What's in a day?

On Mondays, I work as a graduate student researcher.

This can be alternately mind-numbingly boring (and reminiscent of my various stints as a Temp doing data entry) and really, really fun. Well, fun for me.

I just discovered that Eric has a "cite this article" button, in which the appropriate citations for MLA, APA, even Chicago Turabian pop up, and you can just cut and paste them into your paper. This is a phenomenal development in library technology since I last attended college.

So, what's the fun part of what I do? Well, right now, I'm reading these surveys from the principals of our Reading First schools. I'm supposed to read their open-ended responses and classify them by categories that I make up based on themes I see. The fun part is that it leads me to ask all kinds of questions about the science of teaching reading and the politics of implementing it well, and then I go look for articles and read more about it. Right now I am reading:

Stern, S., & Thomas B. Fordham Foundation, W. (2008, March 1). Too Good to Last: The True Story of Reading First. Thomas B. Fordham Institute, (ERIC Document Reproduction Service No. ED500480) Retrieved September 29, 2008, from ERIC database. (yes I used that special citation button right there)

This article reads like a telanovela. Oh, the scandals! The lies! The deceit. And the billions of YOUR tax dollars. It's pretty good stuff.

Anyway, I read and I think, and then I type some ideas, and then I think some more. It is not a bad way to spend a day. Thinking about teaching is far less taxing than teaching.

And now, I'll go off to class for a few hours, which has turned out to be sort of easy, although I'm behind in locating a student to work with, on account of the whole tutoring program debacle, a story I would relate to you, if only I could think of a way to tell it without engaging in the defamation of certain involved parties.

What M and K are doing...

The problem with having an amazing life of adventure is that it sets a high bar for blogging. And then, when one is going about daily business, it is difficult to summon the energy to write. And when one is not writing, one doesn't even realize how tedious and uninteresting life has become. But the next logical step from this realization is to move to New Zealand to WWOOF on a sheep farm.

Perhaps I'm being a bit dramatic. Things are not that bad. Nobody is going to New Zealand (right now). We've just been hangin' out in the 'Burgh, watching football, studying, and eating a lot of dumplings.

So, we've been looking for a house to buy. The consequence of buying $100,000 worth of anything, however, has made us pause and reconsider our general approach to Major Life Decisions. This has resulted in us significantly narrowing down our criteria, much to the relief of our fearless real estate agent, Matt. But even in a buyers market, it's tough to find a cheap, old, classy, place with 3 bedrooms and hardwood floors, and charm, within walking distance to Pitt, a grocery, a coffee shop and a vet. And a porch. And a roof that doesn't leak. And not with a converted coal furnace. But we're looking, and one of these days we'll find a place. Or not. In any event, I got so excited about moving into a new house that I already started collecting boxes and packing stuff up. This is fairly typical of my non-linear approach.

In other news, M bought a ukulele. This is much quieter than an accordion, with a gentle, tinkling sound and I don't mind it at all. So far, he has learned to play lots of Jens Lekman songs, and also the them to Super Mario Brothers. But while he was learning to play the Mario theme song, I nearly went mad, and one night had dreams that all occurred in video-gameboard-like settings, and I didn't much like the 2D, never-ending aspect of it.

I've been babysitting. Twins. Three sets, but not all at once. It just seems that every family that contacted me had twins. Well, every family that was not psycho. It's kind of funny, but the families always think when you meet them that THEY are the ones checking to make sure you aren't nuts, but they don't seem to realize that I'm sizing them up, too. Basically, I only sit for families where the parents seem pretty chill. Anybody who gets excited about kids getting a little dirty, or spilling juice on the carpet, or requires the babysitter to drive them to all kinds of activities, is not for me. And so far, I've found 4 decent families.

Summer Table

It is still pretty prime farmer's market season, and we got some awesome peppers last week. They have a deep, rich, hot flavor that lingers on your tongue. And the tomatoes are so ripe they burst open all over the cutting board the second the knife pierces their skins. M made a fantastic breakfast scramble two days in a row. We paired the tomatoes with marinated tofu and basil, for a delicious caprese salad. And we shared slices of a red, juicy watermelon with my cousin Eric, who stopped by on Saturday afternoon.

Dumplings

Yet another thing that happens when you do not own a television....



M and I would have liked to watch television on Monday night. We are really busy, with lots of projects on our respective plates. We wanted to relax. Unwind. Veg out. But lacking the comfort of that familiar, glowing box, we turned to the kitchen. And nothing is more comforting than spending 3 hours making Korean Kimchee Dumplings. At first it was fun. And then, it felt like it might never end. But at the end of the night, we agreed that being a human assembly line of dumpling making goodness, actually achieved the same effect as watching a few hours of television. But now we have six dozen dumplings in our freezer.

(And we still kind of want a television.)

Penny for your thoughts...

Does anyone else find pennies everywhere when you are cleaning?

We live in an old apartment building, and dozens of people have occupied the space we call home. I was wondering today, as I picked up pennies wedged underneath the chair legs, and tucked into the space between the carpet and the wall, how many of these pennies were ours and how many had been transported here by other hands. Some of them were very old and dirty.

I've never lived in a new house. When I was a child, we moved into a property owned by my grandfather. He had been renting it to a magician and his family, and they left all sorts of strange and thought-provoking junk behind. My parents now own this house, but the history of those who have lived, and died, there is still strong.

I'm collecting all my pennies, and dropping them into a ceramic canister that my sister gave me. When I have enough, I'll take them to Coinstar and exchange them for paper bills. And then I'll use those paper bills to buy coffee and sandwiches and other things that don't cost exactly one dollar or two or five. And then more pennies will fall out of my pockets when I do laundry. They will roll across the floor and I will be too distracted to find them and pick them up in that moment. And the next time I decide to lift the furniture and sweep underneath, they will be there waiting for me.

School

I started graduate school last week. It's a bit of a surreal experience. First, I'm working with some of the same people I did before we moved to Arizona. Second, I have a research position at the school, which sounds a lot more exciting than it actually is - I spent all day yesterday entering 0s and 1s into a spreadsheet. I'm sure it will get better.

I work in the same building I did when I was an Americorps*VISTA volunteer. The echo of the cavernous hallways and rumbling escalators is so familiar.

I spent all summer outside in sunshine and fresh air, and it's strange to be deep in the bowels of a climate controlled building, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

I sit in my office and catch up on my reading, hi-liter in hand. I sit in class and scribble notes on a tiny pad. I was shocked when out of a class of 30, only I raised my hand as having experience in a Title I school. I had forgotten that education existed outside of high-poverty areas. I realized how much of my educational philosophy had been shaped by working with kids who did not show up to school ready to learn, and that these kids do, in fact, represent a minority, albeit a sizable one.

M and I went backpacking this weekend with Caveman of Ohio in the Laurel Highlands. I will post some trail photos soon, which you will find hilarious because what we were trying to do and what we ended up doing was rather ridiculous on a number of levels.

Anyway, while hiking along the ridge line, through an endless, waist-high carpet of ferns, I noticed bugs swarming around my face. I sweat a lot when I hike, and maybe they like that. The bugs made a weird deja-vu feeling wash over me and I remembered that I spent a good 10 hours a day, walking and sweating and hearing the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes and gnats when we were on the AT in the hottest summer months. At first, I applied bug spray, which I promptly sweat off. Then I swatted at them. I tied my bandanna in creative ways around my head. I cursed at them.

And when I had exhausted all possible strategies to eliminate this annoyance...I did nothing. I just walked with the bugs, and low and behold, this was the magic pill.

What I realized this weekend is that it's the magic pill for just about everything. It's how I live in Pittsburgh again, happy to experience things that used to drive me crazy. It's how I conserve my energy to tackle things that matter, instead of getting bogged down in situations I can't win. It's how I can do exactly the same thing that I did seven years ago, and not only be cool with it, but love it.

So is that what maturity is? Giving up on swatting the flies from your face?

Pickles

The harvest season is upon us, and as you may know, this makes me very nervous. Being that our kitchen is already full of enormous jars of saurkraut, thanks to the abundance of cabbage all summer, I just knew that M's enthusiasm for the Fermenting Arts could render the rest of the kitchen unusable. Ok, I'm exaggerating a little bit. But M's mother did bring us four quarts of cucumbers from King's Farm the other day, most of which became pickles. The first step is to wash all the cucumbers and cut off any weird blemishes.Next, find some jars. Make your brine. You can add anything you want, but M put in bay leaves, fresh dill, peppercorns, and a few hot peppers, and tons of garlic. The salt water is 6% brine - about 2.5 oz of salt to a gallon of water. Cooking is like science, and it comes in handy to have lots of measuring devices and scales so your kitchen looks like a lab and you can make sure your brine is the right proportion.

After you mix up your brine and chop your pickles, just jam them into the jar and let sit. And if you have trouble getting all the pickles into the jar because your hands are too big...well, just ask your small-handed wife to take care of it. And that is how M and K make pickles.

House-hunting

Really. That's how we do it.

The Other Part of the Story

I neglected to tell you about the other part of my weekend...the part where Tony and Rita and Mark and I went out to Freeport to ride on the rail trail that (supposedly) runs to Butler. I anticipated a leisurely, flat, shaded ride, which is exactly what we got for the first 15 or so miles.

Then we hit the "undeveloped" part of the trail. Technically, the trail runs from Freeport to Butler, but up until Herman, it is a lovely, developed, fairly flat and pothole-free surface. After that, they din-get-tha-fah, as our beloved, former math teacher, Ray Peters, would say. They removed the rail ties, but that is pretty much it. We carried on even after the sign that warned us, "Rifle Range Next 3/4 Mile".

But really, the best was when we encountered an enormous pile of railroad ties across the path...clearly a sign that the TRAIL WAS CLOSED. Nonetheless, we hoisted our bikes and clamoured over and kept going. That is, until M could literally go no further.

Well, after that, nobody wished to go back on the 6 miles of bumpy rocks, eerily red industrial run-off, and rifle range, so we decided just to take the road that appeared to be parallel to the trail and then get back on in Herman. Well, let me tell you, rail trails are flat, but roads are not. Rita was not happy. Also, after a little while it became apparent that we were no longer directly paralleling the trail, so I had to go into a little country biker bar and ask for directions. And I have to say that some members of our party resembled my little friends from yesterday's post in that they sat down in a stranger's yard and refused to go any further until we threatened to leave them.

Don't worry, everyone survived the journey. Here we are enjoying icy cold beer at Red Robin after we finally finished. We biked about 40 miles, but it took us literally, all day, what with the getting lost, and trying to mountain bike with our road bikes, etc. Next time, I will turn around after the first mile or so of really bad trail, instead of assuming it will get better very soon. Also, we plan to volunteer as soon as possible to help get this trail completely finished.

The last thing a mother wants to hear...

No, it's not, "Um, your kid fell in some cinders and I tried to clean them out but they are sort of stuck in his knee and he screams bloody murder whenever I come near him, so I just gave him a popsicle, and it will probably be ok, but you might want to keep an eye out for an infection."

And it's not, "Your kid kept saying 'sh*t' today, and he said it's something YOU say."

But when you hear your kid say, "But I don't want Katy to leave! Waaaaahhhhhhh!" - I can see how that would be really, really annoying.

My general goal in childcare is similar to my teaching philosophy...to provide a supportive learning environment in which children master skills that they can apply to ALL their environments - not just when they are under my supervision. So I feel kind of bad when I work really hard to eliminate temper tantrums from the kids, only to have them punish their poor, hard-working parents when I leave. I would much rather leave smiling, happy children in my wake.

Today, Twin #1 told me, "Katy, yesterday I cried, and I had a fight with Mama. I wanted to call you on the phone and she said no."

"Ahhh," I nodded, thinking to myself that I was glad Mama stuck to her guns on that one...as much as I love these little guys, their telephone skills leave something to be desired, and I have no desire to waste my precious cell phone minutes listening to heavy breathing while Twin #1 forgets what he wanted to say to me.

I decided to take them to the Trader Joe's because I had a few things to pick up (they have the best prices on nuts), and riding the bus there would burn up a good half hour of the afternoon. But it didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would, so I took them to Melon Park, where there is a fabulous sprinkler in the playground perfect for a hot day. They were slightly intimidated by some of the other kids at the park, but I encouraged them to throw a few elbows and claim their turn on the swings, which they did.

I then tricked them into walking the rest of the way home instead of waiting for the PAT bus again. (I just googled the mileage, and I got them to walk 1.1 miles - this is pretty amazing for three year olds - I think they will sleep soundly tonight.) About halfway home they started sitting down in random yards, declaring that they were done walking and would be living in this or that house instead. I lured them on with cookies and juice, and we made it in under an hour.

They start daycare in September, which will put an end to my brief adventures in pre-school childcare.

I wonder if they will remember me....