - look at the child's face... There could be no more hiking.

Fully lacking a decent attitude, though the AT is less than a mile away.

As the two girls lugged their matching selves back to the car, the best and most magical thing happened, which totally saved the day and made driving 126 miles round trip for a 23 minute walk totally worth it all.

THIS guy!

And then the mom took this hilarious and poignant photo.

"Lakeland! Deer!!"

For real. Look at her face. AND look at the deer's face. Best. Hike. Ever.

OK, not ever, but this moment? SO GOOD.

Parking Lot Provocation

So yeah. 

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a bit of a scuffle in the parking lot of a grocery store.

It all started over a parking spot, as I imagine a large percentage of confrontations in parking lots do. I had pulled my car into a spot, turned off the ignition, taken my seat belt off and was gathering my things when I realized that someone was incessantly honking their horn. At me, apparently. So I looked up and there's this guy wildly gesturing and yelling at me: "Hey, I want to park my car there!". Confused, I sort of threw my hands in the air in the universal "what gives?" sign, and yelled (to myself really, since my windows were rolled up) "Are you serious?", and he made a back up motion with his hands, shouting "Yeah, move your car back a spot so I can park there!" (I'd nabbed a pull-through spot, so there was an empty spot in back of me.)

I was stunned at the hilarity of his outlandish request for my spot which, by the way, was a relatively shitty one in the back of the lot.

In a very un-Erin-like way, and as if propelled by some unknown force, I found myself calmly getting out of my car with the intention of actually speaking to this lunatic. I walked over to the passenger side of his car and, in as even keeled a voice as possible said: "Listen. I'm happy to move my car back 5 feet (a bit sarcastic - yes) so that you can park your car there, but I think you are being ridiculous.  Are you really, seriously beeping your horn at me? PLUS, there's a spot right. there." I indicated with a sweep of my arm an empty spot 2 or 3 down from where I'd parked. Then, to this man in his mid-40's with bursting biceps, I continued in an almost complimentary way: "Sir, you are clearly an able-bodied, fit person who can walk from your car to the store. There's really no need for this. But yeah, let me just move my car for you."

People keep asking me, "Why did you move your car for this jerk?" and the only reason I can come up with is that it was clearly more important to him to have that spot than it was to me. I don't actually have a good answer, because on any other day, I would have ignored the guy entirely. I'm not sure why I reacted the way I did.

He pulled his car into my vacated spot, and I got out and started walking toward the store. That's when I heard him, from 20 or so feet behind me, say:

"Someone isn't so fit - looks like you could use an extra walk."

And at that moment, I completely lost my mind. I'm not particularly confrontational, and I'm certainly not one to physically challenge anyone, especially very muscular men, especially in parking lots, especially when I'm six months pregnant. It's just not my style.

I suspect part of my very aggressive reaction is due to my growing a tiny but fierce pair of balls in my uterus, though that fact is unconfirmed at this time.

Anyway, I immediately whirled around and launched myself at him, grabbed him by the neck of his too-tight t-shirt, yanked him toward me, and succinctly let him know exactly what I thought of his comment. Which was that he had no business talking to me that way, had no business talking to ANYBODY that way, and (though really, this is entirely beside the point...) by the way you fucking asshole, I'm six months pregnant.

When I let go of his shirt, (I think both of us equally surprised and perhaps him rethinking that "not-too-fit comment"), he skittered backwards like a cowardly dog, sort of bent into himself and, maybe (probably not) embarrassed that he'd acted like a prick, mumbled that I had an anger problem. 

And I guess I sort of do, when some fool calls me fat in a parking lot on a perfectly lovely, sunny Saturday afternoon.

The truth is, almost immediately after that impromptu and kind of bad-ass reaction, once I'd removed myself from the vicinity of the offender, I essentially crumbled. I felt bad about my growing body and all the parts of it that have gone soft or lumpy with pregnancy and I felt bad that I had offered as an excuse to this had-no-business-knowing stranger the fact that I was growing a human. I felt bad that someone had spoken to me in that way, and that it had the power to hurt me. I felt bad for losing my temper and acting trashy in a parking lot. I felt bad for putting myself in a position that could have been potentially harmful. And I felt bad that I had to walk all the way back to my car, leaving the store without buying anything, and I showed up at my friend's house for dinner, sobbing and empty-handed.

I've no moral to this story, no new wisdom to impart. After this happened and I decided to write about it, I did about 10 minutes of research before coming to the very obvious conclusion that I'm one of millions of women who've been subjected to inappropriate comments and body shaming. Unfortunately my case is far from unique.

What I can say is that I'm proud of myself for not letting someone get away with speaking to me in that way. I'm glad, overall, that I was able to stick up for myself. I'm able to find a bit of humor and it makes me smile even, when I think about the look on his face when he was in my strong and capable grasp. 

And while I don't recommend physical altercations in parking lots, I think in my case, it was necessary.

Lastly, if you find yourself in a situation like mine, and I really hope you don't - know that you can call me and I'll help you protect your shitty parking spot.






 

Well...I'm not NOT pregnant.

Did anyone see that cute couple on Buzzfeed or Huffpost - the one where the pregnant girl took her unsuspecting husband to a photo booth and, as the camera clicked away, showed him a baby hat? At first he looked all confused, and then suddenly he understood what she was telling him and he sort of fell apart...crying and spluttering about...and then they kiss.  Anyone??  Did you guys see that?

Here they are:

Awwwww.  Seriously.  Awwwwww.  How cute are they??

Yeah.  When I found out I was pregnant with Lakeland and told Seth, he said "Holy shit."  The was his entire reaction, explained in precise detail.  "Holy. Shit."

I mean, I didn't expect him to start weeping and get down on his knees, throwing his arms around my waist while pressing his cheek gently against my precious womb.  Of course not.  But a pat on the back might have been nice.

I know now that he was truly happy, but that at the time, the news had so utterly shocked him, he couldn't spit out more than two words.  So maybe he was thinking "Holy. Shit. That's. Awesome!" but only the first part came out?  (He totally got over that initial astonishment and was entirely on board by like, the seventh month though.)

In early January this year, I was fairly sure that I'd gotten pregnant sometime over the holidays.  Not eager to catch him by surprise, I thought it best to break the news gently.  It went like this:

Me (on a Monday morning - 24 full hours in advance):  Hey.  I'm late.  I'm going to take a pregnancy test tomorrow morning.

Seth:  K.

Me (Tuesday morning, on the phone, after having peed on a stick):  Blah, blah, blah...mundane morning conversation, la-di-da...

Seth (matching my humdrumness): Blah, blah, blah...

Me (because he didn't ask and who has time for BSing on the phone all morning?):  So...I took that test...you know?

Seth:  Yeah...?  And...?

Me (In my most neutral "do-not-frighten-the-animal-that-you-unexpectedly-came-upon-while-walking-in-the-woods" voice, with just a hint of Homer Simpson humor in case the news needed further padding):  Well, I'm not NOT pregnant.

Seth (not sounding amused in the least):  Ummm...what? 

Me (Nonchalantly...casually...shoulder-shruggingly):  Well, there were two lines, but that second line was barely noticeable.

Seth:  Oh, OK.  Cool.  See you after work?

Me:  Yep.  Have a good day.  Bye.

"Holy. Shit." - successfully avoided.  "Oh, OK.  Cool." - unexpected, but better, I think?

Two days went by with zero discussion of my imminent barfing period followed by weeks of candy and bread inhalation - two FULL days, with only one offhanded comment from Seth about the hardly positive pregnancy test.  He said, without introduction or fanfare of any kind, "You know that a line, even faint, means it's probably a positive test, right?"

Yes.  Yes I do.  Glad you do, too.

By Friday, I was pretty well over trying not to spook him, and far more interested in entertaining myself, so I took a digital pregnancy test and sent him the following email*:

And while he didn't reply to the email, he did come home from work that night with prenatal vitamins, kissed me on the top of the head, and said "Congratulations, babe".

It wasn't an awwww-worthy acknowledgement in the same way that revealing you're expecting by way of a Homer Simpson joke and a "pregnant as shit" email isn't cute.  That's just not us. 

* "Pregnant as shit" is a phrase I hi-jacked from my hilarious friend Amy Murphy.

Wrong number.

I saw that my friend Melody, a very funny girl, 'liked' on Facebook an article entitled "My Vagina Is All Over The Place".  I immediately clicked on the link; that title was too much to ignore. 

The piece held up satisfyingly well to the promising title.  The writer, who is a British woman I think, captures in a highly descriptive way how I believe many women feel after giving birth.  I mean, I specifically remember my midwife saying, on high authority, that I was not, for any reason, to look upon my nether regions on any reflective surface whatsoever,  for a very, very, VERY long time.  (It's been almost 5 years, and I've yet to break that promise.)

The writer sort of goes on to explain the things that happened during and after the birth of her child and how, now that she's basically hanging in tatters, she's finding it difficult to explain to prospective lovers why her parts look as if they are migrating south for the winter. 

And then, to my horror and delight, she used the phrase "meat curtains" to describe part of her female anatomy.  How truly disgusting and hilarious.  I texted my friend Melody at once, saying "OMG MEAT CURTAINS!??!! That is SO GROSS.  I cannot stop laughing!!"

Probable recipient of my text.  "Huh? What are meat curtains??"

A few hours later, I got a text back with one simple question.  "Who is this?"

And I thought "Oh, she must have lost or deleted my number", so I responded "It's Erin."

"I don't have any friends named Erin.  You have the wrong number." was the brisk retort.

I was somewhat mortified by this text exchange, but at the same time, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that I'm probably the only person to ever send a text about meat curtains to a stranger.  I guess that's something.

Also, below is the link to the article and I have no idea if it's legal for me to do that or not, but if not, sincere apologies to Lottie Lomas.  And feel free to link any of my blog posts to yours, because that's probably the only way I'll ever make it to Huffpost. 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lottie-lomas/my-vaginas-all-over-the-p_b_6615086.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000063

Sunday Family Fun Day

So here's pretty much how Sundays at my house play out:

Lakeland wakes up all early because she knows it's "TV day".  She scampers into our room, sticks her face nose-to-nose with my face, yells "MOM!", and the next thing I know, I'm standing in the living room in front of the TV, shivering in my underwear, with the Netflix remote in my hand.  She then takes a painstakingly long time to choose a show, (and I really can't blame her, since she only gets to do this once a week) directing me to scroll slowly through season after season of the blazing neon "My Little Pony" titles.  It's the part of my weekend that feels sort of like climbing a mountain in soapy flip-flops; never ending and completely maddening.

At some point, I hear myself yelling "Oh my GOD, just PICK ONE" and that startles her enough to make a selection so that I can schlep back to bed.  Then I lay in my room and listen once again to "The Fox and the Hound", which she chooses basically every week, while thinking about what we should do for Sunday Family Fun Day.

You might know that Seth works a weekend job as a mover, and most Saturdays, he burns in the ballpark of 6,000 calories carrying the belongings of families to and from a truck.  That means that on Sundays, he wants to kind of lay low and have what he calls "a good eating day".  He walks around, moaning about his sore muscles and showing off new bruises, while repeatedly rubbing his belly and mumbling "today's gonna be a good eatin' day."  (Which often translates to me having a good eatin' day too, though I definitely didn't earn it...all I do on Saturday mornings is attend a one hour fitness class and then go home and take a great big nap.)

I've come to think of these Sunday binges as Sunday Family Fat Day.  Eating at a pizza buffet, for example, is exactly the type of place where I have zero self-control; it combines my great need of "getting the most for my money" with my "if it has melted cheese on it, I'll eat it until it's gone" mentality, and all is lost.

One Sunday, a while back, I came up with this brilliant plan to combine Sunday Family Fun Day with Sunday Family Fit Day, and in the spirit of this, asked Seth and Lakeland if they wanted to go to the driving range* and hit a couple buckets of balls.  Not exactly a cardio workout, but still, it met my lone criteria, which was to be "active".  Lakeland agreed to go in a way that made it seem as if I'd offered her a trip to Disney World, while Seth balked.  However, once he was aware of the whole picture - that the driving range serves chicken wings...in buckets - he quickly jumped on board.

The morning was sailing along smoothly until Seth got an even better idea for Sunday Family Fit Day, which was to go ice skating.  Perfect!  I got all excited, and peeled Lakeland's eyeballs off of the screen just long enough to ask her if she thought that ice skating sounded fun.  She did not.  She emphatically did not. 

But I, now motivated by an oddly intense desire to go ice skating, came up with an award winning idea to use Emma the Elf (on the Shelf) to help me convince Lakeland that ice skating was the clear winner in family fun.  I drew a picture of Emma wearing appropriate ice skating attire and put it on the bathroom counter.  Then I pretended to find Emma there, pencil still poised in her mitten hand, and called out to Lakeland that her elf drew her a special self portrait and that she was trying to convey a secret message just for her!  Yes.  I am that good.

Lakeland read the secret message and then picked Emma up, bringing the elf's bow shaped mouth to her own ear and listened, nodding her head in understanding.  And then, aloud, Lakeland said "What's that, Emma?  OH, you say you want to go golfing?  Oh, OK!"  Then Lakeland looked right into my eyes and, with that perfect mixture of sweetness and I-am-not-going-to-be-manipulated-by-this-mischievous-elf-or-my-mother, said "Did you hear that mommy?  She definitely wants to go golfing."

The next thing I knew, Lakeland had drawn a rebuttal picture of her own self, standing next to Emma, both of them holding golf clubs and smiling.  


Seth saw Lakeland's drawing on the dining room table and poked so much fun at me for what I thought was a highly clever attempt to get Lakeland to change her mind, that I'm pretty sure he cracked one of my ribs.

So...we went golfing for Sunday Family Fit Day.  And we finished off a bucket of chicken wings, because that's what we do...keep traditions, like Sunday Family Fat Day, alive.

* Driving ranges in D.C. are heated, so you can swing away regardless of weather.  It's weird.

Hey, I volunteered...once.

I volunteered to assist in Lakeland's preschool classroom this week.  I was given the simple task of helping the children create a little craft using their initials.  Lakeland's teacher gave me very clear instructions, which I relayed to each kid as they made their way to the table.

The instructions:

1.  Pick a color of construction paper.
2.  Pick a color of marker.
3.  Write your initials on the paper.
4.  Miss Erin will trace with glue the letters you wrote.
5.  Place puzzle pieces over the glue.
6.  Done.  Go play.

Here's how it went down:

Me: Ima, your turn!  Hi, I'm Miss Erin.  Nice to meet you.  We are going to do a craft together using the first and last initials of your name.  Do you know what your initials are?

Ima:  Yes.  My name is Ima McPreschooler, so I'm going to write "I-M".

Me:  Yes, good job!  OK, pick a color of paper and a marker, and let's get started.

Ima (carefully choosing one color from the package of markers and writing her appropriately sized initials on the paper in legible handwriting, all while holding the marker the way a regular person holds a writing utensil):  All done!  Now what?

Me (glue-tracing the "I" and the "M"):  See these puzzle pieces?  You get to glue them down over your initials and it's going to look really cool on the paper!
 
Ima (completing the entire task in about 3 minutes):  OK...what's next?

Me:  Nothing kiddo, that's it.  Go play.  Thanks for hanging out with me!

Me (feeling pretty good/cocky about my mad skills as a preschool teacher helper):  Skip, your turn!  Hi, I'm Miss Erin...blah blah blah...Do you know what your initials are?

Skip (watching some kids playing nearby):  What are they doing?

Me:  They are playing, and it's your turn to do a craft.  Do you know what an initial is?

Skip (Dumping out all 16 markers, taking the tops off the ones that didn't roll on the floor and, holding them like weapons, violently scribbling on every piece of construction paper on the table):  Cha!  Boom...blah!  Rizzo!

Me (WTF???):  Skip, can you pay attention and put those markers down?  So your first name is SSSSssssskip.  Do you know what letter Sssssskip Ssssstarts with?

Skip (swinging his legs back and forth as if pumping on a swing set, but 1000 times faster):  "S"?

Me:  YES!  GOOD JOB!  Skip starts with an "S"!  What's your last name?

Skip mutters something unintelligible that only his mother would be able to interpret...

Me (looking up Skip's last name from the list the teacher gave me):  It looks like your last name is Allcrafts.  Is that right?  Skip Allcrafts?

Skip shrugs and then bolts from the table to go play with some superhero figures.  I wrangle him back to the table and just flat out tell him what his last initial is, because I cannot do that sound it out thing again.  Then I direct the kid to write "S-A" on the paper in very large font.  He writes "Spak" in microscopic letters.  I resist the urge to ask him what his problem is, then flip over the paper, re-instruct him on what he should be doing, and he responds by swiping all of the markers and papers from the table and declaring that he will now build the puzzle.  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, because it's really all I can do.

Anyway, after getting my ass handed to me in just 75 minutes, I knew in a concrete and special kind of way that I was meant to never, ever be a person who hangs out with large groups of children for any substantial amount of time.  The people who choose to hang out with tiny humans all day long should win major awards and make wads and wads of money, because they are heroes - like actual warriors who go up against these fearless little armies and somehow come out champions.

The Ballet

I took Lakeland to see "The Nutcracker" last night.

We arrived a bit early, even though I had to drive around in an endless loop searching for parking and, finding nothing within a mile vicinity, pulled a 'Hoort*' and parked right next to the curb by the front door of the community theatre. 

Once inside the theatre, among the parents and kids milling about stood people behind folding tables full of fundraising items. You could purchase a wee toy nutcracker for $15, but since I recognized them from one of those dollar stores, I passed.  The other option to show support for NOVA ballet was by purchasing room temperature bottled water and candy, each for $1.  I gladly threw down $3 for Skittles for LL, a Twix for me, and one pint of water.

Off we headed to our seats, which were exactly in the middle of the row.  While the location provided a great view of the stage, you do, of course, have to have balls of steel to sit in the center with a four year old, because the chances that you'll have to leave in the middle of the performance and crawl over people while wearing a dress and heels are fairly high.  Thankfully, she was sufficiently entranced by the dancers and content to crunch her way through a whole bag of Skittles for the entire first act.

At the beginning of Act II, Lakeland spontaneously jumped out of her seat and commenced imitating the every move of the Sugar Plum Fairy, including pirouettes with arms gracefully reaching toward the heavens.  I could hear the delighted tittering and hushed "awww's" of audience members behind us as I gently tapped LL on the shoulder and motioned to her to take a seat.  "But mommy!" she whispered in that kid way that's not really whispering, but more talking at their regular decibel level only more gravelly, "If I don't practice right NOW, I won't remember the moves when we get home!"  I reassured her (in an actual whisper) that we could watch the ballet again at home and she responded by yelling "WHAT WAS THAT, MOMMY?"

Once seated, she motioned furiously to me that she needed a drink of water.  I clawed around in the dark for the bottle of water, found one that I hoped was ours, and handed it to her before returning my attention to the Arabian dancers.

Then, just as the Chinese dancers were tip-toeing on stage, Lakeland choked.  She choked on water, and was loudly coughing, sputtering, and burping.  And then, all of sudden, she puked water and an entire fucking rainbow of skittles onto both her lap and mine.

I guess most parents would have packed up their stuff, grabbed their dripping, vomit-covered child, and high-tailed it (as much as you can high-tail over people's knees, purses and water bottles while shuffling awkwardly sideways in a dark room) out of there.  But not me.  My mom and dad paid $67.00 for those ballet tickets, and I was not missing the Waltz of the Flowers, because that's the best part...unfortunately, it's also the second to last scene.

While Lakeland steadily questioned me in her special whispering way about the ending location of her spew ("Dress, mommy?  And tights?  And shoes?  And you?"), I grabbed her faux fur coat, hastily swiped it across my own lap, and then tucked it tight around her now vile crushed black velvet dress, hoping to somehow sort of seal her up because she smelled an awful lot like an elementary school bus.  Then I ignored her continuous pleas to go home and waited for the Waltz.

During the final scene of The Nutcracker, when Clara's parents rouse her from her sleep, I gathered our things and prepared to haul ass out of there.  Because not only were we both covered in sour fruit smelling Skittle bits, but I was also illegally parked.

And isn't it nice that during the holidays people are so thoughtful?  The crowd magically parted to let us though, as if they somehow sensed we were in a hurry.  Magical.

* "Pulling a Hoort" means you park where ever you feel like parking... named after the late Ron Hoort, who I miss very much.  Fortunately, he bequeathed his gift of doing whatever he wanted to his elder son Todd...