My wife pulled a muscle over the weekend, so I was home on sick leave yesterday. I had the best day taking Sophie to Sweet Nothing's & doing her Homelink home school stuff. Steamed milk for her, americano for me, wifi, and we split a hot swiss & ham sandwich.
Her classes are online - Language Arts & Science, both 3rd grade level - and it's pretty fun. The technology isn't great - in fact, frequently has interruptions - but if there's an adult to 1) engage her 2) read the material to her so she doesn't skip through it 3) draw pictures to illustrate the point, she does marvelous. It's really nice to be able to watch her face screw up as she thinks about a quiz question or considers the material. And hearing words like carbon dioxide and chlorophyll spill out of her mouth is fabulous.
I kept thinking about the busy work that would be assigned to her in first grade were she there, and how defeated she was at the end of each day. In kindergarten, she was bringing home messages about herself being fat, a moron, or stupid. It's not about the academic acheivement. It's about being a healthy person, and I'd be much more comfortable sending her to public school in a few years when she's older and (hopefully) more sure-footed of who she is.
I celebrated National Night Out last night, down at my local community garden. Lots of people brought food. The Crimewatchers stopped by; even the PD K9 unit was there. By all accounts, German shepherd Enno was awesome. Sing it with me, "That Dog is an awesome Dog!" I kept thinking about my chickens.
I have two chicks at home, in a box, under a heat lamp. They're barely 3 weeks old, but when one is removed from the other, the peeping intensity goes to 11. Must be the flock instinct.
I can't believe I call two baby chicks a flock.
This must be instinctual behavior; the chicks have survived due to sheer numbers. Some balance of chemicals in the brain, combined with muscle memory spanning generations of otherwise idiot chickens. The phrase Stay Together must be burned into the backs of their eyeballs, such that when a chick is alone, it freaks a bit. It peeps so the other chickens find it, so they call and it can find them. To get back to the flock, where they belong.
So I was thinking about these chickens, because the national night out party at the local community garden has become a place where I belong. People aren't chicks; we're far too neurotic to be able to clearly say "I am lonely for people," the way a chick can peep for others. But having a place where people know my name, and talk to me, where they have a handle - a way to address me, invite me into conversation, share of themselves and receive others - that's no doubt driven by the same balance of brain chemicals and muscle memory that formed tribes, villages, and cities.
I used to think that National Night Out was for scared grown-ups to retardedly announce they were taking back control of their neighborhoods. Last night I saw people shaking hands, talking, and meeting each other on grounds where they could get those handles to interface with each other. It wasn't like a friggin' peace fest, but it was not grown ups being retarded. It was people, and they weren't lonely.
I'll take that any day over the sense of modern alienation, isolation, and unbound listing that can become an excuse for identity. I'm glad I have handles in this community, just a year+ after moving here.
the family & the eagle For no particular reason that I can see, Sophie suddenly undertook writing a book last night. She presented it to me, and like any good publisher, I recognize a story that needed to be heard. Scan, copy, & paste 30 minutes later, and here's the book in PDF.
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