In Favor of Opting Out

 

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Do you know about this Common Core testing?

Do you really know?

I listened to two third grade teachers explain tonight that there are TWENTY 45 minute blocks of testing. TWENTY. For third graders. All on a computer, reading text and answering questions about the text while scrolling through and trying to keep track of where they are. And then having to read two pieces of text and then write a 2-3 paragraph essay where they CITE from the two pieces of text. Typing on a computer, while scrolling back and forth.

Can you do that???

Let me tell you what we will learn from this type of testing.

We will learn that if we’re going to test third graders on computers, we had better spend more time teaching them how to use a computer. Some schools have already started assigning 40 minutes of keyboard homework a week.

Don’t look now, but what happens if a student doesn’t have a lap top at home?

And we’ll learn that we need to make sure the directions are written at grade level and aren’t so long that the kids have to scroll through them.

That’s right–directions so long that they don’t fit in the screen and require third graders to scroll. Rule number one in the blogging world is to keep your posts short enough that people don’t have to scroll. So they don’t, you know, LOSE INTEREST. And that’s for grown-ups.

And also that the text pieces need to be grade level texts.

You might think that would be a given.  But then, copyrights cost money, and things aren’t public domain until they are 100 years old. I learned this lesson when I asked why on earth we were testing 11th graders with Thoreau. Thoreau. “Because he’s free”.  And those are the kind of solid, research based answers upon which  these tests are built.

And also that if a third grader has to navigate six feet of scrolling screen to read two pieces of text, then type a two paragraph essay in which they are required to cite the afore-mentioned texts–at some point a lot of them will say the third grade version of “F*ck it” (which for some of them will be “F*ck it” and really, who can blame them)–and just hit “Enter”.

We will not learn what the child actually knows or how effective their teacher is in the classroom.

Elementary schools are producing children who excel at one thing: reading directions.  You think I’m exaggerating? Watch this: in the Fall, the school districts will make teachers sit down with their data and try to figure out how they can be more “effective”. Teachers aren’t stupid, they know that too many Americans believe that low test scores equal shoddy teachers who drink coffee and read the Sports page while their students run amuck. So they will generate action plans that look something like this: Spend more time on keyboarding. Practice scrolling. Familiarize students with academic direction language. Practice these skills every six weeks and re-evaluate.

I do not believe in conspiracy theories. The Bad Guys In Washington are not purposefully trying to create a whole generation of worker bees.

But they are creating a whole generation of worker bees. Standardized testing was a nice dream. In practice it has been a disaster that will require decades of recovery in the US.

Maybe you are a college educated stay at home parent who has time to fill in the gaps of your child’s education. Maybe you can afford private school, which looks nothing like this.

But if you aren’t and you can’t, then what?

There’s only one thing to do: opt out. Not because the test can hurt your child.

Because the test is hurting the quality of your child’s education. That’s a BIG and DANGEROUS difference.

 

Rescue Task Force to Nepal

In times of widespread disaster, I am always impressed by the way the world responds.  Sometimes, though, it’s hard to know where to send your money so that it will have the most impact.  We’ve posted before that Dana’s uncle, Gary Becks, founded and still works with a global volunteer disaster relief organization, Rescue Task Force.

Rescue Task Force currently has two teams scheduled for Honduras and El Salvador bringing dental care, clean water, and medical services and a team leaving for Cambodia and Laos this Thursday.  But even though all of their US-based teams are tied up helping in other areas, Rescue Task Force has a team that is based in Bangkok, Thailand, that is working to get disaster supplies and relief to the victims of the earthquakes that have rocked Nepal.

100% of donations made for Nepal will go directly to supplies for the earthquake victims.  All of the aid workers are volunteers and will hand deliver food, clothing, blankets, basic toiletries, and baby necessities.  If you would like to donate, please visit www.rescuetaskforce.org  And join us in praying for the families in Nepal and the rescue workers that are so desperately trying to reach them.

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Only One Birth Plan That Matters

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April 2015 is C-Section Awareness Month. 

There are a lot of moms out there who think that a c-section is a cop out, or cheating.

In birthing classes, teachers talk about all the things moms can do to avoid c-sections. Women telling delivery room war stories often insert things like “Well, there was no way I was having a c-section!” right before they get to the part where they rallied and delivered.

As if c-section moms didn’t try hard enough. Couldn’t handle the pain. Didn’t love their babies enough to push them out the way God intended.

Or worse, that c-section moms are control freaks who need to fit their births into their busy schedules, appearing at the appointed time with perfectly coiffed hair and fresh manicures, attended by doctors who have tee times later.

Dana and I have five c-sections between us, but we agree, it’s the first one that leaves the biggest scar.

My water broke at 36 weeks, so my labor started off with a clang. From six pm to midnight, I went from 1 cm to 7 cm before I asked for an epidural. At 3 am I was fully dilated with a contraction pattern the nurse said she had never seen before—it was a constant up and down on the monitor with no break. I pushed for three hours, but I don’t remember much because the epidural dropped my blood pressure so low that I could not stop puking.

One moment is crystal clear: I heard the nurse say “Call her doctor” and I knew that wasn’t good. I opened my eyes and saw my mom and Shea look at each other across my belly. For the first time,  I realized my mom was still there. We had decided to do it alone, but later Shea told me that it was so scary he was glad she was there.

Then the baby’s heart rate started to drop, and he hadn’t moved at all from the place where he’d been for three hours. Later he would come out with a giant bruise around one eye, swollen and puffy from where he’d been slammed against my pelvic bone again and again while I pushed.

Our birth plan was simple: Everybody lives. So when the OB told us it was time for a c-section, we said yes. My mom, a former Lamaze instructor who had three unmedicated births, stood outside the door praying we would say yes.

A week later, after I’d had time to process the delivery a bit, I asked my mom what would have happened 100 years ago, if I had labored in some dim room in a Victorian house, attended by her and the town doctor.

“Would Gabriel have died?” I asked.

“Yes” she answered.

“Would I have died?”

“Probably.”

And not only that. There would be no Kate or Annie, my second and third c-sections.

There would be no Mazie, whose heart rate dropped off the table during Dana’s delivery, and maybe no Dana. No Violet.

No Jack and Noah. Brixton or Kennedy. Bella or Diego. Gino, Dean and Darren. Wyatt, Avery or Trey. Nick. Eleanor or Emma. Samantha. Marley or Koa. Jason. Quinn. Nicholl and Jennifer. Austin, Christian, Alec, Craig, Alijah, Colbe, Aubrey or Clare.

Maybe you think that list makes the point that c-sections are too prevalent.

I think it tells a different story.

The story of moms who labored, at first in hope and then in fear. Who understand how quickly a moment of life can be overshadowed by a threat of death. Who thank God often that they became mothers in this century and not in any other.

Because facts tell us that the historical level of maternal mortality during childbirth has hovered at 1 in 100. It’s estimated that at some points in the 1800s, 40% of women died in childbirth. The number in the US dropped to 11 in 100,000 in 2009. Many things have contributed to that drop, among them c-sections.

Dana and I think the shaming of c-section moms needs to stop. Both of us are peaceful about how our beautiful children came to be here, but there are women who struggle with the events that led to their c-sections, who suffer post-traumatic stress over their difficult deliveries.

When we tell them they are less than the mom who delivered “naturally”, we hurt all of motherhood.

And we give a lie to the truth that there is only one birth plan that matters: Everybody lives.

Can Is Not Should.

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My niece has been visiting the last two weeks. On Saturday, she was thinking about her next time to visit us. She has a friend who goes to Oregon University and his older brother is moving back to California to take a job. But before he starts the job, he wants to road trip up to see his brother at Oregon.

“So I could hitch a ride with him.”

Totally innocent. She’s 22 years old and in a long term relationship. She has known the brother for a while. He’s 25.

But still, “NO” erupted from my mouth, almost before I could think.

“Why?”

“Because he’s 25 and you’re 22 and you have a boyfriend.”

“He’s my friend. It’s not like that.”

“I know, but it’s disrespectful to your boyfriend.”

“How? If he knows the guy and he knows I’m going and he’s ok with it?”

“Then he doesn’t know he should be offended. I can’t explain it, but this is wrong. It just is.”

It just is. Which sat between us for a few seconds before we both started laughing.

“I know it’s lame to say ‘It just is’”, I told her. “But it really just is.”

Earlier in the week, she had floated the idea of going to the local country bar. When I rolled my eyes because it was a Tuesday night, I hate country music and the kids are going to get up at 6:30 regardless of when I go to bed, she was ready with a solution: “Then you leave early and I’ll get an Uber ride home.”

I love this girl. She is a good girl, a college graduate, volunteers with her church’s teen ministry, works for a Catholic company kind of way. She has a solid foundation and lots of support.

But sweet Mother Mary.

I don’t blame her. She is a product of her generation, whose motto seems to be “If we can, then we totally, absolutely should”.  They plan and communicate more efficiently than any generation before them because of the amazing technology they have at their fingertips.

In all of this super planning, they very rarely seem to stop and wonder if what they’re doing is necessary. Proper. Prudent.

Perhaps the man in her life won’t care if she travels alone with another man, but his mom might. And her mom. And me.

And I didn’t need to Google “Uber Rapes” to know that Uber is dodgy at best and downright dangerous for a woman alone at night. But when I did Google “Uber Rapes”, I found that taxi rapes are even more prevalent.

So this school of thought that says if you can make all the dots connect on an idea, then it’s a good idea?

Not always, my young friends. Just because we can, doesn’t mean we should. Not without further reflection. There are greater rules that govern our society for the good of one and all, and those need to be considered.

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In the midst of writing this, I came across a Carol Costello op-ed on CNN called Ready for the Marriage Apocalypse? It’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about. Millenials think they don’t need marriage because they can make all the dots connect on not having marriage.

For them–not all of them, but a majority polled–the here and now is more important than the long term or the eternal.

Traveling through Europe trumps having kids.

No paperwork means no mess when it’s time to move on to the next person.

Yeah, they could be like the generations before them. The same Boomers who burned their bras and lived out of their Volkswagons are now twice as likely to identify as conservative.

But what if they aren’t?

We have to start talking to them in a better way. A way rooted in faith and hope and love. We have to show them that family is a solid and crucial foundation. And that no one can make decisions in a vacuum, thinking only of ourselves and asking only if a thing is possible. I am afraid that if they continue on, so focused on the moment, they will miss out on the lifetime.

A Big Plate of Elephant

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How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.

My two oldest chickens are fighting the way brothers and sisters fight.

It’s exhausting.

Last week, we capped off Spring Break with a trip in our trailer, which is roughly one-twelfth the size of our house.

So here I am at the start of Holy Week, not feeling very holy. At one point, after whining “Gabe hit me” over and over, Kate asked why I was ignoring her.

It’s because I had lost the ability to form a sentence without the F-word in it.

I want to believe this is normal behavior, part of growing up, but I have some personal knowledge of brothers and sisters who grew up to not like each other much. I wish I knew the magical words to make them love each other.

“You better love your sister or I am going to make you the sorriest 9 year old in this campground!!!!”—just trust me that these are not the magical words.

So now we’re trying this:

Your job is to make your sister smile.

Not twist her up into a screaming banshee who tries to pull every hair out of your head over a fork.

Your job is to make your brother smile.

Not bribe your little sister to tell him that she doesn’t love him anymore.

Is it working?

If by working you mean I have now said it enough that if I died tomorrow they would put it on my tombstone in all caps and with twelve exclamation points? Then yes.

By any other measure, ish.

But there’s a thing we all have to remember. Building a family is like eating an elephant. It doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t even happen in a year, or a decade. It takes a lifetime, maybe generations. It means that even when we’ve had enough, we have to stay at the table and help.

I hope that right now you are cruising through some yummy, easy piece of your elephant that pairs well with red wine.

But if your piece looks more like mine right now, bony and full of gristle, I want to remind you that you aren’t alone. EVERY FAMILY hits rough patches. ALL PARENTS look over at what’s left of the elephant and wonder how they’ll ever get it done, or why they chose to eat this elephant in the first place.It happens to EVERYONE.

The key is to keep eating.