The fun part of teaching

A post from my mom, who recently retired from teaching fourth grade . . . . 

The other day on our way to Lowe’s, Dad asked me if I’d like to swing by Bashaw Elementary to see how the construction was progressing. The school where I worked for 22 years is undergoing a major rebuild and addition. We drove through the car pickup area to see that some portables were gone, the
foundation of the new building was being leveled, and the entire HVAC outdoor system had been removed. This construction will continue through the next school year with classes being moved out of existing buildings mid-year so those buildings can also be renovated - one more reason of many that I’m glad I have retired!

However, that night I awoke from a nightmare – one I didn’t expect to have. Each year at the end of the summer, I would have what I called “Back-to- School” nightmares. I would dream that I hadn’t done lesson plans, or that I was sick at home but no substitute arrived to take the class, or that I had lost children on a field trip. This time, I dreamt that it was the beginning of school, and my team was asking me what to do on the first day. I told them that the list was in the black plan book I always used, but they said they had thrown it away. So I was frantically trying to come up with ideas for their first week of school. What a relief to wake up from that dream and realize this wasn’t my responsibility any longer!

Dad decided we better not take any more excursions to the school if this was to be the result. But lest you think that I only dreaded school responsibilities, I must say there were many rewarding
moments to treasure as well. Last year, I had written about my needy students. The teacher who inherited my job (my intern) asked my students to write me farewell letters. She collected them and
bound them into a little booklet. As I looked through them, I realized that in some way, I had indeed
touched their lives in a way that they were thankful. And, really, that’s the fun part of teaching – the
part that I will miss. Below are letters from those very students about whom I had been so concerned.

BOGO Chicks

For as much as Seth calls the chickens "your chickens," they really our ours now. He buys them treats (mealworms and "fancy scratch grains"), likes to collect the eggs, and makes sure their coop is secure. He also likes the variety of egg colors we currently have (greenish and various shades of light brown) and has been wanting to add a few more chooks to the flock that would bring more variety to those colors. In March, he set out to look for new hens and ordered three Black Copper Marans, which lay dark chocolate-colored brown eggs. Because they are in such high demand, the earliest date they would be hatched and shipped was mid-June. (Note: I just read that Martha Stewart ordered Marans this year and when I told Seth, he said, "So, you're saying we need to send them back?") 

So we've been waiting since March for our new chicks to arrive. On Wednesday, I got an email notifying me they had been shipped (having hatched at 5am that morning) and on Friday, I got a call from the post office saying they had arrived and I needed to come pick them up. 

We pulled out the little coop Seth made a few years ago and got it all set up with food, pine chips, and water. And then we went to pick up the chicks. 

When we opened the box, there were three brownish chicks in the box, which I thought was a bit odd since we had ordered black chickens. I expected the chicks to be black, too. 

And I wondered why they were in such a confined space -- just that small area between the outer box and the inner box. 

We put those in the coop and then I opened the inner box to see if there was anything else we needed. And was surprised to find three more -- black -- chickens! 

That box had a small heating pack attached to the outside back of it and a bit of green food-type thing in. So . . . instead of three chicks, we now have six. I texted Seth and asked him how many he'd ordered and then I checked the original order -- sure enough, we had requested three. Not six.

I called the hatchery and apparently they send an extra chick or two with the order just in case one of the ones you order doesn't make it. We got three extra chicks. BOGO, I guess. They weren't able to tell me the breed of the extras they sent so we'll see what they turn out to be. My guess is Rhode Island Red.


Cael did the math ("Mom, what's 8 plus 3 plus 3?") and we now have 14 chickens. That's a lot more than I ever figured we'd have when we first started this chicken thing many years ago, but thanks to Seth's (and BIL Nate's) hard work over the years in expanding the coop, we have the space to keep that many.

Four of our current chickens are over two years old and have gone through their first molt, which means their egg production will start to drop soon (each chicken is born with a certain number of eggs they will produce and once they deplete that number, they are finished laying). The other four are just over a year old and have awhile to go before they are finished. So, these new six will pick up the egg-laying slack in a few months.

(As an aside, I'm not sure what we'll do when the older hens stop laying -- we've actually never had that problem before since all our previous chickens have always died in some form or fashion before they reached the end of their egg-producing capacity. I don't like the idea of keeping free-loaders around but I also don't like the idea of dispatching them myself . . . .)

Elizabeth and Cael have enjoyed holding the chickies, while Kieran will only pet them when someone else holds them.

We are moving ever onward with our little chicken farm. 

An Ode to Chiggers

Apparently, as of a few nights ago, the chiggers are back.

I broke my two cardinal summer rules:

1. Always wear bug spray when you go outside (we use Evada-Bug (note: this is not a paid advertisement for any product mentioned in this post--I share this out of the kindness of my heart)), and

2. Always rinse off after you come in from outside.

I didn't do either the night I was helping Seth put the water tanks on the back of the truck. And I am now suffering the chiggery consequences.

When I ordered 6 bottles of Evada-Bug last summer, the company sent me the Hot Rex Skin Smoothing oil and the Cool Rex Skin Soothing oil as freebies to try. I used both on the chigger bites and they seemed to help calm the itching until it wore off (I also added some prescription steroid cream for good measure).

But until they started working, thanks to Olivia Newton John, I sang this as I sat there scratching:

Maybe I hang around inside
A little more than I should
We both know I don't go outside
You lie in wait to pounce on me
And make me itch and scratch
So I believe you really ought to know

I hate you
I honestly hate you

You don't have to answer
I feel it in your bite
And in every welt you leave behind
You are mean and nasty
And you must realize
That it's coming from my heart and the rest of the places you bite

I hate you
I honestly hate you

I'm just trying to make you feel uncomfortable
So that you'll go away and leave me alone
But this feeling doesn't come along everyday
Just when you jump on me
So I take the chance to say

I hate you
I honestly hate you

If I could see you
I'd totally squash you flat
This moment might be ending in your demise
But you're invisible to me
And I'm a target to you
So I guess we'll just be leaving it at this

I hate you
I honestly hate you
I honestly hate you
I hate you, chiggers . . . . 

Cael turns 5

Cael finally celebrated his fifth birthday a few weeks ago. I say finally because he's been planning for it since his last birthday. The countdown was on for the next 364 days. 

Captain America T-shirt courtesy
of his cousins

Super graduation cape courtesy
of his teacher, Mrs. Karla

He's continued with his interest in superheroes and continually asks which superhero is the strongest, why Hulk doesn't have self-control, where Thor came from, what made Spiderman Spiderman, who is stronger Hulk or Superman, what would happen to a toilet if Hulk sat on it, how big Ironman is, who my favorite superhero is, which one Daddy likes best, and why he
still can't fly. I caught him jumping on a large pillow the other day and when I asked him what we was doing, he said, "I'm trying to fly. . . . Maybe if I jump up . . . ."

Spiderman gardening tools courtesy of Grandma

This was a conversation we had one day:

Cael: Who is your favorite superhero?

Me: Wonder Woman

Cael: What does she do? Does she wander around?

Superman jacket courtesy
of his parents

Astronaut cape courtesy
of Mrs. Roberta

Captain America cape courtesy
of Aunt Kenda

 Captain America has been his recent favorite so that was the theme for his party.

He also enjoyed discovering superlatives this year -- the largest animal is the blue whale, the largest living land animal is the elephant (except that dinosaurs were larger), the giraffe is currently the tallest (except that dinosaurs were taller), the fastest is the cheetah -- and asking questions about them in case their superlative status changed or he could figure out something else that was tallest/fastest/largest. (Thankfully, I'm still his best mommy.)

As I looked back through is previous birthday posts, I realized that talking has been a thing of his for most of his life. And this year is no different -- he still wakes up with words to say, eats while saying words, plays with words coming out of his mouth, and falls asleep with something to say. There isn't a lot that he doesn't have an opinion on or something to share about. Seth has tried to encourage him to use his "inner monologue" to no avail. 

He enjoys being with his family and helping out wherever he can. The other day he mopped the floor for me and the following day, after it had rained and we had brought a bit of mud into the kitchen on our shoes, he put his hands on his hips and said, "WHO tracked mud all over my clean floor?!"

Although he originally had claims to omniscience, he recently redacted them to, "I know everything that I know."

He surely brings us joy and laughter and questions. We're thankful for the blessing he is and continue to pray the Lord would draw him to Himself and shape him into the image of Christ as he grows. Happy birthday, Cael!

Previous birthday posts:
4th Birthday
3rd Birthday
2nd Birthday
1st Birthday
Birthday

The Didgeridoo

This past Christmas, one of the gifts my parents gave to the boys was a subscription to Little Passports. They love getting mail (especially Cael) so the monthly deliveries are something for them to look forward to and there's a bit of learning involved, as well. Each month features a different aspect of world travel and one of the themes was music. Individuals with Williams syndrome (the genetic disorder Kieran was born with) have a special affinity for music and Kieran is no exception, so that particular month was of particular interest to him. One of the instruments highlighted in the materials that came was the didgeridoo, one of the oldest wind instruments developed by Australian Aborigines.

My mom and I went to Australia in 2001 (shortly before I met and married Seth) on a tour with a few friends. We got to see a demonstration of a didgeridoo and my friend Dan tried it out. So I pulled out my pictures for the boys, showed them Dan playing the instrument, and then we watched a few YouTube videos of people playing them so that Kieran could hear what they sound like.

A few months later, Kieran asked his speech therapist if she knew what a "hullabaloo" was. It took me a few days to realize that he really meant a didgeridoo. Since then, didgeridoos have been a chosen topic of conversation. So much so that our AV/guitar/musician guy at church, whom Kieran had apparently been chatting with, brought in a didgeridoo his family had given him and let him play it. (Just as a side note -- we are so blessed by our church family who are so gracious and loving toward Kieran and all his quirks.)

Kieran was thrilled. Of course, that increased his perseveration on the topic. Although we've gotten quite a few instruments for Kieran over the years (a piano, recorder, guitar, violin, rhythm instruments, harmonica . . .), I figured this was one we would need to forego. I couldn't imagine finding an authentic didge and then having it shipped without a lot of expense. Seth, however, told him he would make a didgeridoo for him out of PVC pipe. So he did. He put a few pieces of connectors on the top and bottom at first.

But then decided that to make it an "authentic" didge, he would need to flare the bottom. So he did. With a heat gun. And then he got some type of coupling for the top mouthpiece and painted it brown.

And Kieran now has his very own "didgeridoo" to play.


It's been a bit surprising to see Seth take an interest in playing it, too. He's never had much interest in playing instruments or even singing, so it's been fun to see him find an instrument that he and Kieran can enjoy together. They've watched a few how-to videos and have started practicing their newfound didge skills.



Is there a place for the didgeridoo on the worship team at church? As a bass for the recorders in fourth grade? As a way to make a living? Who knows. For now, they're content to enjoy the didgeridoo they made together.

2 Samuel 5:6-10 "The blind and the lame"

Seth and I are reading through the Bible again this year. When we did it last year, I wanted to write about the mentions about disability I found as we went along but somehow just never did (you know . . . life and small children and all that). Since we're reading through it again, I decided to take the opportunity this time. I've missed a few sections that I may return to but I'll start with the passage we read recently: 2 Samuel 5:6-10 (ESV):

And the king and his men went to Jerusalem against the Jebusites, the inhabitants of the land, who said to David, “You will not come in here, but the blind and the lame will ward you off”—thinking, “David cannot come in here.” 7 Nevertheless, David took the stronghold of Zion, that is, the city of David. 8 And David said on that day, “Whoever would strike the Jebusites, let him get up the water shaft to attack ‘the lame and the blind,’ who are hated by David's soul.” Therefore it is said, “The blind and the lame shall not come into the house.” 9 And David lived in the stronghold and called it the city of David. And David built the city all around from the Millo inward. 10 And David became greater and greater, for the Lord, the God of hosts, was with him.

That was a jarring read for us. It seems quite uncharacteristic that David, who elsewhere graciously took in Mephibosheth who was lame in his feet and who repeatedly wrote about God's kindness toward the needy, would "hate" the lame and the blind.

So, I looked up the passage in a few commentaries and found that, according to some commentators, in this context the "blind and the lame" refers to idols. The Jebusites had idols, which were affronts to the one true God and thus hated by David, made of some type of material. Of course these statues couldn't see or hear or talk or walk--they were handmade objects of wood or stone. They were blind and lame. Yet the Jebusites were using them to ward off David's attacks and were taunting him with them, believing their idols would help them. When David attacked, his men tore down the blind and lame idols.

While this seems the more likely explanation to me, there is another possibility. It's possible that the Jebusites thought their city so strong and impregnable that they believed the "blind and lame" could defend it from David's attacks. And that this was used to provoke David so that he hated the Jebusites who were saying these things to him.

On being bold

Yesterday, we visited Seth at his work for lunch. On our way home, we stopped by the Creation Museum for a quick tour. 

There are quite a few animatronic dinosaurs and humans scattered throughout the museum and the boys were a bit confused over whether they were real. Kieran made sure to say hi to all of them as we walked by. 

In one area, there's a scene of Noah overseeing the building of the Ark. He calls out to a construction worker and the construction worker responds with a snide comment about Noah and ends with calling him a "religious fanatic." Kieran was watching the figure intently and at the end, he leaned on the railing and vehemently said to the figure, "No. he. isn't!" He walked a few steps and then said, "No, he isn't!" I was surprised by the forcefulness of my usually mild-mannered son.

Although I don't think Kieran understands what a "religious fanatic" is, he somehow knew that this figure was making fun of another and that he needed to stand up for him and say something to the guy (however animatronic he was).

I'm inspired by his boldness in defending a fellow image-bearer. And I hope that I can be as bold as he is someday.

The Suicidal Chicken

While we were away during Christmas, we lost one of our chickens in an unfortunate accident. She was one of three Easter eggers (the ones that lay the greenish-colored eggs). It was a good opportunity to talk about the concept of subtraction with the boys -- ten chickens take away one leaves nine chickens. And sure enough, the boys counted nine chickens when we got home. They were, perhaps understandably, sad about the loss. 

It seems there was another who was also sad about the loss of her sister. This is one of the other Easter eggers. They are smaller than the other chickens and, this one in particular, seems to be on the low end of the pecking order (and the "pecking order" is very much a thing, amazingly enough). She keeps to herself in the nesting box area, gets hen-pecked by some of the larger chooks when they're in the yard, and keeps her distance when I bring food treats out to them in the evenings. Apparently, she knows her place (either that, or she's the smart one sleeping in the area with the heat lamp). But she and the one who went to the Great Coop in the Sky palled around together quite a bit. 

So, perhaps understandably, she was sad after the tragic passing of her friend. So much so that she began jumping over the five-foot fence we have around the enclosure and truly free-ranging in the yard and woods. We had clipped their wings last year but after they molted during the winter, their feathers grew back and she was, once again, able to spread her wings and take flight (at least a few feet in the air). 

I warned her several times that if she didn't stay in the coop she could potentially become fox/dog/coyote/coon (take her pick) feed. But she didn't seem to care. She'd jump up on the rail, pick her way across the wood, look back at her compadres, jump down to the ground, and then strut along the fence, as if to say to the others, "Betcha can't do that, kin ya?" (she is a Holler chicken, after all). And, it's true -- because the other chickens are bigger and heavier than she is, they aren't able to jump as high as she can and are resigned to free-ranging safely in the large enclosure Seth built for them.

However, it's almost as if she were taking her life into her own hands (or wings) on purpose. Maybe she was so bereft after her sister's untimely demise that she wanted to join her in the Great Chicken Coop in the Sky.

Cael would weep and wail whenever she jumped out, "Mommy, the chicken's out again, do something, Mommy! She'll get eaten by a coyote!" Until I explained that if she could jump out by herself then she could jolly well jump back in by herself and we needn't go chasing after a suicidal chicken every time her jumping whim struck.

Chewing on some fresh straw. Cuz that's what farmers do.

I really have been expecting to one day find her cold, dead body lying in the woods during roll call in the evenings. "Serves her right," I'd say. (I may or may not have the gift of mercy.)

So, perhaps understandably, I was surprised last Thursday when we got home, checked on the girls, and found one of the black hens dead as a doornail on the floor underneath the nesting boxes. She would stay with the suicidal chicken during the nights, so perhaps the tension in the coop became too much for her. Maybe the stress of watching her sister daily take her life in her wings was too difficult. Maybe she, even moreso than the suicidal one, felt the loss of the other sister deeply but was hiding it well until it just became too much. 

As usual, I texted Seth, told him about the loss, asked him what to do, and then asked him when he'd be home to do it.

He didn't find any signs of obvious trauma on her and we didn't see any evidence that something had gotten into the coop (all feathers were intact, there were not signs of struggle), so we're not sure what happened. Seth's theory is that a spider bit her. Cael thinks it was a snake. Kieran suggested an auger got her (his latest obsession). And I googled "Sudden Chicken Death" . . . again. 

Sometimes, when we're outside in the evenings,
we let the chickens out in the yard for a bit
since we're around to keep the predators at bay.

I don't have an answer for why the black one died and the suicidal one is still alive. But then, sometimes in life, there are no answers. Only chickens.

The Kindness of a Doctor

The other day, I took the boys to see the doctor so that Cael could be brought up to date on his vaccinations before we register him for kindergarten next month (is that really possible?!). I waited until the morning of the appointment to tell the boys because I knew the thought of it would cause Kieran (not necessarily Cael) some consternation. He made sure that it wasn't he who would be on the receiving end of the treatments and was very sad (almost to the point of tears) that Cael would need to go through this trial. And he talked about it the rest of the day. 

When we went in to see the doctor, Kieran tried to get out of the exam room by excusing himself to the bathroom. When that didn't work (he couldn't spend too long in there), he tried talking to the doctor himself. He told him that Cael was there for shots and that there would be pain. I explained that he was concerned about Cael and that he wasn't thrilled with being there. 

Having treated Kieran since birth and being familiar with his extreme anxiety during office visits (even when they're not for him), Dr. D was very understanding. He said, "Of course you are. You are . . . a very understanding big brother." I don't know why he paused or what he was originally going to say, but I appreciated his willingness to extend comfort to Kieran. Then Kieran asked about his office, and Dr. D very kindly invited him to go see the plants in his office while Cael got his shots. I never would have expected that to be the outcome or a way for Kieran to avoid the situation, but I'm thankful for Dr. D's thoughtfulness in helping Kieran (and me) through the ordeal. 

Meanwhile, back in the exam room, Cael hopped up on the table, shuddered a bit during the shots, got some TMNT bandages, and then hopped back down without saying a word. He was thrilled, too, with the Spiderman and TMNT stickers the nurses gave him afterward. 

We celebrated afterward with ice cream. (Kieran got a peanut butter milkshake.) 

Kieran survived yet another doctor visit. . . . And so did Cael. To quote Pa Ingalls, "All's well that ends well." 

Haircutting Bib

Cutting Kieran's hair has always caused drama on his end. He doesn't like the sound of the buzzer, the feel of it on his head, the heat it makes when Seth doesn't use a guard. He also doesn't like having scissors near his hair. We've tried various things to help him through the procedure but drama continues to ensue. Seth has taken charge of the haircutting procedures for both boys (mainly because I can't cut hair -- at all) and I'm usually left with the clean up. 

A few weeks ago, after Seth cut Cael's hair, I decided there must be an easier way to keep the hair from getting on the boys' skin and everywhere in the bathroom and went online to see what I could find. I started looking for capes for kids and soon came across this amazing invention that I knew I simply had to have.

I ordered it and it arrived just in time for Kieran's next haircut. 

He wasn't overly thrilled with it but it did help to lesson one of the things he hates about haircuts--having the hair get all over his neck and shoulders.

And it did make clean up much easier. It was really easy to pour the hair into the trashcan and then take it outside to shake the rest of the hair off.

 This is his "I am NOT pleased about what just happened here" face.

Thankfully, he recovers quickly from the trauma and was back to his usual pleasant self in no time. And I was able to enjoy that pleasantness much more quickly because I didn't have any hair to clean up after the ordeal. That's a win all around.

Food-of-love

For Seth, cooking and baking are a "food-of-love" thing. For him, it's about the process. He could (and often does) spend hours in the kitchen making dinner or dessert. He doesn't watch the clock or try to multi-task so that he finishes faster. He tastes as he goes along and adjusts to his liking, and he's not concerned about starting over when it's not. He doesn't mind having dishes spread out everywhere throughout his process. He cleans up at the end, not as he goes along. But, perhaps most importantly, he also doesn't mind having helpers in his process. 

For me, cooking and baking are about the product. I get easily overwhelmed when flour flies everywhere and dishes find homes on every available counter space. When little hands grab the bowl and spatulas I'm trying to use. I'd rather get in, git 'r done, and get out with a finished product than enjoy the process of making it. 

So tonight, I'm thankful for his relaxed balance to my rushed busyness. And that he's able to teach the boys to enjoy cooking when I (too) often try to keep them out of the kitchen while I "work." I'm thankful for the opportunity to take deep breaths, ignore the mess, and watch them all enjoy the process. 

And tomorrow, at our annual Super Bowl party with friends, we'll enjoy the fruits of their timeless labors. And the pecan and key lime pies will be that much sweeter because they were truly made with love.  

Snow day

Whose woods these are

I think I know

His house is in the Holler, though

He will not see me sledding here

As his woods fill up with snow

My little boys must think it queer

To stop beside our creek so near

Between the woods and frozen lake

A lick of snow, grin ear to ear

They give their little heads a shake

To ask if there is some mistake

The only other sound's the sweep of easy wind

And downy flake

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep 

But I have promises to keep 

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep

(With thanks to Robert Frost)