Lesson Learned

Recently we unearthed an old essay written by the one and only Neil Coulter circa 1995. We're talking about senior year of high school Neil Coulter. It would be fair to say that 1995 Neil was suffering from a bad case of senioritis and operating under a heavy dose of teen angst. It would also be safe to assume that he wrote the glorious geographical analysis of China, pictured below, in under five minutes. I would guess he started and finished this assignment during the five minute passing period between classes. How would I know such a thing? Well, I teach high school kids. And even if I've never assigned an essay about China, I have, in fact, read this sort of essay many, many times before. And I know the type of kid who writes this sort of drivel; He's the kid who cares about his grade just enough to turn something in, but pays no regard to the quality of his work. It's the type of essay that has hand-writing that gets progressively worse as time runs short. It has no beginning, no ending, and no real facts or support; it's a filled up sheet of paper and a hopeful attempt at squeezing out a couple of measly assignment points. As a seasoned veteran, I'm never shocked when I receive an essay of such poor quality. What I will forever be surprised about, though, is that I ended up happily married to one of "those kids." Before I get too far into this, let's all take a moment to bask in the glory that is "CHINA" by Neil Coulter:  

So, now you're thinking, "Wow! I'm sure glad I don't work in one of "dirty" China's "several" rice fields. That wouldn't be very "glamorous" at all!"  Or maybe you're wondering what happened with Neil's friend Jacob's "very nice" Chinese girlfriend.  You know, the one who spent all that time teaching Neil how to speak and write in Chinese.  If she would have stuck around a little longer maybe Neil could have learned and shared even more riveting facts about Chinese culture!

Yes, making jokes at 1995 Neil's expense is very entertaining, but it's time to set the record straight.  This essay deserves the failing grade that it received.  Actually, in my professional opinion, it probably deserves a 0/20 points instead of a 5/20 (which, if you look closely, was originally a 7/20 before the teacher thought better of it).  It's nothing but a big, fat, unsupported generalization topped off with a lie that only a smart-aleck of Neil's magnitude could pull off.  That's right, folks.  I know the aforementioned Jacob, and I can confirm that his nice Chinese girlfriend never existed.  And, for the record, a plus sign sandwiched between two backwards parentheses does not a Chinese symbol make.  I would be willing to bet, however, that during the last feverish minute of this essay's composition, Jacob sat down next to Neil and that the last paragraph resulted in a good laugh from both parties involved.

So, how does 1995 Neil stack up to 2012 Neil?  Well, 2012 Neil cares a great deal about the quality of his work and he works harder than any other person I know.  Does that mean that if given the chance to warp back to 1995 that he would produce the A+ version of this essay that he is most certainly capable of?  Probably not.  2012 Neil will still do anything, and I mean anything, to illicit a laugh from the people he loves.   I'm guessing that the laughter and subsequent story that came from the last paragraph of his essay is still worth the 5/20 for Neil.  And, even though this essay (and the handful just like it that show up on my desk every year) makes the teacher in me shake my head, sigh heavily, and lament wasted opportunity, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't laugh until I cried when I read this slacker-tastic masterpiece.  Of course, it's easy to find the humor in it because I know Neil turned out all right in the end, but when I'm reading similar essays submitted by my own students, it's not quite as hilarious.  In fact, it's often infuriating, especially when it's from the kid who I KNOW has the capacity to do well.  It's at this point in the grading process, when my frustration level has prompted me to consider another line of work, that I have to stop and consider my options.  

Option #1 - Give this kid the zero he deserves and prove to him that his teacher isn't quite as stupid as he believed her to be.

Option #2 - Consider the student's situation.  Does he have someone at home making sure he's doing well?  Are there worries in this kid's life that are more pressing than a silly essay for English class?  

Let me let you in on a little secret.  If your teacher chooses option #1, it means that you've been a real jerk.  Consistently. Irrevocably. However, if she chooses option #2, it means that somewhere along the line you've given her a glimpse of your potential.  It means that she recognizes that just because some kids aren't good at being students, it doesn't mean they're not good at being people.  This teacher will still give you the F you deserve, but instead of 0/20 she will give you a 7/20...Then she'll remember that you blatantly lied about your ability to speak and write in Chinese, and she'll change the 7 to a 5.  Because you deserve something.  Because it's complicated to be a teenager.  Just like it's sometimes complicated to be a teacher.  

Pretendo!

I blame Owen's babysitter for his current Super Mario Brothers obsession.  The moment she bought a Wii and introduced him to Mario and Princess Peach, he was hooked.  At this point I'd estimate that 90% of our conversations are Mario related, and 100% of our pretend play scenarios begin with the declaration, "I'm Luigi, you're Princess Peach, and Bowser just captured you..." 

Because the Coulter family lives in the technological stone age (no smart phones, no smart TVs, not even Netflix), purchasing a new gaming systems to satisfy what is probably a three-year-old's passing fancy isn't in the foreseeable future.  So you can imagine my delight when I found a dusty Super Nintendo neatly tucked away in my parents' basement.  Overjoyed, we ran home and Neil plugged that sucker into our not-so-smart-TV.  Like a true Super Nintendo veteran, he blew into the Mario game cartridge, placed it in position, crossed his fingers, and flipped the switch to the on position.  When Mario and Yoshi made their debut on our dumb TV's screen, the look on Owen's face was that of I-cannot-believe-Mario-is-at-MY-house-right-now amazement. He exclaimed, "Daddy! The Pretendo works!" and Neil was an instant hero because, as it turns out, three-year-olds don't really know the difference between a brand new Wii and a 20 year old Super Nintendo.  

For me, however, the best part of this story was Owen's inadvertent invention of the word Pretendo.  While it is a fitting description for the ancient gaming system that will serve as a pretend Wii for the next few years, the term Pretendo has come to stand for much more than that.  The word itself was accidentally invented by a child during a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.  There is magic in a moment like that, for a child and for his parents, so it's not surprising that a word created out of such magic would take on a life of its own. Pretendo goes beyond the device for which it is named; In our house, the word Pretendo, when used properly, has the power to grant wishes.  Yes, you heard me right.  It grants wishes. 

To understand Pretendo you must first have the ability to go beyond just "making do" and actually find happiness with what you have right now.  "Making do" implies that what you have right now not only could, but should be better.  It's saying, "I guess we'll just have to...[heavy sigh]... make do until we can get what we really want."  Well, I'm here to tell you that "making do" is nothing but a tedious waste of everyone's time.  With that said, please understand that I am notorious for my impatience; I want what I want and I want it right now, and thanks to my son and his lovely way with words, I have finally realized how to make that happen.  Pretendo!  It. Grants. Wishes.  Allow me to illustrate.

There are times when your son's only wish is to have a Wii.  And sometimes, no matter how hard you wish, you simply cannot justify the expense, so you must go out and do the leg work required to make his wish come true.  Sure, the act of Pretendoing is much more labor intensive than a "make-do" shoulder shrug, but here is the good news: It doesn't matter how old you are or what you're wishing for, if you're smart, creative, and determined, Pretendo will work for you, too!  Don't believe me?  Here's proof of the Pretendo promise:

Like many other young(ish) couples, extravagance is not in our budget.  Luckily for me, I have a husband whose creativity is enhanced by forced frugality.  When I told Neil that all I wanted for Valentine's Day was a bathroom that didn't make me want to die when I walked into it, he used his considerable carpentry skills, a gallon of discounted paint, and a rickety picket fence that was taking up space in our basement, and he made me a "brand new" bathroom.  I'm ecstatic with my there-is-nothing-new-about-it bathroom.  Pretendo!  Wish granted.


When I mentioned that instead of remodeling it might be easier to just set fire to our disgusting kitchen, Neil bought a couple of gallons of paint, I turned an old tablecloth into a curtain, and Pretendo!  "New" kitchen.

  

World's Dumbest Kitchen...

Behold!  The power of Pretendo!

When I hinted that I'd like Owen to have a playhouse, Neil used a couple of pallets and some fence pickets and Pretendoed one out of thin air!

Pretendoing in Action

Viola!  Pretendoed

Yes, I will admit that the power of Pretendo is especially strong with Neil, but the plain fact remains that no matter who you are, if you combine some elbow grease, a little ingenuity, and a healthy appreciation for simplicity, it can take you a long, long way.  I realize that the ease with which we use this magic won't last forever.  For Owen, Mario and Luigi will eventually take a backseat to another fad, and as he gets older and his tastes become more expensive, it won't be as easy to please (and/or trick) him.  The best I can hope for is that his dad and I can instill in him an appreciation for the simple things in life so he'll be able to truly understand the promise of the Pretendo philosphy.

Around here, we don't have granite counter tops, fancy smartphones, mass-produced plastic playhouses, or state of the art gaming systems, but we have harnessed the power of Pretendo.  We are willing and thankful to work with what we have right now, which sometimes isn't a lot but is always so much more than enough.  We manufacture our own happiness and make our own luck at the corner of Locust Street and Avenue B.  Pretendo!  Every single wish granted.
 

The Treasure Chair

This morning I walked into the living room to find Owen digging deep under the cushion of a chair.  When I inquired about what he was doing, he knew the jig was up and guiltily replied, "Mom, I put some chips down there last night.  I'm sorry."  As I began my lecture on how to properly dispose of food, I reached my own arm down into the nether-regions of the chair and pulled out at least two different kinds of potato chips, two Hot Wheels cars, a harmonica that's been lost for more than a year, an m&m, a card from the game Memory, a lighter, and a quarter.  When asked why there were so many items shoved down into the chair, Owen explained that that spot was his "treasure chest," and that I had, in fact, "found all the treasures!"  Lucky me.

I know I can't blame Owen for all of the "treasures" I found deep inside the chair, and the reason I know that is because this is not my first treasure chair expedition.  The chair belonged to my great grandma.  It sat in her house for as long as I can remember, and I always loved the velvety purple fabric and the way that you sort of sunk into it when you sat down.  I remember holidays in that chair, the smell of dinner cooking, and me curled up in its cozy seat eating the sweet pickles and cheddar cheese slices I'd swiped from the relish tray.  I felt lucky to inherit the chair from grandma and happily moved it into my first apartment, then into my first home, but it wasn't until our move into home number two that I discovered its secret hiding spot.  

At first we just noticed a rattling sound when we tried to move the chair.  Once we realized that the rattling was coming from the inside, I removed the cushion and reached down into the spot where the arm meets the seat.  The first thing I pulled out was a drumstick (the instrument, not the food).  Next came a pine cone, about 7 beer bottle caps,  and one white Barbie boot that looked like it might have belonged to Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Barbie (if she existed).  I could attribute the drumstick and bottle tops to Neil, and the pine cone smelled faintly of cinnamon, so I knew it was a wayward Christmas decoration.  But the Barbie Boot?  This was long before we'd even thought about having kids, and there had been very few child visitors to our home at that time in our lives.  However, the chair itself was no stranger to children.  When it sat in my grandmother's house, at least four female grandchildren and five girl great-grandchildren had more than likely played Barbies in it at one time or another; there was a very good chance that Barbie's cowboy boot had been hidden in the chair for a long, long time. I have no memory of ever owning a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader Barbie, but I like to think that at some point I sat in the chair at grandma's, playing Barbies while the grown ups cooked dinner, and decided to put Barbie's boot down in "the treasure chest" for safe keeping...sort of like Owen did with his harmonica, Hot Wheels, and his beloved chips.  

Our chair has seen better days.  There are threadbare sections on it's arms and seat cushion, and the fabric underneath is ripped and hanging loose, but it still looks pretty good considering its age.  The yellowed tag located on the underside of the chair confirms that Great Grandma Mary and Great Grandpa Ben purchased it from The Sunshine Store in Astoria, Illinois on May 12th, 1939. It's been a part of our family for 73 years, and I will continue to treasure our Treasure Chair as long as I live.  

  

Yes. We. Should.

Three score and four years ago my parents brought forth on this continent a new child.  The child was me, and I grew into a quiet, passive, introspective, and sometimes intolerant adult whose pursuit of happiness is often interrupted by minor annoyances.  I've come to realize that the only things I have to fear are idiots themselves.  However, when I ask not what my country can do for me, but what I can do for my country, the answer is simple.  I shall use my formidable presence in the blogesphere to reach literally tens of people in a campaign against the ridiculous.  Consider this my official bid for the presidency.

 

Once elected, my first order of business will be to abolish the production of garters.  Not the type that serve a purpose, like holding up an elderly English gentleman's socks, and you can even keep your Victoria's Secret boudoir versions because they're not really hurting anyone.  In some cases I'm sure they're helping.  What I'm talking about are those satin and lace abominations that are peddled to brides and girls who buy prom dresses.  Those two demographics do not need another piece of fabric to feel obligated to spend too much money on. And while I admit that at my own wedding I fell victim to the suggestive cutesiness perpetrated by the garter tradition, the only real good that came out of it was this:


Dance Machine: The Morning After


Okay.  Wait a minute.  In the fashion of a true politician, I'm going to flip flop on this issues just a little.  Brides can keep their garters when I'm president because there's a considerable amount of joy that I get from the memory of the little guy pictured at left doing the worm with a garter on his head at the center of a circle of my dancing loved ones.  However, there is NO reason high school girls should purchase garters.  It's gross.  And dumb. And as soon as I can get the appropriate legislation passed, it'll be illegal. 

As part of my Anti-Disgusting Initiative, I will also focus on removing abhorrent words from the English language.  Clearly, the word moist will be the first to go.  You can find a better way to describe the delicious cake you just ate, and if you can't, my party promises a thesaurus for every household.  Words like musk, berth, squirt, salve, and pert are just a few on this ever-growing list of terms, many of which are so repulsive that the simple act of speaking them is enough to trigger the gag reflex...I'm looking at you, flaccid. 

And while we're on the subject of words, once elected, I promise to lobby for legislation that targets pretentious pronunciators.  People who pronounce mature "matOOr" or negotiations "negoSEEations" will be fined $5,000 and, in extreme cases, subject to imprisonment until they can be properly rehabilitated.

This is the kind of change I can believe in.  I hope you can, too.
See you at the polls. 

Facebook Told Me...

Facebook Told Me...

By Erin Coulter

You're depressed.

I get it.

Another desperate plea for attention.

You your life!

Uh-huh. 

A vulgar display of pretended perfection.

You're a star.

Sure you are. 

Of a reality show created by you.

But use caution

Because often

Truth, when created, is simply untrue.

Use care

When you share.

Because here words and images become your reflection.

And, if wise,

You'll realize

That we're all here in search of a human connection. 

Comfort and Joy

Top Five Reasons This Christmas is Awesome

5.  As we cuddled up in front of the computer to watch Owen's personalized video message from Santa, he was at first surprised and then a little taken aback by the fact that Santa was calling him by name.  However, as the video progressed, there was a genuine look of wonder on his little face that brought a lump to my throat and a tear to his dad's eye.  This year, Santa is perhaps as real as he'll ever be for Owen, and it's so much fun. 

See Owen's Santa Video Here. 
 

4.  It's been a few years since I felt the need to wield a cookie cutter, but after re-instituting the Fife holiday cookie baking tradition at Grandma's house, there's been no lack of treats this season.  We may have sprinkled and frosted ourselves into a larger pants size, but that's just another reason to buy a new pair of stretchy pants.  And, really, life IS better when your pants are stretchy. 

 

There are at least 6 ornaments on this
especially "boo-tiful" branch.

3.  Even though I was nervous about allowing Owen to hang my highly prized, antique glass ornaments on the tree all by himself, I managed to suppress my Type A tendencies enough to make the tree decorating a family affair.  Sure, there were a few ornament casualties, and the bottom third of the tree is a little more heavily decorated than the top, but my spacial issues are put to rest each evening when I turn on the Christmas tree lights and Owen reminds me that, "Oh!  It's Boo-tiful!"

2.  Trying to navigate the grocery store with my child in tow is an especially harrowing experience during the holiday season.  Having a well thought-out list and a secret lollipop stashed away for use as anti-meltdown collateral gives me the confidence I need to get in the door.  Inevitably, though, around aisle five, the lollipop begins to lose its luster and the cart becomes a little too confining for Owen.  It's usually at that point that I also realize that I forgot to get an apple from aisle one and missed the black olives in aisle two.  At that point, I start to sweat.  The rest of the trip becomes a blurry dash to the checkout line.  By the time I unload the cart at the register (and take stock of all the items I missed on my list), my annoyance level is a code red, and that's when I notice Owen's tiny voice behind me.  He's quietly checking out the impulse buys that are stacked neatly beside the counter and entertaining himself by singing the world's cutest rendition of "Have A Holly Jolly Christmas," and suddenly I can't help but feel merry and bright.  

1.  And this is all I need to keep me warm for the rest of the winter.   

 

Merry Christmas!!!!

Noise Solution

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by noise.  When I'm confronted with too much of it, I can feel my body and brain physically react.  Too many different noises at once will literally set my teeth on edge and cause my jaw and neck muscles to tighten as I work harder to concentrate.  My intolerance for background noise is weird because I consider myself fairly proficient when it comes to multi-tasking.  I can cook a grilled cheese sandwich, sweep the kitchen floor, and update my Facebook status all at the same time; I can grade an essay, shoot off an email to a co-worker, and make a mental lesson plan in the five minutes before school starts.  I can do lots of things all at once, except when it comes to listening. 

When a grown-up conversation is interrupted with incessant pleas from my three-year-old for "more juice," my ability to communicate shuts down until I can appease the child and restart the conversation.  In a classroom full of high school students, many of whom are somehow still unfamiliar with the concept of raising one's hand, I've been known to loudly and forcefully call for a moratorium on talking when my attention is being pulled in too many different directions.  My hatred for shopping is probably linked to my noise aversion; loud music piped through speakers and other shoppers attempting to talk over top of it sends me from zero to annoyed in a matter of seconds.  In the event that I have to grocery shop with my child in tow, my ability to concentrate is so compromised that I'm lucky to make it out of the store with ingredients for one complete meal, and I'm sure my hatred for my cell phone also has something to do with this pesky noise issue of mine. 

I feed my need for quiet whenever and wherever I can.  My drive home from work is usually radio-free, allowing for fifteen minutes of noise detox that I so desperately crave after a typical day of work; I shudder at the thought of how many more detox miles I'd have to accrue if I taught elementary instead of high school students.  Sometimes during lazy winter evenings, Neil will watch the news while Owen watches a movie on the portable DVD player, and I am compelled to retreat to the kitchen to tackle a sink full of dishes.  While I do like to clean (I know, I know.  I have issues), it's not the act of washing dishes that makes me feel better; it's the sound of the water coming out of the faucet, drowning out the din of the dueling televisions with a white noise that soothes me and allows my brain to begin functioning normally again.  Two of the most relaxing hours I spent last summer were on a lawn mower, mowing the grass at my grandma's farm.  Yes, the noise of the mower overshadowed the quiet sounds of nature, but there was something beautiful about the consistent hum of the machine as its static growl allowed me two hours of uninterrupted time with my own thoughts.  

I cannot understand people who are uncomfortable with silence.  Perhaps they are better equipped to deal with the life's noise, but, for me, quiet time is essential to my well-being.  When I teach my students about Henry David Thoreau and his experiment with simplifying his life by retreating from society to live at Walden Pond, I feel a secret sort of kinship with him.  Henry went out alone so he could "reduce life to its lowest terms" and "live deliberately."  While I don't identify with Thoreau's need to abandon modern luxuries and commune with nature (ewwwww...nature), I do understand why he needed to simply retreat for a while in order to figure life out. 

Thoreau's two-year excursion to Walden Pond was pretty hardcore;  as a person whose wellspring of happiness is filled almost exclusively by home and family, I can't identify with a need for complete isolation.  I'd happily settle for a monthly excursion to Walden Pond for two hours of uninterrupted porch time, though.  That would be enough.  I'm sure there will come a time when I will miss the clamor that's created by working and family and the routine of everyday, but for now I'll steal and savor my moments of silence whenever I can because it is during those moments, when my thoughts slow down and my brain catches up, that I remember the importance of appreciating the noise.