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    Tuesday
    Sep142010

    those who can't teach


    Welcome to the September Carnival of Natural Parenting: We're all home schoolers



    This post was written for inclusion in the monthly Carnival of Natural Parenting hosted by Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama. This month our participants have shared how their children learn at home as a natural part of their day. Please read to the end to find a list of links to the other carnival participants.



    ***


    If we lived in another part of the country, one of my friends recently pointed out, we'd be vying for a spot in a choice preschool right now. In fact, for certain preschools, we'd have already been accepted or denied based on an assessment of our at-home routines, plans for the future both near and distant and "philosophies." The thought of putting on my best button-up blouse and smug half smile to sit opposite some douche in an Aeron chair and justify my parenting style in order to be granted the opportunity to write a check for thousands of dollars -- ugh. It makes me shudder so hard you might mistake my disgust for a sort of rhythmless shimmy.



    Luckily, we don't live in New York or LA or any other place so cutthroat as to pit infants against each other. There's an abundance of small preschools, co-op schools, Montessori and Waldorf schools and preschools of the arts in Bellingham, and many of them are steps from our front door. On our walks, George and I like to stop at the schools' fences to watch kids play for a few moments before we move on to chase a neighborhood cat or admire someone's garden. It's undeniable that George likes people, likes to engage socially a lot more than I do and I can't see this changing before it's time to start thinking about school. And yet.

    My main criticism of homeschooling involves humility. It takes someone with a high opinion of her (or him)self to homeschool. You have to be so confident in your ability to provide all the knowledge your child needs that you forsake other in-person input. Of course, there's reference. There's the library and the internet and "field trips." But you, as a parent, are the keystone...and all the other stones, and like 3/5 of the gargoyles on top of the building. Your bias becomes theirs, for better or worse, by design or otherwise. And knowing all this, feeling the way I do... I would still consider homeschooling George for the first couple of years at least.

    See, Bellingham is a liberal town for sure. Everyone recycles. Everyone rides their bike and shops at the co-op and wants or has chickens and loves composting with a passion they used to reserve for Death Cab circa '06 or Obama, for those two months in 2008 when they cared about politics. But! These are tricksy hippies who fool you with their homebrew and yearly contribution to Planned Parenthood; they are just yuppies in disguise. Yuppies who don't love Emma Goldman. Who don't daydream about Summerhill. Who don't appear on the no-fly list for their involvement with the ALF (um... I mean... not that I know anyone who fits that description).
    There's an odd sort of dichotomy at play with these folks and their kids. They advocate for educational freedom, as long as that freedom includes really extensive knowledge of OPEC. They support the arts, but "the arts" are kind of bad acrylic paintings they purchased to justify the "buy art not cocaine" sticker on their Subaru. They call their Subaru a suby. CUTE! There's no place that I've heard of or seen, yet, in town, that offers real democratic schooling or even some version of AS Neill's model but is also academically rigorous. Why does educational freedom have to equal linen pants and lessons in blackberry picking, you guys?!

    This, for me, is the crux of the issue. I want my son to enjoy learning, but I want him to learn valuable lessons. I want his inherent curiosity to remain intact but I don't believe his every fascination should be thoroughly indulged at the expense of other knowledge. I want him to be happy, confident and well-adjusted but I also want him to be smart, with marketable skills that will enable him to earn a living. Am I thinking too far ahead? Maybe, but I'm operating under the assumption that good habits start early. This is why we haven't signed up for infant classes at the community college (yet -- report from friend pending), why we may not be sending our child to school. Why I'd rather we listen to dynamic and honest music than kidsbop, watch documentaries and Stan Brakhage films than wow wow wubbzy. Why I don't speak to my son like he's a half-deaf dog. Because, despite (and because of) my acknowledgement that homeschooling is equatable with a superiority complex, I think I am pretty damned well equipped to teach my son to learn on his own. If that just makes me a different kind of douche, well, you heard it here first.


    ***



    Carnival of Natural Parenting -- Hobo Mama and Code Name: MamaVisit Hobo Mama and Code Name: Mama to find out how you can participate in the next Carnival of Natural Parenting!



    Please take time to read the submissions by the other carnival participants:



    (This list will be updated September 14 with all the carnival links.)


    Sunday
    Sep122010

    that was your mother

    George, man, you are really tiring me out. These days, I'm lucky to get a brush through my hair which is not even close to the amount of "doing" that my hair requires. Speaking of, I really hope you got your pop's hair and not mine because despite boys getting a near pass in the grooming department, you still gotta do something and some days there's just no option but copious bobbypins and a bun. Technically an option for you, but to be honest, not one I would necessarily encourage.

    Also, on the papa front: I am beginning to forget what it's like to have a fluid talk with him. One that isn't interrupted with baby-juggling and redirection and trailing off, having forgotten what the next conversational turn was to be. Please, kid, don't misunderstand. Usually one of us is sidetracked by your cuteness. And even when we're not, it's okay, because you're a baby and you're fun to be around most of the time and when you're not, well... nobody's always pleasant company. Including me. In fact, I'm probably pleasant company less often than most. But when my life is so consumed by the baby-related, I'd really kill for a start-to-finish conversation about that New York Times article I read while you were sleeping, or fashion week or what I should do with my 401K money -- take it out or leave it in? Anything other than what kind of diapers I now prefer, how to wash them and what they look like after you've eaten black beans. I swear, I used to be a reasonably interesting person.
    We just celebrated your first Rosh Hashanah. You slept through most of it, and it didn't go the way I wanted. I was supremely bummed, scared of letting the few traditions I hold dear slip under the wheels of busy-ness, exhaustion, convenience, disinterest. Get rolled over and left for dead. I made no apologies this year; I made no resolutions. But as with most things, time may sort that out. My hope for this year, my thirtieth, is that I'll reclaim a little of my adultness. Adultness that may never have been fully realized to begin. Ballet will start again, I will get a facial, I will have time and hands enough to keep a tidy house. Maybe. I will eat breakfast again, and work. Deadlines will loom and I'll meet them. Your papa and I will learn to put you down, will learn that to let you nap alone doesn't mean we love you any less, even if it really, really pisses you off in the beginning.
    xoxo,
    mama

    You are the burden of my generation
    I sure do love you, but let's get that straight.


    (Paul Simon lovingly quoted with abandon and no permission)
    Saturday
    Sep042010

    apropos

    Here I am, accurately represented.



    Shirt half off, stuffing some sort of sweet into my mouth. Rather, having a sweet stuffed into my mouth.
    Sunglass-ed, with a pile of stuff sitting next to me. Maybe this doesn't ever strike others, or maybe it only strikes people with a twinge (or more) of body dysmorphia, but I don't often see photos of myself and think, well, there I am. That's what I look like.
    Tuesday
    Aug312010

    the imaginarium of stefanie lejeunesse

    So, I may have mentioned that there was a time in the not-too-distant past that I actually made an effort at looking halfway decent. Most (okay, half? Um, alright, 30%) of me takes major issue with consumerism and spending lots of money on clothes when there are children starving in _____. Because there ARE, I know, and it's kind of moot anyhow because spending two grand on a YSL dress to sport to a ballet performance we can't even really afford to attend is so out of the realm of possibility it's laughable. Hysterically laughable. Laugh until you cry-able. Cry into your closet full of eight-seasons ago cocktail dresses-able. I know, I know. Boo hoo.
    But the fact remains that I love nice clothes. My excuse is that I appreciate fine workmanship, as a seamstress and all (hardy har), but it's really a feeble excuse.
    Fall is especially heartbreaking for me because I love Fall clothes so much. Summer came and went and my now too-big jeans and fast fashion tanktops were passable for those months but as soon as the drizzle starts I want fairisle and supple leather and other things babies might enjoy dotting with food, already digested or otherwise. It's also a bummer this year because my body is starting to feel like mine again, despite the fact that my chest is still co-owned. My wardrobe is no longer at the mercy of a baby who might need inside my shirt at any second; George is pretty predictable these days, I'm more confident in my ability to nurse discreetly and frankly, I don't care if you see my boob or stretch-marked belly.
    So, dear friends, if any of you is secretly really rich, you know... my birthday is coming up. Here's my dream Fall wardrobe which incidentally goes along with my dream Fall body fuck that shit.
    ED: that's right; Converse Allstars and Wayfarers. I'm gettin' back to me. Me at sixteen.


    Yves Saint Laurent Wool-blend dress, $1,625
    Stella McCartney Cashmere and silk-blend cardigan, $845
    Edun Sequin-embellished cotton tank, $400
    Slash Neck Sailor Tee, $145
    Blues Bow Tee, $124
    Knitted Fairisle Cardigan, $110
    francesca feather skirt$330, $330
    Hayden-Harnett DENMARE Trousers, Black, $318
    Blue Gwenevere Highwaisted Skinny Jean by 7 For All Mankind, 175 GBP
    Cable Knit Shorts, $153
    Falke Ribbed Tights., $50
    50 Den Mustard Opaque Tights, $12
    objects in mirror suede/leather flat knee high riding boot w/buckles..., 585 CAD
    MISSONI Platform pumps - Item 44255003, $294
    feather and stone ring, 255 GBP
    Louis Mariette Caesar gold leaf hairband, $405
    Ray-Ban Original Wayfarer | Official Ray-Ban Site, $145
    Women’s Italian leather driving gloves | Womens italian nappa lambskin..., 66 EUR
    NANA' - FEATHER ELASTIC HEADBAND, 54 EUR
    Mink Lace Scarf, 12 GBP
    ASOS Square Buckle Skinny Boyfriend Belt
    converse all star slim - Google-søgning
    Wednesday
    Aug252010

    george lejeunesse, freaking out squares since 2009

    I should start by saying that it was gut-wrenching just now to look at what search terms brought people to my blog in the past three days, #1 being "jane schaffer died." Because she did. And so it goes.



    I've been working on a post about naming and names, unsuccessfully. It's languishing in my drafts now, having been deleted and rewritten and deleted again, then mumbled out through my fingers, still unsatisfactory for public consumption. The time is coming -- has come and gone, some would argue -- to give George a Hebrew name. There was no recently deceased person to honor, but now there is, and that's kind of that. We've already discussed the other part of the naming ceremony that we won't be inflicting (that's right, inflicting) on our boy and when the whole thing is said and done I'll be glad to have it over with.
    Naming, which I've always taken a special delight in, has been an unforeseen area of conflict where George is concerned. While I know I'm not the only one who gets grilled about her kid's name(s), it seems that people who would otherwise just smile politely at what they consider a stodgy moniker see an open door for debate when it comes to George's last name. Which is my last name. Which is not his father's last name. GASP, CHOKE, how could you immasculate your husband -- WAIT HE'S NOT EVEN YOUR HUSBAND?!?!?!? that way?
    If you only knew, stranger in the grocery line, what other misdeeds I'm capable of.
    There are lots of reasons we chose George. My abiding love of George Balanchine, of George Fayne, of Georgia Hubley. The two real, quality people in my life named George and the fact that they are entirely different people with vastly different interests, personalities and body types but both are unmistakably George. Singer as a middle name followed easily, for, dear reader, when you birth this:



    It can only be seen as a sign to name him after your favorite writer, your favorite Pole, your favorite Yid and Pulitzer Prize-winning, superstitious, rice pudding-loving sometimes-curmudgeon:



    These names are acceptable for most people, charming for some and stodgy for others, but the most common response is "I have a great-uncle named George!" Familiar but not common. Comfortable, I hope.
    Sometimes, though. Sometimes people want to hear the whole shebang, to see if it has that certain ring. Does it rival the ring of Kaydynze Austyn Danger (haha; get it?!) Johnson? So I accomodate them. "Your husband must be French!" They say. And then, oh then.
    Well, actually, it's MY last name. (And here, for your reading enjoyment, a conversation that took place at Target, potentially in the same line where a woman who'd just given her toddler a swig of soda asked me Is that one of those slings that kills babies?)
    Stranger: Oh, God bless you. Being a single mother must be so hard at your young age (...thanks?)
    Me: I'm not a single mother. I have a partner. We just chose to give George my last name.
    Stranger: ...And your...PARTNER? He didn't mind?
    Me: No more than I'd have minded.
    Stranger: Are there lots of boys in his family?
    Me: Nope!
    Stranger: Why didn't you hyphenate it? Lots of people are doing that now.
    Me: Um, it's kind of cumbersome...
    Stranger: Well, good luck to you! (Shakes head)

    And you, I said, though I wanted so badly to throw that three-pack of wipes at her head as she lumbered away.