F-BOMB the MCAS

Posted on May 18, 2011 by Terry L. Holt

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. Until he made me take the MCAS."

Yesterday, my 9-year-old took the math portion of the MCAS test. We are supposed to help her prepare for this test. And I know I should be more of a proponent of this standardized testing system. But I’m not (and this page best summarizes why).

I know the rubric that dictates how schools receive their funding. I know how important it is to keep our scores high, to keep our good teachers, to justify our expenses by showing THE DATA — that our kids are acquiring knowledge and education in this public school system. And because we live in a state and a town where the schools are good and highly rated (because, in part, of those high MCAS scores), our neighborhoods are desirable, our home values are high, and our tax revenue goes toward maintaining and improving those schools and all those good things that keep our neighborhoods safe and tidy and such.

*sigh* I know all this. I’m trying to be supportive. Really. But I fucking hate your tests.

I hate that my kid comes home feeling disappointed because she doesn’t have the math facts drilled into her head enough to enjoy total perfect recall of every damn math fact.

I hate that she is filling in those stupid fucking ovals with her #2 pencil already. And that her teacher has to spend class time toward teaching for the test.  I wish the MCAS would die a very painful death. A Ticonderoga stab to the gut.

There is already so much to dislike about the way public schools are run. I know it’s for the good of the majority. And I know I’m a crazy hippie, but I want my child to be playing on the playground for longer periods of time. I want her to have an entire hour–not the 15 minutes she is given–to eat lunch with her peers, so that she can make friends. I wish there were more music and art, more time for child-led reading, free time to explore or invent as her creative brain demands. I could go on.

I support public schooling in many ways, but mostly because it’s economically the best choice for our family. I know that if I had a spare $40k or so I could spend per year on education, I would be sending my kids to Friends School in Cambridge. Or, for about half that, I would send my kids to Sudbury Valley for un-schooling. In a heartbeat. I talk a big game about supporting public education in the US. But I’m secretly wanting better for my own kids.

So, here I am, feeling like such a hypocrite with my shiny smile and cheery “I hope you do GREAT on your MCAS today, sweetie” chant. Rah rah rah. When I don’t care for the way we run this imperfect system of accountability and academic success measurement.

And this isn’t intended to imply that her teachers aren’t completely awesome. They are. I just wish they had the reins. You know. To do their job and teach what is interesting and fascinating, to their hearts’ content. I don’t care for the system. But I love the school. And I respect and admire the teachers.

Kelsey comes away from school lately as if a swarm of zombies were chasing her out the door, gnawing on her sun-starved limbs. She runs out the door, a frowning thing, into my arms. Wanting to go home. Or to play. To do anything that is NOT school. School shouldn’t be a bad word. Lately, it is an expletive. Fucking MCAS.

This post is dedicated, in part, to Helen. Who agrees that MCAS suck. And who uses her expletives appropriately.
Posted in *sigh*, Journal, Kelsey Milestones, RANTS/TIRADES!, Schooling | 2 Comments

A Day in the Life of a SAHM of 3

Posted on May 12, 2011 by Terry L. Holt

This is the most recent somewhat flattering photo of me with the kids, taken last October. Because *I* am the photographer in our family.

People often ask me “Terry, what do you DO as a stay-at-home mom?” And I struggle to answer, because every single day is different and has its challenges and triumphs and disappointments. Every day has its beautiful moments that fill my heart with joy. And moments that make me feel like going through the want ads for a high paying job and a childcare provider! So I thought I’d give my readers a little slice of life, on an ordinary day in May.

As I sit here, eating leftover ice cream while my son circles my chair in the stinkiest diaper ever, I think about today and the high hopes I had for it.

At least I changed out of the work out clothes I had put on this morning. It would have been ridiculously hypocritical of me to nom on the frozen dairy treat while wearing my spandex and ambitious work out bra.

The plan was to go to the Y, then run by the store for milk and toilet paper. But I needed to get Andrew’s hair trimmed in there somewhere. So I waited for the baby to wake up this morning after getting the girls off to school. I did some writing and checked my email. I switched around the laundry. I did some dishes. Finally, he woke up at 9:30, so I put on the black spandex pants and the hot pink sleeveless tank, and I pulled on my sneakers. But Andrew wanted a long, leisurely bout of nursing. Both sides. So, 30 minutes later, I’m getting him dressed, his shoes on, his sweater buttoned. And I realize I am STARVING. I cannot work out if my stomach is aching. I put some Fage into a bowl and drizzle some maple syrup over it. I take my one-a-day vitamin. I hand Andrew some cantaloupe to play with. Finally, at 10:30, I am out the door, hand in hand with the 19 month old. I decide to get the boy’s haircut done first, so I can concentrate on my workout. So I head to Snip-Its, where I’m told there is a 30 minute wait. Grrr. I wait. The boy’s haircut takes about a half hour. A long shag, with short bangs that hit his eyebrows. My boy can see! He looks like an 80s pop star. I think Rick Springfield is looking for his hair style!

Haircut!

It’s now 11:45. I head to the YMCA. I figure I’ve got an hour to do the full circuit on the weights and maybe a little time on the elliptical, and then I can run by Trader Joe’s to get milk and toilet paper, and then head home to get the girls from school. This can work!

As I’m turning into the driveway of the Woburn YMCA, I check my rear view to see what the little guy is doing. And he is asleep. Passed out. I turn around. There is no leaving a cranky, tired baby in the child watch area while I get in a workout. No way I can go by the store.

I drive to my house and park in my garage. I turn off the car and check my email on my phone while the baby snoozes. I play Solitaire on my phone, snickering at the irony. I let him sleep for 45 minutes. It’s now after 1, and I am still in my spandex. I carry the toddler inside, try to ease his sleepy little body onto the bed to snooze a little longer so I can have a few minutes to feed myself and maybe do some stretching. But he wakes up completely and wants my undivided attention. I nurse him and hold him for about a half an hour, and then I change out of my spandex and into some jeans. Then I find a few minutes when he is distracted with destroying the kitchen, and I stuff food into my face. Leftover yummy chicken from last night’s dinner. Check. Some delicious bread with the healthy spread. Check. Fresh fruit. Check. Oh, look at that! Some grape-flavored ice cream cake with chocolate fudge layers, leftover from Jess’s birthday party? Huh. That’s taking up needed space in the freezer….Check.

And now it’s time to get the girls from school and afterwards to host a baby playdate; and then it’s reading and homework time, followed by dinner prep, feeding kids, and kid bedtime routine. With a baby nap to fit in there, and nursing/changing him, and more laundry to fold and dishes to wash, and cleaning the dining and living rooms, and school forms to look over for tomorrow, and a glance at email and my calendar for tomorrow’s activities.

And I end the day exhausted, having had no time to exercise, still wearing my jeans and a  shirt smudged with chocolate and the dinner that didn’t make it into Andrew’s mouth, with no milk for my morning coffee. And nothing with which to wipe.

Posted in Inane Ramblings, Journal | 1 Comment

A Letter to My 9 Year Old

Posted on May 10, 2011 by Terry L. Holt

My clone, overlooking Marblehead harbor

Dear Kelsey

You turned 9 just the other day, and I have to admit that the baffling confluence of conflicting energies that comprise your essence sometimes leaves me wanting to hide in the linen closet with a bottle of vodka.

But I don’t have a walk-in linen closet.

Some days, you are a a wisp of a pre-teen, thinking of boys, worrying about your interaction with peers. Other days, you are a tomboy, in your ripped jeans and soccer shirts, your hair untameable, your smile hiding behind a stoic facade of stubbornness. You are a ray of sunshine some days, when all the pieces of your life fall into place as they should. And on those other days, when the homework is unrelenting, the household responsibilities too heavy to bear, the clouds hide most of your brilliance.

In a word, you are inconsistent. Even your teachers agree that they never know which Kelsey will be attending school. The exuberant helpful Kelsey who does her work and is eager to help, or the cloudy grumpy Kelsey, the one who loses her class work and tries to hide during class participation.

Looking for periwinkles

I think that you’re taking the time to figure things out. Third grade seems a little cruel, somehow. It’s the first time I’ve noticed that your peers are segregating themselves by gender. I’ve watched the playground dynamic, and I know how you yearn to jump into that game of tag with the boys. Or be asked to play soccer. But there you are, on the swing, a solitary long-legged pensive thing, your hair flying, your shoelaces always untied. You aren’t a solitary soul. I know this. And I also know that you are still adjusting to the new school. The other kids don’t get you yet. They don’t understand the prize hiding under your shy smile. They can’t feel the warmth of your beautiful soul yet. But you’re also not allowing them to.

If I could give you one thing, it would be the wisdom to know that you won’t always fit in, and that it’s OK. That you and your peers and friends are like fantastic clocks. Your pendulum is swinging in a different rhythm as many of them. Sometimes, you will find yourself swinging in synch with one or two others, and you will feel it in your heart. A rightness. But every one of you is changing and moving at different paces. And when those rhythms are off, you will feel that discord. But it is so fleeting. I advised you bring a book to school, for those times when you are feeling like no one wants to play with you. You always have the imaginative worlds of books to wander, the halls of Hogwarts, the fecund forests of Narnia, the dragon’s lair–universes so colorful and wondrous that you won’t feel so alone. I found this a comfort when I was the new girl, when I left the Coffin Elementary School in Marblehead, Massachusetts for the humid, strange playgrounds of Warrington Elementary School in Pensacola, Florida when I was 10. I always had books, even when I had no friends.

I know you are struggling to figure out who you are. You are pushing boundaries. You are pushing me away. You are seeing how much you can get away with. I am an impatient person, and I will try harder to give you space. It’s hard, though. I want to smooth your crazy hair, infuse you with positive energy to take away all that’s troubling you.

Today, you were the delay fish. You know. One of those fish that causes delays. Five minutes before you’re supposed to be at school, you are shirtless and shoeless, listening to music on your mp3 player in your bed. Your hair isn’t brushed. Your backpack is unpacked. You can’t find THE shirt that defines you this day. You are like this sometimes at age 9. Not quite put together. Not invested. You still got to school, and there were smiles for me when you got out of school. When you saw me, and you made a bee-line to me. And you hugged me. If you knew how delighted I was that you still hug me, still want to be affectionate with me, you would probably hug me less often! Because you seem to like being contrary girl lately. So I’ll keep hiding my delight. But I’m secretly melting.

The kid with the dark soul

Because no matter how hard it is to get you to eat anything that is not made of cheese or yogurt or Cliff Bars. No matter how much attitude you give me, I still adore every fiber of your being. You like to say that you have a dark soul, and it’s a running joke that I say “No you don’t. You are fluffy bunnies.” And then you smirk and give me the evil eye. But you really do have a soul that smells like spring flowers. You are fluffy bunnies and unicorns, and sunny days with birds chirping.

I know we have a lot of years ahead of us where we’re going to have trouble getting along. I’m not looking forward to those years, but I know they’re coming, and that there will inevitably be some disconnect in our relationship. Every day is a gradual pulling away, every hour a small step toward being your own person. You are 9, going on 13. I hope you will slow down and enjoy the flowers with me for just a little longer.

Posted in Journal, Kelsey Milestones, Photo of the Day | Tagged | 2 Comments

Committing to Co-Sleeping

Posted on April 25, 2011 by Terry L. Holt

Tub full o' kids

Today is the day we, as parents, have committed to sharing sleep with our youngest child for an indefinite amount of time going forward. We’ve co-slept with all three of our babies, so it’s not like we’re doing anything new. Our usual modus operandi is to co-sleep for the first year of baby’s life, and then to gently sleep train baby to sleep apart in another room. My third child is now 18 months old, and he and I co-sleep in his room because he is too big to fit in our bed. My poor, lonely husband gets to sleep all alone in our bedroom down the hall. But everything changes now. Today, I moved a twin bed into our bedroom and squished it beside our queen-sized bed to make one ginormous bed. We are now committed. No going back. It is done.

Oh gods. I must be insane.

*Takes a deep breath*

I see that quizzical look. I hear your cynical sigh. I know it’s nuts. But let me ‘splain. We have these older girls, one of whom is OHMYFREAKINGOD 9 years old. And this 9-year-old has been sharing a room with her 7-year-old sister forEVER. No, really. Since Laurel was 1 and Kelsey was 3, they have shared a room. So, yeah, forever. A few months back, this older child posited the question: “Why does the baby get his own room, and Laurel and I have to share one?” To which I answered, “Ummm, well… because… Oh, look, something shiny! Want some cookies?”

These people take up space!

It didn’t work for long. I did get a few months, though. But I’m out of cookies and shiny things.

Despite my best efforts to be fair, it turns out that I’m that unfair mother who puts the BOY child into his own cute little room. While the girls are jammed into the adjoining room, their shelves overflowing. Their moods conflicting. Their desire for “personal time” making it nigh impossible to share space without the use of a stopwatch, a calendar, and a lot of grumpiness.

So the husband and I talked. And we’ve decided that we either do this insane thing, or move to a bigger apartment. And we are NOT moving. I’m not ready to move and give up this f-ing amazing location across the street from my kids’ school. Really, we have the perfect apartment. And did I mention I’m not moving?

And so today I put my statue of Treebeard up high. I hid my shell collection. I moved Andrew’s things into our room, and I know that he will be very happy sharing sleep and space with his parents. I’m excited that our girls want to and will be able to, for the first time, make their space their own. And I hope this move will help them maintain what is right now a really sound and healthy sibling relationship.

I worry about finding time and space for the easy intimacy I share with Allen. But I know we’ll figure it out. I know that there is cuddling on the couch with books and good movies and ice cream. There is our shared office, where we hang out sociably every evening. There are the shared showers and those wonderful Saturday mornings when all the kids are playing nicely in the other parts of the house. I know we’ll be OK. And it’s not forever. Babies don’t stay babies for long. This apartment won’t be the last place we parent three children. It will be the last 3 bedroom we’ll be renting. Our next home will have to have 4 bedrooms and please, oh please, more than 1 bathroom. For now, we’ll make it work here.

We’ll be OK, Allen and I. Besides, there is that secret room in the basement….

Posted in Change, Journal, Photo of the Day | 5 Comments

Extreme Make-Over: Home Office Edition!

Posted on March 25, 2011 by Terry L. Holt

The ugly office of dysfunction has gotten a make-over! Oh, sweet gods of Ikea, thank you for your affordable and easily transportable treasures! Yesterday, Allen and I dropped 2/3rds of kids off at school and sped down the Interstate to Stoughton  on a mission: to transform 150 square feet of eye-sore messiness, office detritus, and utter mayhem into a functional, organized work space on a small budget. Oh, and get some of those tasty Ikea hot dogs. Nom nom nom.

BEFORE

We were ridiculously goal-oriented and managed to dodge the sexy “OMGZ, lookit all the cheap STUFF” pretty well, although the children’s cutlery tried its very best to romance us a bit ($1.99 for 4-servings’ worth of dishes? Let’s buy 100 bucks worth and never do dishes again!). We bee-lined it to the office section and picked out matching desks, because we are uncool like that and have ridiculously similar tastes in office furniture. Two $4 desk-top lamps, two new $25 book cases, and a comfy office chair for me. We also picked up a desk top to make a space for the kids’ computer. Altogether, we spent less than $400 to bring some much-needed organization to our chaos.

AFTER

So I’m typing this from the New Stylin’ Desk of Much Awesomeness. I totally gain agility and intelligence points! My back even has lumbar support now. No more kitchen chairs for me. No more foldable plastic-top card table that also functions as our monthly gaming table. My new desk is made of a wood-like substance, and it has a drawer for squirreling away random stuff. And the bookcases behind me now house much of the crap that was piled on my desk just yesterday. Oh yesterday, you silly, silly cluttered unfashionable thing. Today is sleek and important, as I type away on my laptop, a cup of coffee beside me, a cute lamp illuminating my keyboard. The mess all organized or hidden away like yesterday’s dirty dishes.

My "desk space" before

Ohh la la! My new space!

In fact, my office is now so awesome that I have no idea where my kids are. All I know is that they are not here, and I am blissfully ignorant of their whereabouts. Oh, I will pay for this. Any second Andrew will walk into the office brandishing the toilet brush, licking his lips in that terrifying way he has.

But for now, I am a professional writer, doing what I do in the in-between spare moments when parenting isn’t eating my brain: sitting at my beautiful desk, overly caffeinated and under-appreciated, rolling words together and flinging them off into the universe.

Posted in Journal, Photo of the Day | 1 Comment