I just published 275/365 and realized it had been several weeks since I last wrote here. To top that off, I was temporarily unaware of what the date actually was. Yup, it is summer. Totally completely summer.
And I have been writing over here for over a year, but the 365 format isn't working for me anymore. My thyroid is in check, for one, and so I don't find myself as hypergraphic and out of whack as I once did. I don't write every day anymore. Because I don't have to.
So I'm going to continue here, but I'm going to drop the 365. My other add-on blog, Ease in Fullness, is simply counted. I probably don't even need to do that, but something about these extra little blogs makes me want to number them.
How long? I don't know. I kind of like the pseudonyms, the kid conversations, the big old pat on the back for having the luck to live here. So we'll see.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
275/365 Last Child in the Woods
I'm reading the book, Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv (I think Richard? I'm actually too lazy to walk into the next room to get the book). It came out a few years back. Its premise is that due to a number of reasons (fear of litigation, the Bogey Man, over-scheduled childhoods, the idea that nature should be left pristine for viewing purposes only, and so forth), children are no longer in touch with nature.
I read these statements and I nod my head. But then I look at my block and I think that even though we are in the city, even though the park across the street is one of those "look, don't touch, unless you're playing on approved fields or equipment" kind of parks, we are doing our very best to allow for this nature connection.
We camp, for starters. The older girls are in girl scouts, and as their leader, I'm making sure they learn about their environment (and not in the distant "save the rainforest" way, but in "this is an edible weed; this is a white oak; these are possum tracks" way). My yard is, due to laziness, mostly in a wild state. No pristine swaths of grass back there. The McAllisters have left toy dump trucks and shovels on the tree lawn for digging. Our kids build, and destroy, and build again, fairy houses--perhaps not the same as building their own treehouse, but they still learn something through this.
A couple of dads hunt. A couple others fish, and take their kids. Fiona will get her hunting course done this summer. We garden. I'm about 5 years away from chickens--that number fluctuates but it's not here yet. But our kids know where food comes from.
Daisy plays with these little centipedes that live in my open compost pile. Both girls know you can eat daylilies, but not Easter lilies. They know poison ivy and they have built dams on creeks and canoed down rivers.
But sitting at Irish dance the other night waiting for Fiona's class to finish, the topic amongst about 8 parents turned to vacations and camping. Many of the people there had camped as kids. I was the only one that still camped. Or had been to a state park even for a day trip.
And I realized this book wasn't for me, the woman with the book of knots sitting on top of the computer desk. And as Lisa put it in the comments over on my other blog, my kids aren't the last children in the woods but perhaps the last children in the world.
We live a good life here. I guess sometimes I forget how good.
Anybody want to live across the street from me?
I read these statements and I nod my head. But then I look at my block and I think that even though we are in the city, even though the park across the street is one of those "look, don't touch, unless you're playing on approved fields or equipment" kind of parks, we are doing our very best to allow for this nature connection.
We camp, for starters. The older girls are in girl scouts, and as their leader, I'm making sure they learn about their environment (and not in the distant "save the rainforest" way, but in "this is an edible weed; this is a white oak; these are possum tracks" way). My yard is, due to laziness, mostly in a wild state. No pristine swaths of grass back there. The McAllisters have left toy dump trucks and shovels on the tree lawn for digging. Our kids build, and destroy, and build again, fairy houses--perhaps not the same as building their own treehouse, but they still learn something through this.
A couple of dads hunt. A couple others fish, and take their kids. Fiona will get her hunting course done this summer. We garden. I'm about 5 years away from chickens--that number fluctuates but it's not here yet. But our kids know where food comes from.
Daisy plays with these little centipedes that live in my open compost pile. Both girls know you can eat daylilies, but not Easter lilies. They know poison ivy and they have built dams on creeks and canoed down rivers.
But sitting at Irish dance the other night waiting for Fiona's class to finish, the topic amongst about 8 parents turned to vacations and camping. Many of the people there had camped as kids. I was the only one that still camped. Or had been to a state park even for a day trip.
And I realized this book wasn't for me, the woman with the book of knots sitting on top of the computer desk. And as Lisa put it in the comments over on my other blog, my kids aren't the last children in the woods but perhaps the last children in the world.
We live a good life here. I guess sometimes I forget how good.
Anybody want to live across the street from me?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
274/365 Power struggle
Eliza calls just as Daisy and Fiona are getting in the backyard pool. "Do you want to come over?" Fiona asks her. No, she doesn't want to swim. Swam all day Sunday or something like that. Since they're on speaker phone and Daisy craves playmates, begging begins.
"Don't," I tell her. "If she doesn't want to come over, that's fine. Don't whine and beg."
They get off the phone. "I don't understand," Fiona says, my lovely non-game-playing child. Straightforward.
"She probably isn't too interested in swimming," I begin, "and maybe wants to see if she can pull you away from swimming to play on her terms." Maybe not. Maybe I read too much of my own experience into things.
Fiona shrugs. "I like the pool."
Three minutes later, I'm heading out with the phone. Fiona is taking the cover off the pool. The phone rings. Eliza has decided swimming sounds ok.
"Don't," I tell her. "If she doesn't want to come over, that's fine. Don't whine and beg."
They get off the phone. "I don't understand," Fiona says, my lovely non-game-playing child. Straightforward.
"She probably isn't too interested in swimming," I begin, "and maybe wants to see if she can pull you away from swimming to play on her terms." Maybe not. Maybe I read too much of my own experience into things.
Fiona shrugs. "I like the pool."
Three minutes later, I'm heading out with the phone. Fiona is taking the cover off the pool. The phone rings. Eliza has decided swimming sounds ok.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
273/365 Sprinkler!
Mostly interested in trying to fill tiny little water balloons. But there was some running and jumping. And a lot of squealing.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
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