tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27992250442132475952024-02-18T22:02:05.256-05:00Torpid TriflingLazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.comBlogger263125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-40174210130131218942013-11-23T13:05:00.000-05:002013-11-23T22:29:19.869-05:00Happy News<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's a boy! <br />
<br />
I got a call from my doctor last night. She was calling to share the good news that all the blood work covered by insurance for women over 35 came back showing a healthy baby. And then she asked if I'd like to know the gender. Not expecting the offer, I said yes, and she said the tests showed a Y chromosome!<!--3--><br />
<br />
The head cold I caught in early October and couldn't shake seems to finally be wearing off. The terrible first trimester nausea has abated, and I can eat normally, for the most part. I woke up one day and realized that after months of aiming simply for survival, I feel ... good?<br />
<br />
It's been a rough ride around here for what feels like a very long time (a few months really drags when you're continually sick and exhausted). And suddenly, things feel so much better! I want to sink deep into the happiness of this moment and wrap my arms around the future at the same time.<br />
<br />
Thanksgiving is precisely on time this year.<br />
<br />
</div>LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-69193913107571225672013-11-12T16:23:00.002-05:002013-11-12T21:09:51.211-05:00Unprepared<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The leaves have all fallen from the trees. I woke to snow this morning, and was late for my 6am yoga class because I didn't get up in time to brush off the car. It wasn't the first frost of the season, but I still found myself blinking in disbelief.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what I expect. Summer to grace us with a few more days in mid-November? A chance to rake the fall leaves and winter-proof the yard before it's covered in white? That would be reasonable, but no. I want more than that. A reprieve. A pause button in time. A moment to catch up.<br />
<br />
Winter's coming so fast, and I'm unprepared.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
I'm pregnant.<br />
<br />
It was an accident, if it can really be called an accident when it's the third potential accident in the last year. Probably doesn't qualify anymore at that point. But it came as a surprise that Saturday morning in August when the test strip turned immediately pink. And it's still coming as a surprise three months later; I can't seem to wrap my head around it.<br />
<br />
Where will the baby sleep? We're short a bedroom. How will I run my business? I'm short-staffed. Who's paying for a maternity leave? I'm short on ideas. And savings.<br />
<br />
I'm thrilled to have another baby, but oh, I'm so unprepared.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
When I told my mom I was expecting, she said: <i>I thought you had a plan! You were going to see how things went for a year with your business and then decide!</i><br />
<br />
I smiled, but there were tears stepping hard on the heels of my smile, and I shrugged and choked out the only word I could say: <i>Whoops!</i> <br />
<br />
She smiled and said: <i>We had a couple of those, too.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> I love my mom. She gave us a wonderful childhood, a life full of soft places to land, sweetness, and plenty of space to grow into ourselves. And you know, if asked to describe her, I'd probably never choose the word <i>prepared</i>.<br />
<i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>* * *</i></div>
<i><br />
</i> Winter is coming and there's nothing I can do to stop it.<br />
<br />
Spring will follow, like it always does. And right around the time Easter arrives, so will my baby.<br />
<br />
If the fall leaves get trapped under a blanket of snow, then so be it. If my maternity leave goes unfunded, it won't be the first or the last one to end up that way, I'm sure.<br />
<br />
I can only put one foot in front of the other. I'm unprepared for the future, it's true. But I can get through today.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's enough.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-6554250055229051822013-09-04T20:51:00.001-04:002013-09-04T20:54:00.945-04:00A Series of Unrelated Vignettes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One of the yoga classes I teach is located on a college campus. I don't work for the college, but for a local fitness organization with an on-campus branch. Recently, I walked into my class and discovered another instructor had already begun teaching! Not only was he teaching my class, but his style was bombastic, confrontative and overbearing. He'd yelled at and insulted several students already.<br />
<br />
It took some time to get through to him that this was the <i>fitness</i> yoga class, not the <i>college credit</i> yoga class, and that he was in the wrong room. I did so kindly as I could, but he kept interrupting me to rant vaguely about the corruption of modern-day yoga. As he finally began to understand, I could see the embarrassment dawn on his face. He stormed toward the exit in his socks, and I spotted his leather loafers in the corner by the bin of blocks, about to be left behind. I stopped him to hand him his shoes. He thanked me. The moment was deeply uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
The man was in his late-60s or early 70s. His head was wrapped in a colorful, printed turban and his tunic and pants were crafted of the same fabric. His skin was bronze and slightly craggy, his posture yoga-regal, his mouth down-turned in the corners in the manner of a man who perpetually frowns. He moved from bombastic to embarrassed before my eyes, shuffling defiantly from the room in saggy yellow socks. I wasn't sure what to make of this character who'd appeared so unexpectedly before my eyes to act out this surprising scene.<br />
<br />
It felt as if I'd suddenly walked into a Zadie Smith novel.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
My son would be starting kindergarten tomorrow if we weren't homeschooling. My facebook feed is full of first-day-of-school pics, and people are beginning to ask me questions about curriculum. It ought to be a milestone of some sort, I suppose, but it barely registers most of the time. There is so much else crowding for space. For being such a big and life-changing commitment, would you believe homeschooling is the easiest part of my life, by far? I barely need to give it a thought; the boy is learning deeply and broadly, and the environment is rich with inspiration. I wish the rest of my life were as easy as homeschooling.<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Sometimes I sit on the couch late at night and marvel at my luck, in being able to work for myself, in a field I'm passionate about.<br />
<br />
Other times I completely fucking hate working for myself.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, there are more of the latter moments than the former, most recently.<br />
<br />
I have put my heart and soul into this business over the last year, and I'm just exhausted. There's no one to share the load, no one to bolster me when I'm beaten down by the endless demands. There's no one to help! Ever!<br />
<br />
So, while it's technically a success: my nursery school is officially open, enrollment numbers look great, the kids have fun and get along, I enjoy the company of all the parents, I feel as if I've just dragged myself over the finish line after having completed a marathon and all I can think is: <i>never again, never again.</i><br />
<br />
I'm sure the energy will shift and change. It always does.<br />
<br />
But for now, I just want to sleep for a year.<br />
<br />
<i> </i></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-70464598455301381142013-07-29T23:19:00.000-04:002013-07-29T23:45:08.297-04:00Birthday Boy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My firstborn turned 5 last week. He invited a few friends and some cousins over on Saturday afternoon. My house is a working nursery school, so I didn't plan anything special; I figured the kids could just play. I joked to the other parents that I was simply planning on paying less attention to the kids than I normally do, since I had other adults there to help.<br />
<br />
I made a cake in the morning, frosted it, and then the birthday boy fell sound asleep before he could decorate it. So he did it after his guests arrived, squeezing frosting tubes through decorative tips, abstract designs in hunter green and neon orange over chocolate frosting. The other kids, seeing this, wanted a turn and he chose his oldest, dearest friend while they all closed in around him, fascinated. I could tell he didn't want to share the decoration of his birthday cake with the whole kitchen full of kids, just as I could see that the whole kitchen full of kids most assuredly <i>did</i> want to share the decoration of his birthday cake with him.<br />
<br />
My husband shopped for the plates, and instead of getting a <i>Happy Birthday</i>-themed plate/cup/napkin combo like I would have, he bought some eco-friendly, plain paper plates the color and texture of an egg carton. I'd been slightly disappointed when first I saw them, along with the plain, white napkins, just home from the grocery store, sitting dully on the dining room table. But all of a sudden I imagined them in my mind, festooned with ribbons of sugary frosting squeezed through decorative tips by kids gathered around a table, and I loved those ugly, non-festive little plates. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>If you want a turn to decorate with frosting, come get your very own plate to decorate!</i> I sang, and the children pivoted and swarmed in my direction, giving the birthday boy his space. I handed out plates, one per child, and then we circled the small table and passed frosting in both directions until the tubes were squeezed empty.<br />
<br />
So the party started with impromptu frosting art, and everyone was happy. Then we opened the presents, because why not?<br />
<br />
He got a sprinkler with a million little spouts, like a long, plastic caterpillar, each bright leg a squirming, squirting fountain. We dug up bathing suits for all, placed the big, glass bowl of cheese puffs on the back porch next to the tortilla chips, and then -for most of the rest of the afternoon- the children played with mud. They dug in it, and stirred it with sticks, scratched up handfuls and transported it across the yard, threw it through the air and rubbed it on their legs and torsos.<br />
<br />
One little girl wore a very pretty flowered blouse (she swore she was supposed to swim in her clothes, and I didn't find the swimsuit in her 'change of clothes' bag until later) and she rubbed handfuls of mud into it with a giggly glee. I thought to correct her, and then silently resolved to simply hand wash the blouse before sending her home.<br />
<br />
They ate pizza and cake, and wanted to take their frosting art pieces home. I had no party favors to pass out, but they all requested sandwich bags of dry beans from the sensory table, and so I bagged up beans and sent them home with lots of love and no explanation whatsoever.<br />
<br />
After his cousins got on the road to head back to Buffalo, I drove his oldest and most-loved friend home. In the spirit of his birthday, I didn't say a single word while they shrieked with laughter, shouting poop jokes in their loudest voices between fits of hysteria.<br />
<br />
It was --I'll have you know-- proclaimed by multiple guests to be "the best party ever".<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-35836507621120150732013-06-20T21:34:00.003-04:002013-06-20T21:34:59.614-04:00GritI used to watch horror movies with friends (only ever with friends; I tend toward romantic comedies when left to my own devices), and whenever the first person died I would joke: <i>That would be me! First to die!</i><br />
<br />
I never saw myself as the type to survive a zombie apocalypse, a serial killer on the loose, the supernatural dangers of a haunted mansion. I haven't the desire to fight to the death and my first world existence (thank God!) has never demanded it of me.<br />
<br />
Some people open their own small businesses and when asked they explain it this way: <i>It just unfolded, very naturally and organically. </i>And every time I wonder: <i>Are they completely full of shit?</i><br />
<br />
Here's my experience of opening a business: <i>I have wrestled something into being that did not exist before. I have reached into the abyss and I have grabbed ahold of the tiniest spark of *something* and I have pulled and pushed and battled it into existence. I've shaped it with my bare hands, made it real and tangible, and still, that wasn't enough! Then I had to make it presentable! I've wrestled it's naked, monstrous body into pretty frocks, combed it's unspeakable hair, washed the dirt and blood from it's impossible face. I've tamed it with a love and patience I didn't know I possessed. And now it's real! It's public! It exists as a thing outside myself! I created something from nothing, and goddammit, it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I am one. tough. bitch.</i><br />
<br />
Next time I watch a horror movie, I'll be the one with the nunchucks hidden in my closet, right next to that head-to-toe leather outfit nobody never imagined I could rock so hard.<i> </i>From now on, I'll be the one still alive at the end.<br />
<br />LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-90254152213906674292012-11-16T18:48:00.000-05:002012-11-16T18:48:11.669-05:00How To Make Dinner in 33 Easy-ish Steps<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>Put children #s 2 and 3 down for nap. Set child #1 up in front of laptop open to page full of <a href="http://www.toytheater.com/math.php">math games</a>.</li>
<li>Listen to child #2 calling from her crib: <i>No nap! Up now! No nap! Up now!</i></li>
<li>Remove child #2 from her crib, with promises to play quietly without waking child #3 while Mommy cooks.</li>
<li>Wonder why you are attempting to extract promises from a one year old when you already know for certain she has no intention of keeping them.</li>
<li>Drink afternoon coffee (without which no cooking of dinner shall occur).</li>
<li>Go into kitchen. Dig through fridge. No meat.</li>
<li>Realize meat has not been thawed.</li>
<li>Retrieve from freezer; defrost meat in microwave.</li>
<li>Child #2 will be running in circles -yelling loudly and with great zeal- by this point, while child #3 sleeps next door. Shush her. She won't shush, but it's always worth a shot. (Optimism is important both in life and in the cooking of dinner.)</li>
<li>Continue digging in fridge. Realize there is no spinach. </li>
<li>Scavenge kitchen. Find partially rotting zucchini squash, halfway decent yellow squash, green and yellow peppers only slightly beginning to wrinkle and shrivel.</li>
<li>Good enough. Chop 'em. (Toss rotting parts.)</li>
<li>Heat meat in pan. </li>
<li>Add veggies, 3 teaspoons of husband-made taco seasoning, half-cup of water.</li>
<div class="mobile-photo">
</div>
<li>Dig through cupboards. Realize you are out of black beans.</li>
<li>Continue digging through cupboards until you find a can of refried beans.</li>
<li>Good enough. Add 'em. </li>
<li>Child #2 will by now have stripped down to a saggy, baggy diaper, and will still be running in circles, yelling: <i>NAYKEE!</i></li>
<li>Wrestle child into bedroom. Change diaper. Re-clothe.</li>
<li>Attempt to impress upon child the need for quiet.</li>
<li>Futile. Child will grin winningly and yell at maximum volume in response.</li>
<li>Return to kitchen to find mexi-slop burning and sticking to bottom of pan.</li>
<li>Mutter a curse word under your breath. Scrape mexi-slop from bottom of pan (but not too much--best to leave bottom layer of burned mexi-slop as a further-burn-barrier; this has been learned from experience). </li>
<li>Reduce heat, and cover.</li>
<div class="mobile-photo">
</div>
<li>Child #2 will -of course- hear the muttered curse word, and begin yelling it loudly while running in circles.</li>
<li>Child #3 will wake up.</li>
<li>Go get child #3 from crib; change diaper.</li>
<li>Child #1 -attracted to the sounds of chaos- will close laptop and race to join children #s 2 and 3.</li>
<li>They will run in circles, yelling loudly (at least the muttered curse has been forgotten)(recall the importance of optimism), until child #3 is retrieved by his mother, arriving to pick him up after work.</li>
<li>Husband will arrive home from work. He has 2 important steps to complete.</li>
<li>Make homemade guacamole to transform this dinner from mexi-slop to mexi-slop with delicious guacamole on top.</li>
<li>The final step is of utmost importance to the success of both the dinner, and the evening.</li>
<li>Send husband to store for beer.</li>
</ol>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8SE7Z-holMNGHhcnE6YTGUpF667zDtF5cLoeDWDktm7V48iXoDpFEE_GqDinX3GvwkeKn7fvikwdUNWYVHMREB7z3ismbGwxJHBD4q0GlvOfE5jLajDjPQclw7B50MJXsSFMm9kADSg/s1600/photo-755022.JPG" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5811546255055376754" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY8SE7Z-holMNGHhcnE6YTGUpF667zDtF5cLoeDWDktm7V48iXoDpFEE_GqDinX3GvwkeKn7fvikwdUNWYVHMREB7z3ismbGwxJHBD4q0GlvOfE5jLajDjPQclw7B50MJXsSFMm9kADSg/s320/photo-755022.JPG" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="mobile-photo">
</div>
</div>
<div class="mobile-photo">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjau31i7Gfq_VC4tRg-Qr7k2BrgbAov14SlssOU4G0vfs7sh3WS4IDbafcp0bwhavqrvV7A3mJgLlU8P0_SyVGIauU-cDTC-TULi1lhuZvGcVHT_0bg1nRwUC0B-V_Fw4Ey8NF8bNUEi3A/s1600/photo-722659.JPG" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5811538816326132322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjau31i7Gfq_VC4tRg-Qr7k2BrgbAov14SlssOU4G0vfs7sh3WS4IDbafcp0bwhavqrvV7A3mJgLlU8P0_SyVGIauU-cDTC-TULi1lhuZvGcVHT_0bg1nRwUC0B-V_Fw4Ey8NF8bNUEi3A/s320/photo-722659.JPG" title="" width="238" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJl25uT1tkoBmrdCsva-SatM4879JAfriy5zQ-tjho-P0mccLuseYf86GoNuIMZCelx7p4AGW9m7aYJdcy98jyXzGYGfaMNI-ZrfbQluf-UUMpgV2SdQestr5a7Hf6NsHHwkkUBLgTdQ/s1600/photo-787089.JPG" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5811538663645124962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJl25uT1tkoBmrdCsva-SatM4879JAfriy5zQ-tjho-P0mccLuseYf86GoNuIMZCelx7p4AGW9m7aYJdcy98jyXzGYGfaMNI-ZrfbQluf-UUMpgV2SdQestr5a7Hf6NsHHwkkUBLgTdQ/s320/photo-787089.JPG" width="238" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nj1_aa0SqRAGrvTYru5BMxTOdue2n7vvSkuI0CF91pMsJJ4b84wVub6P9LG-mpniiG8gf3TJVkOLdrVcAXV5q3Cp-S347tTn7SoEwSAPVyu4gd8tl_lT7OnUtkpHmzo5JD7VLKRiTlM/s1600/photo-775712.JPG" rel="nofollow" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5811545916539015122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4nj1_aa0SqRAGrvTYru5BMxTOdue2n7vvSkuI0CF91pMsJJ4b84wVub6P9LG-mpniiG8gf3TJVkOLdrVcAXV5q3Cp-S347tTn7SoEwSAPVyu4gd8tl_lT7OnUtkpHmzo5JD7VLKRiTlM/s320/photo-775712.JPG" width="238" /></a></div>
</div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-5454517323579012592012-11-15T21:00:00.000-05:002012-11-17T21:01:33.420-05:00I Want to Tell the Truth When I Grow Up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Studying early childhood education as an undergrad, I attended a conference where the following question was posed.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>What do you say to parents or administrators who ask what you're doing to "prepare young children for school"</i>?</blockquote>
When I heard the answer the speaker gave, I gasped, and knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>I like to say: If you knew that, in a year or so from now, there would be a famine across the entire earth, and there wouldn't be enough to eat ...</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>... would you start starving yourself now?</i></blockquote>
I want to be someone who can say things like this out loud, in a professional setting. Getting paid for it will just be the icing on the cake. <br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-90260125471191826692012-11-11T21:48:00.000-05:002012-11-12T21:53:36.035-05:00The Clubhouse<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Way back in high school, I had a friend named <a href="http://lukeward.com/blog/" target="_blank">Luke</a>. We graduated; years passed; we lost touch. And then facebook came along, and we reconnected there. I began blogging in November of 2009 (hey, happy 3 years to me!), and -to my surprise- got a comment on the <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2009/11/notes-from-saturday.html" target="_blank">second post I wrote</a>. It was from Luke's wife, <a href="http://www.whenigrowupcoach.com/about-me/" target="_blank">Michelle</a>.<br />
<br />
I followed her comment back to <a href="http://www.whenigrowupcoach.com/" target="_blank">her website</a>, and found out she was some sort of ... career coach? I wasn't sure exactly what that was, but it looked like fun. In any case, my career was humming along happily at that time, but I still visited <a href="http://www.whenigrowupcoach.com/blog/" target="_blank">her blog</a> occasionally, and enjoyed reading about entrepreneurship and all the possibilities people discovered in a world wide open and full of opportunities.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to early March of 2011. I found out, while home on maternity leave, that when I returned to work I would only have 5 months of employment left before our federal funding ran out. The program I worked for had been eliminated, nationally, for the 2011-2012 school year by a newly conservative Congress following the 2010 midterm elections. <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2011/03/let-freakout-commence-in-321.html" target="_blank">I wrote about it and Michelle popped up in the comments again, offering support</a>.<br />
<br />
The truth is, I wasn't ready for any support yet, at least in the career arena. I had a new baby, and I immediately knew I would do in-home childcare. It was the quickest, easiest shift I could make, and had the added bonus of allowing me to be with my young children.<br />
<br />
As my first year at home passed, I realized I was still -in my heart of hearts- <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2011/12/teacher.html" target="_blank">a teacher</a>. My work is <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2012/01/more-merrier.html" target="_blank">important to me</a>, integral to who I am. <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2012/03/competencies.html" target="_blank">I missed many things about my old job, even as I got better at new parts of the work I do</a>. And as that first year came to an end, I realized I was ready for a new plan. But doing it alone, in the confines of my own head, <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2012/06/present-and-future.html" target="_blank">was really hard</a>. Now I was ready for some support. I e-mailed Michelle and she responded with some options. I thought it over, and decided to join <a href="http://www.whenigrowupcoach.com/clubhouse/" target="_blank">her Clubhouse</a>.<br />
<br />
I have never regretted that decision.<br />
<br />
Every time I have a question, a concern, a late-night fear freakout, a desire for some <i>you go girl</i> energy, or just a place to brag: I go to the Clubhouse. It's full of other smart, interesting, entrepreneurs and entrepreneurs-to-be. Between the whole group, it seems like all the knowledge in the world is available there! From legal, to financial, to web-savviness, to artistic, to managing self-care in an entrepreneurial world gone mad!<br />
<br />
The truth is, in my day-to-day, tangible, career-building world, I am still alone. I don't have colleagues or staff to help me. I'm only beginning to build clientele, and that takes time and care. I never thought I'd be an entrepreneur. It's terrifying a lot of the time.<br />
<br />
But I no longer <i>feel</i> alone. I have a place to go when I want to talk shop, get kudos, complain, or learn more. I've been able to support other people doing things in areas far outside my expertise, because they wonder about things <i>I know</i>, or need exactly the type of support I feel comfortable and happy to give.<br />
<br />
It's a good place to be, this Clubhouse.<br />
<br />
There will be some more openings there, starting in January of the new year. <a href="http://www.whenigrowupcoach.com/clubhouse/" target="_blank">Check it out</a> if it sounds like it might be your cup of tea.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-44304265621386985312012-11-10T23:48:00.000-05:002012-11-11T19:48:50.331-05:00Flying<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2012/11/running-faster.html" target="_blank">the pain</a>: the legs pushing harder, breath sharp and ragged, muscles that beg me to quit, after the pain that seems interminable ends, there is something else.<br />
<br />
There is flight.<br />
<br />
My legs rotate like pedals attached to a wheel racing down a steep hill; they circle faster and faster without effort. I pass over the ground like a helicopter, legs whirring like a blade as I finish that final lap.<br />
<br />
My arms pump by my sides, backandforthbackandforthbackandforth, my hands open up, loose fists leftover from a slower pace releasing, fingers reaching toward the future, my whole body stretching forward into space.<br />
<br />
I tuck my head down and my breath comes quickly now <i>hoowhoohoowhoohoowhoo</i>. I'm not cold anymore.<br />
<br />
I am effortless.<br />
<br />
There is pain. But then there is flight.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-39762483041844066732012-11-09T23:35:00.000-05:002012-11-10T16:36:20.848-05:00Running Faster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My feel hit the gravel <i>shushshushshushshush</i>. My breath comes hard and rough through a layer of fleece wrapped around my face and neck. When I inhale, the air is cold and sharp, slapping the back of my throat on it's way to my lungs.<br />
<br />
Studying health & phys ed as an undergrad, I learned the definitional difference between walking and running: the flight phase. I think about this as I push my legs further through strides, try to catch more air in the moments between sneaker smacking earth.<br />
<br />
My legs hurt: the muscles in my thighs ache, sharp pain moves up each shin when that foot hits the ground. My lungs hate the cold air rushing down into my chest. Somewhere in the vicinity of my right shoulder blade, a knot begins to form.<br />
<br />
Still running, I pull my iphone from the pocket of my husband's down vest, and sneak a peek at the time. <i>Shit</i>. I speed up.<br />
<br />
Everything hurts.<br />
<br />
I keep going.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-72138335119181792042012-11-08T23:04:00.000-05:002012-11-08T23:04:46.156-05:00Snapshots of Learning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The year before the wedding, my future-husband and I lived in Prescott, Arizona. We attended a few yoga classes together. The year after the wedding, we lived in Niagara Falls, NY. We attended a few more yoga classes together.<br />
<br />
Talking about a pose one night, he said: <i>Well, you'll always do *this* with your back</i>, and demonstrated drawing his shoulder blades together and down.<br />
<br />
<i>How do you know that?</i> I asked. <i>We only attended a few classes! You remember that pose?</i><br />
<br />
<i>No, but I remember the basic principles. How they felt in my body. You don't?</i><br />
<br />
<i>No</i>, I replied, <i>I remember a bunch of chanting in Sanskrit.</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>* * *</i></div>
<br />
He came home from the grocery store tonight, began unpacking the bags while I packed my yoga mat and CDs to leave for work. Both of us running around our respective rooms while the kids sat at the dining room table eating greek yogurt, he says: <i>I bought some C-H-E-E-S-E C-R-A-C-K-E-R-S at the grocery store tonight, for you to give the kids tomorrow.</i><br />
<br />
I'm still visualizing the letters in my head when the four year old pipes up, with great excitement: <i>Daddy, did you get CHEESY CRACKERS for us!?</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>* * *</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When I began studying yoga, I read all the books I could find. I wanted to know everything there was to know. I learned to stand from <a href="http://www.bradpriddy.com/yoga/tada.htm" target="_blank">this website</a>.<i> </i>I read it, and read it, and read it. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I read it aloud to myself, while standing.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I copied and pasted it into a word document. I bolded print. I cut excess verbiage, and added bullet points. I read it again, just the bullet points, while standing. I read it aloud during one of my classes, while students stood in <i>tadasana</i>, eyes closed.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My most difficult student interrupted me, to say scornfully: <i>This is a bunch of shit.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I replied, zenlike: <i>just try your best, and if the instructions are too much, tune them out and focus on your breath.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>* * * </i></div>
<br />
I remember our boy trying to learn to jump. He tried, and tried, and tried. He just could not clear the ground. The desire was there, but the flesh (or maybe it was the muscle) wasn't willing. It took months.<br />
<br />
Our daughter was doing somersaults around 18 months.<br />
<br />
<i>How old are you supposed to be to do somersaults</i>? the husband asked me, and I replied: <i>Oh, I can't remember! It's one of those details I'll have to look up.</i><br />
<br />
The <a href="http://www.parentfurther.com/ages-stages/3-5" target="_blank">first website that came up on google</a> listed it as a 3-5 year old skill.<br />
<br />
And then, last month, when she was 21 months old, my friend said: <i>she puts on her own socks, boots and coat? I'll have to teach my 2 year old to do that!</i><br />
<br />
<i>I didn't teach her</i>, I said, somewhat puzzled. <i>I'm actually not sure when she started doing that. </i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We were talking one night, late, and quite possibly full of wine. I think we must have been grad students, both of us majoring in education. We'd been married a couple years at this point.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>I like to know ALL the details</i>, he said, hands drawing wavy lines through the air as they spread apart, as if to symbolize the potential exponential growth of detail.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My eyes got big. A lightbulb went on in my head. <i>I HATE details!</i> I told him enthusiastically, <i>I want to know the BIG picture! Without it, the details make NO sense whatsoever! And even once I UNDERSTAND it, I prefer bullet points!</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He stared back at me with eyes like saucers. <i>I HATE bullet points! And if you give me the idea, without the details, it means, like, NOTHING! Give me the DETAILS! And I'll give YOU the big picture!</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We stared at each other, like strangers who had only just met.<i> </i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Everything about all of our conversations suddenly made so much more sense.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-58553808025482634552012-11-07T23:30:00.000-05:002012-11-07T23:30:23.066-05:00One Week In And It's a List<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>It's been a week, and I'm already like: Seriously? Blog? Again? For goodness sakes!</li>
<li>I work 9-10 hours a day.</li>
<li>That's my day job.</li>
<li>It's one of those unusual jobs that comes sans lunch or other breaks. I eat standing up (sometimes walking) and I listen through the bathroom door for sounds of potential mayhem while I pee.</li>
<li>When the day job ends, I have an hour to shower and change.</li>
<li>Next is my night job. More of an evening job, really</li>
<li>That one might be an hour; it might be 2.</li>
<li>There's another half hour, or 90 minute commute, depending on the day.</li>
<li>Then, depending on the night, or the hour, I help get the kids ready and down to bed.</li>
<li>And then, along with my equally exhausted husband, I collapse.</li>
<li>Today was my biggest playgroup so far, for the day job.</li>
<li>I had 7 kids here, all under 5, for 3 hours this morning. (Only need 8 for the nursery school, so this is good news!)</li>
<li>I had 4 kids for the rest of the 9-10 hour day.</li>
<li>The night job was 2 hours tonight.</li>
<li>The commute was 90 minutes.</li>
<li>The dinner was reheated leftovers.</li>
<li>The couch was (is) comfortable.</li>
<li>The blanket was (is) warm.</li>
<li>Can our exhausted protagonist make it to 20?</li>
<li>Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... </li>
</ol>
(goodnight!)<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-85166392923439920832012-11-06T21:28:00.000-05:002012-11-06T21:43:25.655-05:00Election Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I voted for Obama in 2008. I'd always kind of liked John McCain and his whole maverick schtick, but the modern-day Republican party seemed (and still does) to be walking one-way down a narrow path to crazy town with increasing speed, and McCain appeared to be reluctantly following along.<br />
<br />
I remember watching the inauguration in January, though, and all I could think was, <i>he's bound to let us down</i>. When Republicans made fun of Democrats, calling Obama "the Messiah," I thought they had a point. He was just a man, projected up onto the same big screen where we project all our hopes, dreams and ideals. He never had a chance to live up to that.<br />
<br />
Of course, we were fresh off the George W. Bush years at the time, so a relatively friendly homeless guy hanging out outside the local grocery store would have looked like a good bet at that point, in comparison. (But then again, there was John Kerry in '04.)<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to get into this election. Obama hasn't disappointed me, necessarily. I loved his talk about transparency, but didn't particularly believe it at the time. His continuation of Bush's foreign policy is also saddening, but I knew when Bush assumed so much power in the executive branch that it would be awfully hard to take it back, regardless of party.<br />
<br />
Also, it seems like we've known Obama will win all along in 2012 (if Romney wins tonight, color me surprised!). Even the Republicans don't particularly seem to like Romney. I look at politics, and it's hard to see anything but theater. <br />
<br />
I enjoy the theater, but don't tell me it's real life.<br />
<br />
I almost didn't vote today. It's not because I'm disillusioned; that happened a long time ago. I was born into a post-Watergate political America. I don't know that I was ever <i>illusioned</i> in the first place.<br />
<br />
I worked all day. Took kids to the library. Packed a picnic lunch. Visited an indoor playground. Passed out peanut butter sandwiches and, later, carried little girls to beds and cribs. Later, I woke them, changed diapers, played chase and served snacks. My husband walked in the door at the same time I should have been starting my yoga class, all apologies for being late (meeting with a mortgage re-financier, in case I needed a reminder that The Big Decisions do Trickle Down one way or another), and I raced out to teach my class, and then attend a physical therapy session for the tendonitis in my shoulder.<br />
<br />
I had thought we were all going to go vote together: the husband and I, with the kids. But then he texted and told me he went while I was teaching. I got out of class, and I knew: <i>if I go home, I'm not going back out</i>. I also knew that New York's electoral college votes would go to Obama, regardless of what I did this evening. It was a long day, and I was tired.<br />
<br />
And yet, I found myself pulling into one of my polling station's parking spaces a few minutes later. It's housing for the elderly; they sit in the lobby in their wheelchairs, pointing us voters in the right direction when we walk in the building. One woman had put together little baskets of used goods to sell at her fold-out card table. And the election officials were just as daft, disorganized, and delightfully human as they have been every other time we've shown up to vote.<br />
<br />
All of us, there at the polling place, we were too fat, or had too much makeup on. We were born ugly, or wore the same sweatpants all the time. We were in wheelchairs; our mustaches were unfortunate in every way; we couldn't rip a serrated sheet of paper off a ballot pad. All of us are imperfect. We're just doing the best we can.<br />
<br />
I voted for Obama in 2012. I'm not an idealist when it comes to politics.<br />
<br />
But nonetheless, I'm glad I went.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-32396332571854852392012-11-04T00:04:00.000-04:002012-11-04T00:04:44.212-04:00Jogging, Math and Music<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I was in elementary school, I was somehow chosen to be part of a special, city-wide math group. I say "somehow" because I attended Catholic school, so I have no idea how they even knew I existed, let alone invited me to be part of the group. We had to report to one of the public elementary schools early on Saturday mornings. Special workbooks full of shapes and symbols were passed out; I recall circles and half-circles, ovals and squiggly lines. We spent an hour or so each week practicing some sort of advanced mathematics.<br />
<br />
I remember perusing the workbook, closely studying the shapes and symbols. They never meant a thing to me. But somehow, I always intuitively knew the right answers to the problems. I couldn't show my work; I had absolutely no idea what work to do! But I chose the right answer almost every time.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I complained enough about having to get up early on Saturdays to do more math than was already required as a result of attending school, and my mom gave in and let me quit. (Seriously, whose idea was this anyway!? Saturday mornings? Extra workbooks? It's like punishing kids for being good at math!)<br />
<br />
As an adult (and an educator) I've come to realize that I probably understood the work on some level, but was stymied by the language of visual symbols. I'm not a visual learner, and when I think back on that experience, what stands out in my memory is the feeling of complete befuddlement while looking down at a page full of circles, ovals, and squiggles, followed by a strong, intuitive feeling that the answer would be X, even though I didn't understand the question.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
My mom made me take piano lessons for a couple years as a kid. One Monday, she didn't mention getting ready for my lesson. Being wise to the ways in which things work in a big family, I stayed the heck out of her way and laid low, assuming she forgot. Relief rushed hot through my body. I played happily in a quiet corner where she would be unlikely to stumble upon me and suddenly remember.<br />
<br />
Later that week, she told me I didn't have to go anymore. After years of supervising my practices, she realized I literally <i>could not hear</i> my mistakes on the keyboard. If I couldn't <i>hear</i> them, how could I correct them? Which explains why I never got any better, despite regular practice.<br />
<br />
I grew up with the idea that I lack musical intelligence. For the most part, I think this assumption is correct. It's been borne out by most of my life experiences (never made a mixed-tape, nor a playlist; can't tell an electric guitar from acoustic, unless I see the cord plugged in). With one notable exception.<br />
<br />
Home from college one summer, I worked for my hometown's Parks and Recreation Department, driving between the various city parks with art supplies for the children to do weekly projects. One morning I arrived at my scheduled park to find another activity already in progress. There was a troupe of African drummers in a huge circle, with hand drums for anyone who wanted them. I dropped my supplies off to the side and joined the circle, full of kids, staff, and neighborhood families. The lead drummer taught us how to beat the drum, how to hold and angle our hands to make different sounds, how to count out loud and then match the movements of our hands to the sound of our voices.<br />
<br />
For the first time in my life, I was <i>there</i>, with the music as it was happening. He taught increasingly complicated sequences of beats, and I could follow and reproduce them almost immediately. <i>I got it</i>. I didn't understand <i>why</i> I got it, but <i>I got it</i>.<br />
<br />
Years later, a handsome stranger handed me a leaflet about drumming. It claimed that the human heartbeat was the very first rhythm, reproduced as a drumbeat. Maybe that's what I need to learn music. Start at the very beginning. Begin with the beat of my own heart.<br />
<br />
That handsome stranger is my husband, now.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
I think it was sixth grade when my best friend decided we should get up before school every morning and jog. It sounded like the worst idea ever, but she was one of those bossy and convincing friends who always gets her way.<br />
<br />
I was the sort who pretended my shoelaces were untied repeatedly, far more often than they were ever likely to be untied. Every city block I stopped and knelt down, retying a perfectly tied shoelace. Thinking about how much I hated jogging.<br />
<br />
Over the years I tried it again and again, never liking it any better, never sticking with it. And then last January, for no particular reason I can remember, I decided to give it another go. Surprising myself as much as anyone else, I'm still at it! I run around a reservoir near my house. I think of it as a circle, but it's really more of a squiggly oval.<br />
<br />
There's something about the rhythm of my feet hitting the gravel path that brings to mind both math and music. I count while I run: laps around the reservoir, total mileage covered, circles and ovals and squiggly lines taking on meaning in my mind as I jog. I sneak peeks at my phone each loop around, when I reach the starting gate, and calculate speed: dividing time by distance, or maybe it's distance by time, until I discover a per minute mile, round and whole, a number that feels as intuitive as the answers in a long ago Saturday morning math class.<br />
<br />
I count the <i>crunchcrunchcrunchcrunch</i> of my sneakers crushing gravel, beating time as I move through space, finding a rhythm that echoes a drumbeat, chasing and matching and pushing my heartbeat faster and faster, as the sky turns from daylight to night. Circles and ovals and squiggly lines left written in the earth where my feet beat a rhythm in the autumn mud.<br />
<br />
I run rhythmic, count and calculate shapes, create drumbeats of feet on dirt.<br />
<br />
I do everything I've ever been bad at, and I feel so free.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-16995090699670243742012-11-03T15:18:00.000-04:002012-11-03T15:18:51.012-04:00Community<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My next-youngest sister, let's call her Carlotta, is the type of person I imagine might someday be described as <i>a pillar of her community</i>. She's not currently in the role; she's a first time mother of a one year old, living in a new city, and just starting back to work at a new job, after a year at home with her baby.<br />
<br />
But she got this new job because she did things like attend an annual Wetland Forum for New York State, and then when she was invited to present, she said yes.<br />
<br />
I work alone, out of my home, and I rarely-to-never speak to anyone in my field. I read quite a bit, though.<br />
<br />
Some of this is happenstance, and some of it is probably not the slightest bit surprising to our mother.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
I've started a Wednesday morning playgroup, as a sort of prelude to my eventual nursery school. This week I had 5 kids. As we get a routine established, I hope to add more kids to the group (I can take a total of 8), and perhaps expand it to another day in the week. <br />
<br />
Instead of advertising on Craigslist (which is where I started with childcare, and was quite successful), I joined a couple of yahoo groups. One is a bigger group for my whole city, and the other is a smaller one specifically for my neighborhood. I also discovered that my neighborhood has it's own Facebook page, so I joined up there too. It turns out I'm primarily attracting neighborhood kids, and getting to know people who live nearby. Nice for the nursery school -the professional piece- but also nice on a personal level.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
My husband and I started dating in February of his senior year in college. He was an art major, in a tiny, Midwestern college town. I was a transfer student from New York State (which might as well have been New York City, for all the difference it made in Kansas). By the time May rolled around, we were engaged, and he was displaying work in pretty much all of the local shows. I accompanied him on his rounds.<br />
<br />
He stopped to make small talk with the husband/wife team-teachers, who split both a full-time job and an old elementary school that they had reclaimed and renovated into a home and studio space.<br />
<br />
When he dropped in at the local gallery to drop off a series of paintings, he spent some time chatting with the local artist who rented space in the back.<br />
<br />
Our small-town watering hole was always a reliable place to find Ernie, if he wasn't standing on the sidewalk outside his house, painting. One way or another, my husband found him when he needed to, and they talked.<br />
<br />
I waited by his side, in the same general manner that I waited by my sister's side, over many years. Except that with my sister, I was mostly bored, and wondering: <i>what in the devil are they still talking about!?</i> I was so enamored with my husband and our brand new, bright, shiny love that everything he did was wonderful. I saw this type of small talk in a new light, all of a sudden. <i>This is his PLACE</i>, I thought. <i>He BELONGS here</i>. This seemed marvelous to me, for the first time ever.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<br />
I have a great, big, wonderful family. Probably bigger, and louder, and more enmeshed than a girl who lives mostly in her imagination and between the pages of books, really requires. So I never needed community. I don't have a tribe. Never found my people. Never sought.<br />
<br />
My parents live a few hours away. All five of my sisters live less than an hour from them. Two of them have kids the same age as my kids; a third has a baby on the way. They get together for dinner on a random Tuesday. Meet for a cup of coffee or a beer. Jog around the park together. Take advantage of free babysitting.<br />
<br />
I had no idea how much it would break my heart to miss out on all of this, by just a few hours.<br />
<br />
But my husband has a great job; a job he loves. And tenure. We own a house, and we really, really love our house.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to try something I've never had to do before. I'm going to be intentional about building community. After all, this is <i>our</i> <i>PLACE </i>now. I've never <i>belonged</i> anywhere before. But maybe, just maybe, I could.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-23585545420174043762012-11-02T18:53:00.000-04:002012-11-02T18:53:18.359-04:00NaNoPoMo Yo!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What the hell, I guess I'll do this post-a-day for a month thing. But I'm warning you now: I totally cheat! :)<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLJSloCPmXwujRiaza2TsCfylyfoFgTTKnWihhS949d9Uty9V-l_D_4DZNnpnj65Oy4noKY1tliZmJFsylsA8af0Fsy9_PhQcgWtQbLnnf0DaQkGH9kWwky0dCw-0-CSHVhhZLVDuFtA/s1600/DSCN0169.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLJSloCPmXwujRiaza2TsCfylyfoFgTTKnWihhS949d9Uty9V-l_D_4DZNnpnj65Oy4noKY1tliZmJFsylsA8af0Fsy9_PhQcgWtQbLnnf0DaQkGH9kWwky0dCw-0-CSHVhhZLVDuFtA/s640/DSCN0169.JPG" width="481" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9goeN9ouu7IEhb8AMOBY1n9tblJVQQXC7hLhg6jk8phFPwGhlFjqYbeED0Jp0Klr_3OYNyb1k5ACTNuq7VNA-lbyobLYMoUOFhjQ3FYaALtWPIEs3U_s1X70vvJgs2tnaFeZsUr-mVpw/s1600/DSCN0130.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9goeN9ouu7IEhb8AMOBY1n9tblJVQQXC7hLhg6jk8phFPwGhlFjqYbeED0Jp0Klr_3OYNyb1k5ACTNuq7VNA-lbyobLYMoUOFhjQ3FYaALtWPIEs3U_s1X70vvJgs2tnaFeZsUr-mVpw/s640/DSCN0130.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
Can't say I didn't warn ya! </div>
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-787657571783060262012-11-01T21:43:00.000-04:002012-11-01T22:08:14.116-04:00The Third Maybe (or With Money Already Done, I Might as Well Talk About Sex)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was on the birth control pill that went with breastfeeding. And then I mentioned to my OB-GYN that my period had come 4 times in 8 weeks. She looked concerned. She prescribed something else. I was on the something else for a month or so, and then I weaned.<br />
<br />
And then.<br />
<br />
Oh. Good. Lord. The something else!<br />
<br />
I am not an emotionally volatile gal. My moods are typically quite stable. I don't suffer from PMS (except for sugar. I do want to eat ALL THE SUGAR one week out of every month). My husband is the moody one of the two of us. Over the past decade plus of marriage, we've both become accustomed to to this reality. And then.<br />
<br />
Suddenly. The something else pill!<br />
<br />
I hear that I threatened divorce over the whereabouts of a pair of shoes.<br />
<br />
We don't even <i>say</i> divorce.<br />
<br />
Nor do we put our shoes away, reliably.<br />
<br />
I don't actually <i>remember</i> how things went down. My sister, months later, between giggles, called it a <i>rage blackout</i>. It's really only funny after the fact.<br />
<br />
I did wake up the morning after, cramps rushing violently through my body like a tidal wave. Flow so heavy it required multiple backup systems.<br />
<br />
I looked at -felt- what was happening to my body. I reflected on what had happened to my mood, just yesterday. The similarities. I said, to my husband: <i>This might sound crazy, but ... do you think yesterday might have been PMS?</i><br />
<br />
He held both hands up, surrender-style, before he even answered:<i> I wasn't going to say it. I THOUGHT it. But I wasn't going to SAY it! </i><br />
<br />
I called my doctor. Told her I was done nursing and would like a new pill. She said the pill I already had was perfect for both nursing and non-nursing. She hung up the phone before I formulated a reply that might convey the crazy.<br />
<br />
In hindsight, I suppose shouting <i>I'M CRAZIER'N A SHITHOUSE RAT ON THIS PILL</i> might have done the job. But I'm not that quick a thinker, all the time. <i>Sometimes</i> I am. But not all the time. And not this time. We hung up the phone, and I threw my pills in the garbage.<br />
<br />
And so. That's the story of how I ended up a 36 year-old-mother-of-two-with-no-form-of-birth-control.<br />
<br />
And a six-pack of Jamaican Red Stripe combined with poor calendar math skills is how I ended up, late one night, reading my husband's mind when he telepathically asked me: <i>your period just ended, right? </i>and I telepathically answered: <i>yah, seems that way, doesn't it? </i>(Math is neither of our strong suits.)<br />
<br />
But then, the next morning, minus the Jamaican Red Stripe, upon counting days using both my fingers and the calendar, it seems we were both a bit off with the numbers. And so it was a two week waiting game.<br />
<br />
I don't know what surprised me more. My first reaction, where I was <i>thrilled</i> to be potentially-pregnant. I felt unbelievably powerful. All my current problems had solutions. I was prepared to march right into my planned future without missing a beat. Quite frankly, I miss that potentially-pregnant woman. She was <i>'bout to get shit done</i>. Or the week-later-panic that hit. How badly I wanted to hide under the covers. How much scarier my financial future suddenly became. The desperate desire for sugar that suddenly took over.<br />
<br />
Oh, no, sorry. That was just PMS rearing it's ugly head once again.<br />
<br />
No third baby. Not now.<br />
<br />
Just a third maybe.<br />
<br />
And a big old question mark in the middle of my heart.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-40758689170566680752012-10-29T22:59:00.000-04:002012-10-29T23:00:57.311-04:00So, I'm Going to Talk About Money<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wake up too early, with a start. Realize all of a sudden that it's a day later than I thought it was. Still Monday, but the date is a number ahead of the number in my head. Meaning, an automatic withdrawal for a monthly bill is happening <i>today</i>, not tomorrow. No time to teach a private yoga class and then rush that check to the credit union before closing time tomorrow. I've been counting on that check to cover the withdrawal.<br />
<br />
Now I'll be counting change.<br />
<br />
I turn it into a homeschool lesson. Pour the change jar onto a blanket on my lap and the kids help me separate coins. We talk about the worth of each coin, the difference in sizes, copper versus silver. My husband brought to our marriage a series of red plastic coin containers. We fill them up to the line at the top, and the coins slide right into the paper sleeves in the perfect amounts, all ready to go.<br />
<br />
We have more than we need. Means we can put some gas in the tank this week. Not a full tank, but a half tank will do.<br />
<br />
My emotions, during the course of this exercise: Worry and anger over what I keep seeing as our lack. A simple pride that I can turn it into a lesson and allow my kids to help. A certain sense of detachment, of knowing it will be okay, and that I needn't be overly attached to the details. Just count the pennies, Katy, and collect them in the sleeves. Just do the thing before you to be done. (That's all there ever is to do. How many times must I learn and relearn this?)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * *</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Sitting on the bench at the beach with two stay-at-home-moms of my recent acquaintance. The short-haired brunette is watching her two children climb on the slide. The long haired brunette is watching her only son dig in the sand and fill a dump truck. I suppose I'm the medium-haired brunette in this vignette. And my eyes are darting across the playground and back to the sand, because I have three kids to keep an eye on. No, I don't have three kids of my own, but I babysit to pay the grocery bill, so I spend less time sitting and talking, more time moving quickly to and fro, counting three heads, three heads, three heads. Everyone's accounted for.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I often think about how I wish I didn't have to do childcare. I'm so over the ten hour days. Then my husband comes home and I toss the children in his general direction, hop in the shower, and rush out the door to teach an hour or two of fitness classes every evening. My coffee intake is strategically planned to the hour of each day. I eat in the car, sometimes, to be sure I have enough energy to make it through the evenings. I miss bedtimes for work. This is precisely the full-time-work-life I never, ever wanted.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But I spend all day with my little ones. And they are so happy. They love this life, full of friends who arrive first thing in the morning, stay all day, go with us wherever we go. I resent it sometimes, but they think it's simply wonderful.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Suddenly I hear the long-haired brunette finish the tail of sentence I'm sure I must be misunderstanding . <i>.. since I'm trying to keep the grocery bill to $50 or $60 a week.</i> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I take my eyes off all three children, and plunk my backside right back onto that bench. I lean in, and ask:<i> Did you say $50 or $60 a week? For groceries?</i> She nods. <i>How do you do that?</i> I ask, <i>We spend $250 a week for groceries and gas.</i> Both heads whip in my direction: short and long-haired brunettes, faces aghast.<i> I mean,</i> I hasten to add,<i> $100 of that is gas, so...</i> but then I spurt out the rest: <i>If I make $300 a week, we easily spend that</i>. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
They look at me like I'm crazy.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I mumble something about organic meat. They nod knowingly. The long-haired brunette assures me she could get my grocery bill down to $70 a week. I wonder in my head if she could possibly be serious.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Later, I ask my sister, who assures me that she spends about the same amount as I do. So does our other sister, she confides, and I feel better about it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I think it over, and realize I would not trade my too-busy, babysitter-by-day, yoga-instructor-by-night, life for the simpler pleasures of factory farmed meat.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Funny, how I can feel scarcity in the face of such obvious abundance.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-11228137358161063762012-09-24T03:00:00.000-04:002012-10-29T23:01:43.532-04:00The Hardest Job<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well, my in-home nursery school won't be opening until next fall. Which is both a disappointment, and a huge weight off my shoulders. I suppose it's unrealistic to expect that I can conceive of opening a school in my house and then get it off the ground in under 6 months. :) But then again, what fun is realism <i>all</i> the time, right?<br />
<br />
Speaking of realism, I've stumbled on a few too many articles recently about how parenting is the hardest gig going. And each time I can't help think (like we used to say in high school): <i>for real</i>? I'm tired of that trope. Am I the only one who disagrees? I've never worked in a coal mine, but even so, I'll take parenting any day of the week. And actually, I find childcare harder than parenting. It's all the same expectations, at least for the hours you're doing it, but you don't love the kids the way you love your own, which makes the work that much harder to do. Motherhood has never kept me up all hours of the night with knots in my stomach, the way teaching special education in a classroom of kids called "emotionally disturbed" did. Give me a gaggle of kids of my own over another day of that year of hell!<br />
<br />
But maybe my particular cross to bear isn't parenthood so much as paid employment. Now, that conundrum has never come easy for me. Always underpaid, underemployed, overworked, overwhelmed or overeducated! I only ever hit the sweet spot once with employment, and for the life of me, I don't know how to find my way back to that balance. <br />
<br />
I know what to do with my kids. When it's hard, it's also pretty clearly my own fault. I always know what the problem is, and how to solve it. Get out of the house more, and get them running around. Quit bickering with my husband in earshot of the kids. Don't use a snappy tone of voice if I don't want to hear a snappy tone of voice used at me.<br />
<br />
All of that seems simple in comparison to: how do I earn a living? And especially: how do I earn a <i>decent</i> living <i>doing something that interests me, while homeschooling my kids</i>? I find answering that question infinitely harder than motherhood itself.<br />
<br />
There was never a magic moment where becoming a parent changed me. If I changed, it was like slipping on a new skin that fit so comfortably I never noticed the difference. But losing my job, deciding to homeschool, and trying to create a new career, is breaking me down, and rebuilding me. Someday -I hope- I will look back on these days and be able to say: <i>of course it was hard. You built something from scratch that hadn't been there before. And now it's so amazing/rewarding/much easier than it used to be!</i><br />
<br />
I can imagine some mothers might say that very thing about their difficult babies, who grow up to be far less challenging children.<br />
<br />
I only hope I can someday say it about my career!<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-75940684514938190942012-09-03T16:16:00.000-04:002012-09-03T21:55:46.034-04:00End of Summer Bitching and Wishing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've been waking each night at 1 or 2am. I lie in bed, and try not to think about money. I pray, <i>please, please, please</i> and then I change it to <i>thank you for providing what we need</i>, in case <u>The Secret</u> is right and you have to assume you'll get whatever you're praying for. Don't want to repel the grocery money, for goodness sakes.<br />
<br />
(I've never even read <u>The Secret</u>, but you can never be too careful. And all the Gods I've ever studied seem to be so picky about rules. I'd never make it as a God; I tend permissive, and assume everyone's doing the best they can. I don't like a lot of rules because I'm no good at paying attention to the details.)<br />
<br />
I push thoughts of money from my mind, roll over, fluff the pillows, huff and puff in frustration. I stay in bed, hoping for the sweet relief of sleep. But if it doesn't come, then I walk down the stairs in the dark, stubbing my toes, kicking things over by accident, and come to read on the couch.<br />
<br />
I never thought I'd be an entrepreneur. I thought I'd be a teacher, in a union. I once thought about all the advice I'd ever read in women's magazines about asking for a raise (document your successes, put together a presentation, focus on what you've done for the company's bottom line and how it has benefited from having you as an employee), and I thought: <i>Thank God I'll never have to do THAT!</i><br />
<br />
I wish we could live on my husband's income alone. If only we didn't need to eat.<br />
<i> </i><br />
I wish I had one million dollars stashed away somewhere, and I could live off the interest for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
I wish I gave a shit about money, and found it even the slightest bit interesting, so that thinking about it was not an exercise in the torture of tedium. I spent a long, sleepless night once in the home of a former acquaintance, reading all his self-help books about getting rich. They always asked: <i>do you want, more than anything, to be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams?</i> I knew, then (like I know now), that I would never be wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. My answer, at the start of every book, was: <i>nah.</i><br />
<br />
I just want to be able to buy the groceries, daydream a lot, and spend the days in the company of my kids.<br />
<br />
Childcare costs have dropped precipitously in the past year. I charge the top of the market rate, but now everyone else is charging exactly half that. It's a ten hour day, no lunch, no breaks, and even with two kids -my legal max, in addition to my own two- I'd clear less than minimum wage per hour. I won't do that. And so I'm short on clients, and short on grocery money.<br />
<br />
Today's the last day of summer and, as if on cue, the summer money is running right out. And the stupid groceries keep needing to be bought!<br />
<i> </i><br />
My husband goes back to work tomorrow. I've somehow got to figure this out on my own.<br />
<br />
And I've already rolled it around and around in my head until it makes me furious to think about it.<br />
<br />
I know I ought to count my blessings, but today is not the day for that. <br />
<br />
Today is the last day of summer. All I've got today is bitching and wishing.<br />
<br /></div>
LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-25804713855503727212012-08-02T23:04:00.001-04:002012-08-03T19:26:02.797-04:00By The Numbers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strike>Millions</strike> <strike>Billions</strike> <strike>Trillions</strike> <strike>Quadrillions</strike> Gazbillions: of fleas! have infested! our basement! Ugh. And that's all there really is to say about that. UGH. OMG. UGH.<br />
<br />
1: husband is home for the summer. And managing the fleas. It's probably, almost, even WORTH the gazbillions of fleas, to have him here. I love summer break! (But I would still love it sans fleas! Even more! Just in case you're listening in, Universe. Geesh.)<br />
<br />
2: kids are so goddamn much fun; I can't even tell you. I'm just a big, exploding heart, every day. Sometimes I wonder how I could spend the vast amount of time I do with these kids and <i>still</i> be so stinkin' enamored with them! Anyone else would be working my last nerve at --><br />
<br />
22+: hours of every day spent together. But I just keep loving them more!<br />
<br />
18-24: months -my girl- is hilarious and amazing. I can't believe she ever won't be this perfect. I'm cool with her being less exhausting, though, and less likely to risk her life on the regular, during everyday situations. That part will be just fine.<br />
<br />
4: yrs -my boy- was always my favorite age to teach. I used to say to my husband: <i>It's all downhill after 4, man</i>. The pinnacle of human awesomeness peaks at age 4. Sorry 'bout your luck, readers. I'm going to assume you're all well past your prime.<br />
<br />
3rd: summer in a row we're going <a href="http://torpidtrifling.blogspot.com/2010/08/heaven-on-earth.html" target="_blank">to the beach</a> for a long, summer weekend. We have a tradition! We go on vacation! I feel like a real and proper grown-up. Also, I just eff love the beach!<br />
<br />
Mad stuff (technically a number, by my qualifications): is getting organized this summer. That's all I'll say. Okay, fine, twist my arm: basement, attic, teaching supplies, kitchen, dining room turned classroom, baby clothes, photographs, books, toys, files and paperwork...okay, I have to stop and breathe deeply for a moment. Perhaps into a paper bag. No, I'll be fine. Just better to keep moving forward than to stop and survey the ridiculous landscape of possibility and it's attending responsibilities. And speaking of responsibility, I can't believe I'm --><br />
<br />
36!: In 4 years I'll be --><br />
<br />
40!: I have no idea what age means, at all. Which might even be for the best. Especially since I'm starting new in so many ways, and so that puts us back at --><br />
<br />
0:And speaking of 0, do you think --><br />
<br />
LOVE: could be the opposite of 0? I feel like maybe that's true, in some magical mathematical principle. <br />
<br /></div>LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-65463673105469608682012-07-25T00:09:00.000-04:002012-07-25T00:09:12.560-04:00Hit Publish Before July Ends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've all but abandoned this blog, and my other one too. Sorry 'bout that. <br />
<br />
I'm opening a school. In my house. In January. And there's a lot to do.<br />
<br />
I'm doing it.<br />
<br />
I'll be back at some point. Wish me luck!<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Katy</div>LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-50906035630575332832012-06-05T16:52:00.000-04:002012-06-06T22:05:39.732-04:00The Present and The Future<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I feel, at the same time, a sense of <i>stuck</i>, of <i>rigid</i>, of <i>all tensed up</i>, and a sense of compassion that is the very opposite of stuck, rigid, or all tensed up. Compassion is like water; it flows and pours all over everything; it's lava, even, sometimes. It can melt things.<br />
<br />
So I'm melty and I'm tense. That contradiction just sits in me all day, or it battles back and forth, like a fencing match taking place inside my heart, ribcage, and belly. All the places I breathe into. Yoga breathing keeps it at bay, but when the classes are over, and my verbal narration ceases, so does the sense of ... well, escape. Then the relentless drumbeat of my thoughts march back on to center stage.<br />
<br />
I've been told I think too much my whole life, and I resented every motherfucker who ever said it to me. Maybe they had a point, but who asked 'em?<br />
<br />
It's Tuesday, and my daughter won't nap. I rocked her, and I nursed her, and I filled her belly with homemade mac and cheese, and read her stories, and left her in the crib awhile, and it's just not happening. I feel a certain benign detachment from the whole thing. If she naps, she naps. If not, I just do the next thing to bring peace into the household. And so it goes.<br />
<br />
Of course, that's why we're outside on the deck on a muggier day than I'd prefer, and my laptop is almost out of power. That's why I sat down to write at 11:30am and now it's 4:30pm and I'm only just beginning.<br />
<br />
But then, the compassion rolls in. If I'm tired, how must she feel? And then the benign detachment: and who cares if we always nap? Let's eat strawberries and cheese, drink juice, and sit in the muggy air. Why not?<br />
<br />
In the living room, I let the kids climb in and out of the big footstool that opens up for storage. Weeks worth of Sunday newspapers are sitting inside it, and I let them throw it around the living room, and stomp through. We knead basketballs out of sale ads and toss them into paper bag baskets for recycling. I keep picking things up and putting them on shelves. The kids keep taking them off and playing on the floor. I shrug. The <i>stuck</i>, <i>rigid</i>, <i>all tensed up</i> hasn't anything to do with them. It's inside me.<br />
<br />
I can flow like compassion when I do what needs to be done next. I freeze when I look ten steps ahead.<br />
<br />
But dammit, if I ain't always been just the type who can't help myself from looking ten steps ahead.<br />
<br /></div>LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-92038701812696186492012-05-21T23:35:00.000-04:002012-05-21T23:55:23.685-04:00A Grumpy, Begrudging, Revealing Attempt at Prayer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I think about writing here, but I know it will end up, like, a to-do list with bullet points or something, and really? You had to go and get yourself a blog to make your to-do list? C'mon now.<br />
<br />
So I've promised myself no bullet points.<br />
<br />
I had a bad day. One of the boys is being rough, and I'm trying everything I can to teach him to be gentle, and he's gentle <i>most</i> of the time, but you never know when the rough will pop out and bam someone in the head with the wooden spoon he's supposed to be using on the djembe. Or throw a handful of sand in someone's eye. It's normal 2 year old stuff and it, too, will pass. But oh, it's a terrible feeling to know that someone might be getting popped -or worse!- any minute of the day and despite your constant vigilance, <i>you might not be able to prevent it.</i> Today I failed to prevent it. Twice. Bad day.<br />
<br />
Then in yoga, near the end of class, a class I spent in tense negotiation with the frustration I carried in with me, I heard a voice. It very distinctly said: <i>Change your reaction</i>.<br />
<br />
And I knew it didn't mean <i>change the reaction</i> I offered the child. It meant <i>change how I feel about it</i>. Which sucks because I felt rather entitled to my frustration.<br />
<br />
Not that it's doing me any good. <br />
<br />
So I'm working on that.<br />
<br />
And it would be the simplest thing in the world to say: Hey God, will you help me be better at this, please? Thank you!<br />
<br />
But it's like I don't even <i>think</i> to do that unless or until I feel I've done <i>absolutely everything</i> I can do to improve the situation myself, <i>and what's more</i> I feel as if I <i>shouldn't</i> ask God for any help unless or until I've done <i>absolutely everything</i> I can do to improve the situation myself.<br />
<br />
I think that's a fundamental misunderstanding I have about God.<br />
<br /></div>LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2799225044213247595.post-37398741389384535212012-05-04T14:57:00.000-04:002012-05-11T13:26:32.236-04:00Development of an Idea (or My Brain Won't Ever Shut Up)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Read, read, read. Research, research, research. SELF-DIRECTED LEARNING! PROJECT APPROACH! UNSCHOOLING! I can't send my kids to a crappy school while immersing myself in these amazing educational ideas here at home. Can I even go work for a school district again, when I'm rapidly losing faith in the model?<br />
<br />
I will homeschool. I guess I'll continue to provide childcare to earn a living?<br />
<br />
Read, read, read. Research, research, research. Or ... I could open a preschool, right here in my house! <a href="http://www.education.com/magazine/article/Reggio_Emilia/" target="_blank">REGGIO EMILIA</a> and <a href="http://www.amshq.org/Montessori%20Education/Introduction%20to%20Montessori" target="_blank">MONTESSORI</a> inspired for early childhood education!<br />
<br />
Read, read, read. Research, research, research. <a href="http://www.newyorkcharters.org/openOverview.htm" target="_blank">YOU CAN START YOUR OWN CHARTER SCHOOL IN NYS</a>???<br />
<br />
How do you open a school for unschooling?<br />
<br />
Public school for unschooling? Look no further! <a href="http://www.bigpicture.org/schools/" target="_blank">THEY'RE ALREADY DOING IT</a>! With locations in Western New York!<br />
<br />
Oh. It's for high school. I want to do elementary school.<br />
<br />
I need a network of people.<br />
<br />
I hate developing networks of people. I like ideas. I want to be the idea person. I want someone else to be the people person.<br />
<br />
Read, read, read. Research, research, research. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-100-Startup-Reinvent-Living/dp/0307951529" target="_blank">YOU CAN GET PAID FOR BEING THE IDEA PERSON</a>!? *SWOON*<br />
<br />
Okay, I want to be an infopreneur. My idea is to take unschooling principles and make them work in elementary school. This could happen in one of two ways: we can take what they're doing in high schools <a href="http://www.bigpicture.org/schools/" target="_blank">like these ones</a>, and bring them down to the elementary school level, OR we can take the approaches used in early childhood education, <a href="http://www.amshq.org/Montessori%20Education/Introduction%20to%20Montessori" target="_blank">like</a> <a href="http://www.education.com/magazine/article/Reggio_Emilia/" target="_blank">these</a>, and bring them up to the elementary school level.<br />
<br />
So: homeschooler-->infopreneur-->open a charter school. Then who knows, because I would send my kids to this school, and then I'll either have to get a job there, or figure out a new life plan. :)<br />
<br />
Assuming I don't have a WHOLE NEW idea next week, how the hell do I go about making THIS happen?<br />
<br /></div>LazyBoneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04076700682212137753noreply@blogger.com6