A Cautionary Tale

M. Peevie was pushing the shopping cart through Target. We picked up toilet paper, cereal, dryer sheets--the usual stuff.

We passed two women chatting at the end of the bulk snack aisle. I walked ahead of M. Peevie, and she pushed the cart behind me. When we were about one aisle away, I heard one woman say to her friend, "What's the matter?"

The other woman said, "I just got run over--without an apology!"

M. Peevie heard it too. She looked at me, and tears instantly filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "I bumped her with my cart by accident, and I did apologize!" she said. "She was blocking the end of the aisle, and I tried to get past her. I said I was sorry that I bumped her!" She looked stricken.

"Hold on just a second, baby girl," I said. "Wait here." I walked back to the bulk snack aisle and walked up to the lady that had made my daughter cry.

She was looking at something on the shelf. "Excuse me," I said, and she turned and looked at me.

"Apparently my daughter bumped you with our cart. I'm very sorry that you did not hear her apologize, but she did say she was sorry," I said. "She heard what you said, and now she's crying. She just lost her brother three weeks ago, and she's a bit fragile. She would never hurt anyone on purpose, and I wanted you to know that she did apologize. I'm sorry that she didn't say it loud enough for you to hear."

The woman looked at me with the expression of a paradigm shift on her face--if a paradigm shift has an expression. "Oh. Oh...oh," she said. "I'm so sorry. It hurt, but...I'm just so sorry." I think she may have reached out to touch my arm.

I told her thanks and walked back and wrapped my arms around M. Peevie, who still had tears rolling down her cheeks. We stood, holding each other, for a full minute; and then we held hands and browsed the chip aisle.

I couldn't stay mad at the woman who had made my daughter cry, because I have been her. I have not given the benefit of the doubt. I have taken offense when none was intended. I have made passive-aggressive comments designed to inflict pain or provoke anger. I have not given grace, when so much grace has been given to me.

So the moral of the story is, I suppose, stay out of the bulk snack aisle. Or be gentle, and give the benefit of the doubt whenever possible.

Goodbye, A. Peevie

Aidan Kenneth Bradshaw: A Remembrance

November 23, 1997 - November 11, 2012

We have lost a son, a brother, a grandson, a nephew, a cousin, a friend, a little buddy, a student, a classmate, a neighbor. Aidan was all of these things to us, but these words do not even come close to encompassing what Aidan meant to us. I know that each of you has his own memories of Aidan, and I will share with you a few of mine.

Aidan would come into our room every night to say goodnight, hug us, sit in my lap, and tell us he loved us with words and by touching his nose—our “secret” symbol for “I love you.” He would also sniff us.  Then he’d go into his room down the hall. In five minutes he’d be back to hug us again, sniff us, and tell us he loved us, touch his nose, and say goodnight. I would be lying if I said I was not starting to get annoyed when he’d show up a third time for the same ritual: hug, sniff, say I love you, touch his nose, say goodnight—but he had always been comforted by routines of love and connection since he was a young child.

On Thanksgiving Day I will be giving thanks for Aidan’s beautiful life, but I anticipate that at the same time I will be a little, or maybe a lot, angry at God for taking him; and also I think I might be walking in a fog of disbelief and not really being able to imagine a world that does not have Aidan in it.

The next day will be Aidan’s birthday. I found his birthday wish list on his laptop. He titled it 2012 Birthday Wishlist for Aidan Kenneth Charles Lief Dirk Jaffar Vector Stephan Bradshaw. That boy loved middle names, and kept adding them as he came across new names that captured his fancy.

Anyway, his wish list included: Pizza, bass, amp, The Clash CDs,The Ramones CDs, pizza, old horror films (Frankenstein, Dracula,The Creature from the Black Lagoon, etc.), a sword, a dagger/stiletto, Black Ops or Black Ops 2—and then he included this annotation: “The reason these games appear on the list is because of the zombie game. Not the main game, because I know you hate shooting real, living people.” The list continued with, again, pizza (for the third time), Super Street Fighter IV (PS3) and Castlevania Circle of the Moon for Gameboy, Rated T.

He really loved pizza. Every day I’d come home from work and he’d say, “Hi mom. What’s for dinner? Can we order pizza?” The only food he knew how to cook was frozen pizza, which he had almost every day for lunch. I’d ask him, have you had your five servings of fruits and vegetables today? And he’d say, “Well, I had pizza—that has tomatoes on it.”

When Aidan was very young, Mr. Peevie and I were concerned that his empathic development was delayed. We knew he was bright in a very non-traditionally-academic way—and we joked that he would one day grow up to either cure cancer or be the next Una-Bomber.

As he got older, though, his empathy, sensitivity, and compassion caught up to and even surpassed his chronological age. He was super-sensitive to the feelings of the people around him, and literally wept when he saw kids suffering from teasing or bullying or any type of meanness or thoughtlessness at the hands of another person, kid or adult. One of the most heart-warming things I ever heard was when Aidan’s friend GQ told his mom that he really liked hanging out with Aidan because Aidan was kind to everyone. Thank you for that, GQ.

Aidan was not just preternaturally compassionate, but he had an originality quotient that made it seem like he not only marched to the beat of a different drummer, but he marched as though there was no drummer at all. Maybe he marched to the beat of a marimba and waxed-paper-and-comb band. His intelligence had a creativity component that enabled him to think differently about things than most people think. For example, one Halloween, he was contemplating his costume choices, looking over the traditional super-hero options. He picked up a box, cut some narrow slits in it to see through, and put it over his head. Then he searched the basement for accessories, and he settled on being Box-Head with Knife.

Aidan did not want the scary responsibilities of growing up. But at the same time, he had big dreams for what he was going to do as an adult. His list of career paths included being a pastor, a poet, a song-writer, a musician, a novelist, and a game designer. He loved God and prayed for all of us regularly to deepen our relationships with God and love him better. His tender heart caused him to live in a state of spiritual humility and repentance. One time in the middle of the night—of course it was the middle of the night—he was crying and upset because, he said, he did not love God enough, and God expected more of him.

“What’s this coming from?” I asked him, and he said, “I fell asleep reading Romans.” I think it’s entirely possible that the Apostle Paul fell asleep when he was writing the book of Romans, but instead of going down that road, I opened the Bible to passages that remind us that our weakness is exactly why we depend on the saving grace of Jesus.

I have one more little story about Aidan from my blog, called “Warmness, Happiness, and Love”:

A. Peevie, like Peter Pan, doesn’t want to grow up. He likes the safety and protection and relative ease of being a child, and he is hyper-aware that growing up means that things get harder and scarier.

The middle Peevie has already had to deal with many hard and scary things in his short life: open-heart surgeries, other heart-related surgical procedures, and multiple hospital stays for various problems. The boy has seen more "ologists" in nine years than most people see in their entire lifetime.

As a result of all of these scary things, A.P. has more anxiety than Woody Allen and more phobias than Adrian Monk. He knows better than most nine-year-olds that the world is a scary place. A couple of years ago, he went through a phase when he talked about death and dying all the time. “If I die, will you still think about me?” he’d ask. Or he’d lay awake for hours at night because he was afraid if he went to sleep, he wouldn’t wake up in the morning.

He's doing better now. A. Peevie is comforted by rituals, such as the hug, kiss smile ritual. Every separation—and I mean EVERY separation, whether it’s going to bed at night, getting dropped off at school, or watching me leave for a 20-minute grocery store run—must be preceded by a hug, a kiss, and a smile. I’m not complaining.

Another comfort ritual is the morning cuddle. A. Peevie made me a Mother’s Day card, in which he noted that his mom was good at “cuttling,” he likes it when he and his mom “cuttle,” and his favorite thing to do with his mom is “cuttle.” What more could a mom want in a Mother’s Day card?

“Why do you like to cuddle?” I asked him this morning. “What do you get out of it?”

He was thoughtful for a moment, and then he snuggled in closer to me. “Warmness, happiness, and love,” he said.

I’d like to mention by name just a few of the people who made Aidan feel safe and loved:

Our friend Lynnie, who practically raised him as one of her own;

Our friend and Aidan’s “talking doctor” Dr. Gary, who helped Aidan face and conquer his fears;

Our lovely friend and former manny, Jon, who made dozens of homemade waffles and modeled Jesus for all of us;

Aidan’s closest buddies from St. Andrews: Ben, Alex, Nicholas, Gabriel, Brandon, and Raymond; and his science buddy Lorenzo; and our family friends Sam and Eli;

Aidan’s buddies from our neighborhood: Matt, Alex, and Kevin; plus Colin’s friends who sometimes seem to live in our basement and who treated Aidan with gentleness and kindness: Nate, David, Sean, and Matthew;

Aidan’s cardiologist, Steve, who not only treated Aidan’s heart, but also cared for his spirit and helped him live a full, happy life that was not defined by the scars on his chest; and finally,

Colin and Megan, who as Aidan’s brother and sister grounded him with normal sibling laughter and bickering, annoyed him and were annoyed by him, listened to music with him, and played “kapik-kapok” with him (that’s what Aidan called ping-pong).

We have all been touched by Aidan’s beautiful life. I think that now that we are sharing the experience of his loss, we should honor Aidan’s memory by being more like him: more tender-hearted toward people who are hurting; more gentle; more kind; more silly; and more creative. And we should definitely eat more pizza.

Someday, Maybe, I Will Be

SURPRISED by joy--impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport--Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

--William Wordsworth

Disambiguation

When we first started investigating home schooling A. Peevie for high school, I met with my friend X-Mom several times. X-Mom homeschools four kids, and is my go-to girl for all things homeschool--but I was getting panicky because I was not getting the answers I needed.

I kept asking, But how do we do it? and she would just ambiguate: "There are SO MANY options! SO MANY ways to do things." I wanted answers, but she knew that we had to discover our own path. Meanwhile, the part of my brain that requires certitude was starting to need an adult beverage.

We kept on talking. I kept on reading. I joined a homeschool co-op. We learned about multitudinous opportunities for learning, and unlimited permutations of homeschool choices. There's Kahn Academy; RadioLab podcasts; high-level online learning opportunities from Coursera, Udacity, and EdX; LiveMocha, or a free online language learning program (Mango) from Chicago Public Library; and tons more.

Meanwhile, well-meaning friends, family members, and others kept saying, "But what about socialization?" and "What about transcripts?" and "How will he get into college?" and "You will be such a great teacher!" Ack. That last one is the most disconnected from our reality of all. If homeschooling depended on me teaching A. Peevie, then we would both be doomed. I could not even teach my kids to use the potty, let alone teach them polynomials or the periodic table. (They had to potty train themselves, when they were ready.)

Quinn Cummings in the Wall Street Journal calls homeschooling "roam schooling," and describes a high school schedule that combines classes in a brick-and-mortar high school, a variety of online learning opportunities, community college classes, park district activities, and non-traditional learning settings. This is the multi-faceted approach that home school is becoming for us; and this is the reason X-mom stuck to her ambiguity: she couldn't tell us how to do it, because she didn't know what options would work for us, and in what combination.

 

We finally have A. Peevie's schedule mostly ironed out for his first semester of high school, and I am feeling MUCH less panicky about potentially ruining his life.

Here's what we've got on tap for A. Peevie's fall line-up:

Monday:

• Algebra I (self-study using the textbook Life of Fred; supervised by Mr. Peevie)
• Latin (self-study using the textbook and Internet workbook Oxford Latin Course)

Tuesday

• Writing and Poetry (taught by a Ph.D. instructor in a private home)
• AP Music Theory (homeschool co-op class in a real piano lab in a private home)

Wednesday

• Introduction to Christianity (Gospel of John, Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis, and a study guide; supervised by E. Peevie)
• Some kind of science, still undefined

 Thursday--open

Friday--homeschool co-op 10-week classes including:

• Druidawn writing class (a creative writing class based on a fantasy world)
• Magic the Game
• A User's Guide to the Brain
• Archeology in Mesopotamia 

 Now tell me that schedule doesn't make you want to become a homeschool student yourself!

A Huge Win

M. Peevie's softball team, the Hurricanes, were making a valiant effort to pull out a win in the last game of the season. They were down 3-1, and the Orange Crush were (was?) up to bat. 

Being down by only two runs was already sort of a victory. We had often found ourselves down by 30, 40, even 50 runs this season--so we could already taste the sweet, sweet honey of not being slaughtered.

But the girls really wanted to record an actual statistical win, not just a moral victory; and they were in ready position, gloves on the ground, chanting support for the pitcher, hoping to make a big play that would end the inning. 

The Orange Crush batter hit an infield fly, which soared up over the pitcher's head, making a high arc toward the short stop. It moved in slow motion; we held our breath. 

Just as the ball plopped into her glove, a fan from the other team yelled, "Drop it!"

She held onto the ball, and ended the inning. Phew. But now there was the matter of poor sportsmanship from the adult fans on the sidelines, which I could not let pass without a correction. I got out my brass knuckles and headed over to the group of Orange Crush parents and grandparents, ready to teach somebody a lesson.

"Did somebody over here yell out, 'Drop it!'? I asked pleasantly. I looked at the most likely culprits, what looked like a grandpa, plus two other adults sitting on the fan bench. I expected a conflict, because sometimes--you may not have noticed this--people are stupid. But instead:

"Yes, he did," the woman on the bench said, not disclosing which guy made the comment. "And we told him that it was not acceptable. It won't happen again. Sorry about that."

Oh. Well then. That was exactly right.

"Oh," I said, "Well, thank you for that. We appreciate it." I walked back to our bench and told the team, who had heard the heckle, that the guy had been corrected by his own people. End of story, time to concentrate on getting some hits.

But it wasn't the end of the story. A few minutes later, the grandpa walked over to our bench. He walked straight up to me and looked me in the eye. "It was me," he said. "I was the one who said, 'Drop it!'." I shouldn't have said it, it was wrong, and I'm very sorry."

Wow. 

I practically burst into tears. I grabbed his hand and shook it, and said, "It was really good of you to come over here and say that. It's very honorable, and I appreciate you doing that." He said again that he was sorry; he was caught up in the game; and he knew it was wrong. "We all do and say things that we shouldn't," I said, "but very few people step up to take responsibility. You are a good man."

The Hurricanes ended up losing that game after all. But a few of them got to see a beautiful example of an adult taking personal responsibility for his mistake--and that is a huge win.

Bi-Polar Home Schooling

I'm home-schooling myself in the art and practice of home schooling. So far I've read two books on the topic, and they are diametrically opposite in many ways. One is an unedited, self-published, self-indulgent 400-page verbal emesis: 60 percent diatribe, 30 percent anecdotes, and 10 percent ideas.

The other is a 700-page, well-organized thesis that documents the history, method, and curriculum of a classical education.

One of them makes me want to hug a filing cabinet; the other makes my stomach hurt from insecurity and anxiety. Is there a Middle Path?

The first book, The Teenage Liberation Handbook, inexplicably gets a 4.5 out of 5 star rating on Amazon. It's inexplicable because the organization, writing, and editing are terrible--but it's also understandable because it has a powerful, counter-intuitive message to teenagers and parents. The message is this: schools don't have all the answers. They may not even have some of the answers for some kids; and many kids will be better off, and get a better education, through home schooling and/or unschooling.

I asked A. Peevie and Mr. Peevie to read "Chapter 16: Starting Out: A Sense of the Possibilities," because it offered a glimpse into the first baby steps toward homeschool, or as I'm starting to think of it, self-directed education. This chapter attempts to describe a different kind of educational structure, one which is goal- and student-directed. I don't find the "morsels of advice" from unschoolers and their parents to be particularly helpful or informative; but if you wade through those, and through the lessons in Chinese philosophy, and if you get past the author's overstated aversion to "school-style structure"--there are one or two nuggets of helpful advice, such as this:

If you are completely confused as to how to start structuring your life, here's one way: do "academics" for two hours each day--not necessarily lots of subjects, or the same ones every day; you are not going to dry up if you don't do 45 minutes every day of "social studies." Do some kind of work or project for four hours. In the rest of your time, read, see friends, talk with your parents, make tabouli. Take Saturdays and Sundays off. Sound arbitrary? It is. I made it up, although it is based on a loose sort of "average" of the lives of a hundred unschoolers, most college-bound. Once you try this schedule for a month, you will know how you want to change it.

The next chapter, "Your Tailor-Made Intellectual Extravaganza," presents a couple of good thoughts as well, explaining the method and value of interdisciplinary studies and offering a few strategies to enhance learning. "Create a small museum that relates to your interest," Llewellyn suggests; I could totally see A. Peevie doing this--although his museum might include gross things like a box of toenails, or things with questionable museum value like used cream soda bottles.

"Write letters to people and organizations, asking thoughtful questions"--also a cool idea. As a member of the Save the Manatees Club, and A. Peevie could initiate correspondence with someone from the Club to ask questions or even organize a fund raiser. I'll bet they don't have very many fundraisers in the midwest to benefit manatees. 

I think A. Peevie might find some useful ideas in the second half of the book, which focuses on "how to study all the school subjects without school." Handbook is over-written and under-edited, but like an all-you-can eat buffet, we will find something to meet our needs, and ignore the rest.

The second book, The Well-Trained Mind: A Guide to Classical Education at Home (TWTM), offers a "step-by-step, grade-by-grade, subject-by-subject guide to the classical pattern of education called the trivium." And yes, it is as detailed, systematic, polysyllabic, and guilt-inducing as it sounds.

The classical education is language- and history-intensive; it helps students learn to analyze and draw conclusions; and it requires self-discipline and dedication. The trivium structure "recognizes that there is an ideal time and place for each part of learning: memorization, argumentation, and self-expression." These three stages, or methods, of learning are known as grammar, dialectic (or logic), and rhetoric.

Grammar refers not just to the grammar of language, but in a broader sense, to the building blocks of all subjects: words, facts, and dates. The dialectic, or logic stage, teaches children to "connect the facts she has learned and to discover the relationships among them. The first grader has learned that Rome fell to the barbarians; the fifth grader asks why and discovers that high taxes, governmental corruption, and an army made up entirely of mercenaries weakened the empire." This critical thinking stage builds on the foundation of basic skills and knowledge. The third stage, rhetoric, refers to expression. It is dependent upon the first two stages of the trivium: "the student uses knowledge and the skill of logical argument to write and speak about all the subjects in the curriculum."

The massive text of TWTM applies the trivium step-by-step to each subject in each grade. Most chapters include comprehensive reading and resource lists that will make your eyes water, plus examples of daily schedules, methods, timelines, and activities to create the most perfectly educated robotic child ever known to mankind.

OK, that was a bit harsh. I'm sure that anyone who chooses to apply TWTM will nurture well-rounded and well-educated children--but if you check the index, you won't find any reference to child development, play, or fun--except for Fun With Hieroglyphs on page 311. In fact, the authors go so far as to say that if you find yourself hooked up with a group of unschoolers, you may want to find yourself another group (p. 617).

I'm sure this kind of home-schooling is great for some people--but on the continuum of unschooling to classical education homeschooling, we will fall far closer to Liberation than Well-Trained.

Still Got It

I arrived late at the hotel one night last week, and as I waited for the elevator, I made small talk with a fifty-something guy who was also waiting. He mentioned Dorney Park, which evoked fond memories.

"I remember that place!" I said happily. "You have reminded me of my long-lost youth!" We chatted for another minute until the elevator doors opened on the third floor and we both got off.

"So," he said, as we turned in opposite directions. "You have your own room, then?"

"Um, yes," I said, a bit startled, but also a bit awestruck because that sounded like it might have been a pick-up line. "And there are three kids in it."

"Heh-heh," he said, getting the message. "Have a nice night."

I told Mr. Peevie about this conversation later. "Do you think he was trying to pick me up?" I asked him.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Definitely."

"YES!" I Macauley Culkin-ed.

"I'm happy for you," Mr. Peevie said drily.

And he should be. I am a past-her-prime, overweight, mini-van driving softball mom with very few pick-up lines left in my future--so I will not pass up any chance I get to accept independent confirmation of my fading pulchritude.

Even if the pick-up line springs more from middle-aged lonely desperation than from any actual attractiveness on my part.

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