>NaBloPoMoPhoBia: Sandwiches.

>No, not the PBJ kind. This sandwich is generational. We’re caring for our kids, teens and twenty-somethings that they are, and caring for our parents at the same time.

Both sets of parents are moving.

Husband’s parents are moving out of their home of forty-odd years. They are life-long packrats. They’ve been the type to hold onto everything, stock the shelves in the basement, fill the freezer, keep their sons’ toys and never, ever throw anything away. Getting them to purge the place and prepare to move into a condo has been like pulling teeth from a shark; every time we empty a room of “stuff” they seem to grow more.

Husband moved all of his personal possessions out of their home years ago, successfully purging anything without value. The mouse-eaten pup tent joined the trash can. The old broken airplane models did, too. The trains? He still plays with those, and it’s okay. They’re small (HO scale).

His brother ten years younger and just a tad OCD, wasn’t quite as good about leaving home. His toys and games were still in the closet of his childhood bedroom. Husband filled our minivan with them and dropped them off at the brother’s house for our nieces and nephew to enjoy. We hope our sister-in-law still likes us after that stunt.

To make a long and tedious story shorter and more tolerable, Husband’s making a final trip (or two) to the old homestead with my minivan this weekend. Moving the remainder will be the job of the professional movers. I’m just happy that the in-laws actually agreed to hire someone to take care of this, as Father-in-Law is the ultimate DIY Guy. It’s been difficult to convince him that he’s not what he used to be after two back surgeries and double knee replacement. He shuffles across the room and pretends he doesn’t need his cane or walker, all the while saying, “I can handle those boxes. I’ll vacuum the basement.”

Denial aside, they’ve also set aside quite a bit of trash that might be someone’s treasure. We’re lined up to host a rummage sale next spring or summer to sell it off. Maybe by then Father-in-Law will admit that he no longer needs his riding mower and his two behemoth snowblowers, and Mother-in-Law will have decided just how much of her birdhouse collection will fit into condominium living.

Luckily for all of us, my own mom is moving from one apartment to another. She’s already downsized. Professionals will handle the furniture and the piano. We’ll just provide a few boxes.

In the meantime, I’ll keep reclaiming the various rooms in our home, dejunking as much as we can. I don’t want my children to have to clean piles of junk out of our basement many years in the future, so I’d better start cleaning now.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>It’s winter. We’re teachers. We’re creative problem solvers.

>It snowed Monday. Briefly. But a brief snowfall was enough.

People called it a “five minute blizzard.” Within those five minutes, one of my students looked toward the window and cried out “It’s snowing!” and seven, I’m not kidding you — SEVEN kids rushed to the window like they’d never seen snow before.

We live in Northeastern Wisconsin. They’ve all seen snow. Lots of it.

I managed to corral the wayward dogies back into their seats, closed the shades, and attempted to hand out the spelling homework. Hah! Dream on, teacher. Whether they could see it or not, the snow was on their minds. I shifted gears, as good teachers will, and brought them to the rug for some read-aloud time which lasted only a few minutes.
After several gear shifts, a chaotic rendition of Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes, and a final dismissal bell, I grabbed my bags and headed out the door to find my minivan coated with a thin layer of frozen winter wonderland.
I reached for the snow brush we keep in the minivan most of the year. It wasn’t there.
I started the defrosters and searched again behind the seats. No luck. So I attacked the windows with my gloved hands, hoping that perhaps I could borrow a brush or scraper from another teacher as the rest of the staff left.
No luck there, either. My friend the reading teacher set her car to defrost and came over to ask if she could borrow my — “Oh, I see you don’t have a snow brush or ice scraper either. Good thing we both wore gloves today!”
While the defrosters blew warm air at the windows, I dug under the seats one more time and found….an old plastic air freshener shaped like an orange.
The plastic was soft enough not to scratch, but strong enough to hold up under my assault on the elements. I used it to scrape enough frozen precipitation off the windshield that I could run the wipers and get the rest. My colleague took it next, and we were ready to hit the streets.

In our school building we are nothing if not compassionate professionals. We pulled in together the next day. I waved my new snow brush at her, picked up my coffee (both purchased at a convenience store on the way to school) and stepped out of the car. She said good morning and handed me — my air freshener.
I think I’ll put this little item back under the seat in my minivan. You never know when it might come in handy. At the least, it’ll be good for a laugh. Someday.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>Easiest Cranberry Sauce Ever

>1-2-3 Cranberry Sauce

1 cup water
2 cups sugar
3 cups cranberries

Bring to a boil, then simmer 20 minutes or until all the berries have burst. Add cinnamon to taste. Serve warm.

Now, the backstory. I brought this recipe home from kindergarten on a sheet of construction paper. We made it at home since it was so easy. It became a standard at Thanksgiving dinner, the tradition lasting long after the original paper faded.
A generation later, my kids started helping me make it every year. If we have leftover cranberry sauce, I use it in jello or add it to muffins. This little piece of my “saucy” childhood continues, along with Thanksgiving memories that will never fade.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>Reasons NOT to schedule SSR first thing on a Monday Morning

>SSR. DEAR time. Drop Everything And Read. Silent Sustained Reading. Self-Selected Reading. As some kids say it (but not within earshot of the teacher) Sit down, Shut up, and Read.

Our normal computer lab time was cancelled due to the lab being used for state testing. I substituted time my students enjoy: extra silent reading. Normally they’d take a little time to find their books and magazines and then settle down to enjoy them. Today? Nope. But why? In typical teacher form, I analyzed the situation. Here’s the end data.

Kids who haven’t eaten well all weekend are too hungry to concentrate.

Children from (shall we say) “unstructured” homes have forgotten how to behave in school.
Sleepy kids aren’t awake enough to keep their heads up.
Kids who have been off their meds all weekend haven’t come down yet and won’t until their morning dose kicks in.

Good readers finished their books at home and have nothing to read.
NFL football fans who are still depressed after yesterday’s game might not want to read the Sports magazine for Kids they picked out last week.
The one who broke his glasses Saturday in Pop Warner football hasn’t had them replaced yet and can’t read a word.

Forgetful kids don’t have a clue where their books might be. Home? Locker? Desk? Did I have a book on Friday?
Maybe I’ll stick to SSR on Fridays. Oh, no, can’t do that — they’re already checking out mentally for the weekend, meds are wearing off, kids who don’t eat well on weekends are starting to worry….

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>NaBloPoMoPhoBia: writers block

>Let’s see:

Family.

Kid is a teenager, complete with angst-laden life. Homework, social life or lack of, the latest music on the market, celebrity crush…I can drag a post out of something on this list. If nothing else, there’s always the saga of his months on the stomach ache circuit.

Husband borrowed my minivan on Tuesday and I haven’t driven it since. Is there a post there? Probably. I just hope he refills the gas tank before he gives it back to me.

Daughter has returned to the land of the normal now that the election is over. That is, normal for a college senior with a huge workload and a part time job on campus and an apartment to clean and bunnies to feed and care for….I’m sure there’s a post there somewhere.

Work, a.k.a. school. No child left untested. Full moon. Indoor recess. Poor scheduling, leaving us to scramble, which ended up with math cancelled again.

Holidays!! We’re hosting Thanksgiving again, so there will be stories. Hopefully all will go well and there will be no mishaps to report. And if those Thanksgiving Fairies do their jobs, it will be lovely.

The inevitable Christmas shopping, wrapping, and giving could provide a few posts, too. In fact, I need a bigger crate in the attic now that I’ve started stashing holiday gifts. I have plans to use the Amazon packing material for wrapping paper if I can get it to look decent…but Martha doesn’t live here, so I’ll wait and see.

Not to mention the unpredictable Sunday afternoon entertainment we call the Green Bay Packers….

As Amigo often says, “Mom, you should blog about this.”

Writers’ block? No problem.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>Feeling a bit testy

>Ah, yes. The bubble tests. The ones that bring fear to students and frustration to teachers. The tests that sorta kinda measure kids’ abilities right now, but the results won’t be back until mid-March at the earliest. Scores that late will no longer have any input on how we teach, but will still determine which children get to pass to the next grade and who will not.

Any time we’re testing, we’re not teaching. During these intense two and a half weeks, we’ll only have an actual math class four times. One of those will be spent in the pursuit of the “Practice Test.” Meanwhile, my students will make no progress in math, through no fault of their own.

All five classes in three grades (4, 5, 6) will miss science and social studies for the full two weeks, perhaps longer if there are multiple make-up tests to be done.

Due to our unique configuration of combination classes (which is due to budget crises and poor legislation that leads to inequitable school funding), the schedule is a nightmare. Every time I make a seating chart for testing I get changes in test groupings that force new seating arrangements.

Then there are the punch-out tools, the ruler, the tangrams, and whatever else is determined necessary. Heaven forbid that a kid use his own ruler and risk being accused of test fraud.

I checked and doublechecked my stopwatch to be sure the timing will be accurate.

The cancelled classes are the toughest to swallow. If we’re to improve our kiddos’ knowledge of math and science and social studies, we need to teach them. Cutting out those classes to have them fill in bubble answers on a set of tests that will be outdated by the time the scores arrive makes no sense. After all, if a farmer wants a pig to grow for market, he feeds it. If he weighs it every hour, the pig will have no time to eat and will not be ready for market.

So now I’ll attack the incredibly scintillating task of punching out the math tools for 40 kids. I’ll hope the pencils got sharpened in the paraprofessionals’ office. If not, I’ll end up bringing those home to do myself, too.

And to make it worse: the weather is warm enough that I can’t wear my testing sweatshirt!

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>Bake it yourself; I’ll Can it and Wrap it

>”I’m going to Fleet Farm. I need canning jars.”
“Mom, you have a case of canning jars in the basement!”
“No, I used them up!”
“Can’t you wait?”
“No, they’ll be on sale now. And the real canners will buy them out if I don’t hurry.”

The truth comes out: My name is Daisy, and I don’t can.
I grow the vegetables.
I cook the vegetables.
I freeze the sauces and soups.
But I don’t can.

So why on Earth do I need canning jars?

For Gifts in a Jar, of course!!

I received a gift like this several years ago and I just loved the concept. I invested in two Jar books, one for cookies and one for bars, and I’ve given some of these every Christmas. It’s just the dry ingredients, layered nicely to look artistic, with the recipe attached. People always enjoy them. I enjoy picking out the recipes, making sure I have the right ingredients, and then putting the jars together. Wrapping is simple, too. I use a fair amount of (reusable) tissue to cushion the jar, then put it in a (reusable or reused) gift bag. It takes time, and time is precious. But time is also a gift, and this is one way I can show my coworkers I appreciate all they time they spend on the students we share.

So back to the beginning. Did I make it to Fleet Farm in time to get a case of quart-sized canning jars? Yes and no. I got the jars, but they were all out of wide-mouth. I had to buy the standard size. Wide-mouth is easier for packing in flour and sugar and chocolate chips and raisins. Next year I’ll get there earlier to beat the rush.

This post was not sponsored by Gifts in a Jar, but here’s the link if you’d like the books. I see they’ve expanded beyond the cookies and bars that I usually give. The blog blast is, however, based on a topic suggested by Klutz, publishers of activity and craft books, and the omnipresent Parent Bloggers Network.

I think I’ll browse the other blog blasts and sigh in envy at those bloggers with actual crafty talents.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>And so it goes.

>Once upon a time, a teenage boy got sick. Influenza followed by infection followed by different infection all led to chronic stomach pain that just wouldn’t end. Gastro-intestinal distress continued with no obvious source and no end in sight.

Weight loss. Teen boys are supposed to grow. This one shrunk. He got a little taller, but lost forty pounds over the course of six months.

Medicines changed. Subtracted antibiotics that might irritate, added probiotics that might soothe. Added expensive antacid that insurance willingly covered — after the doctor called them and told them how much more costly the alternative would be.

Diet changed. No milk. No dairy at all. Low fat, bland, and very careful monitoring of anything that increased pain and other symptoms.

No pizza. No ice cream. An entire summer without Dairy Queen. The start of football season without calling for pizza. Carefully perusing the hot lunch menu each day to make educated decisions about what might be ‘safe’ for the hungry boy’s tender tummy.

He didn’t touch his Easter basket for fear the chocolate would worsen the stomach ache. He who used to down four frozen waffles in a sitting had trouble finishing one. He cut out his favorite refreshing beverages, afraid that carbonation and/or caffeine would activate the pain all over again.

The kid who loved school, zipped through the hallways with energy and excitement, had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. He needed more and more sleep but had less and less energy.

Tests galore. He had blood drawn, peed in a cup, pooped in a box. All looked normal. Eventually he submitted to general anesthesia, took a scope down his throat and into his colon, and waited for results.

Waited. Waited. Waited. And waited, and waited, and waited.

After the promised seven to ten days and a long week of phone tag that did no good for said teen’s father’s blood pressure, specialist finally called.

IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Essentially, it’s what they call it when all else is ruled out.

So on we go. No celiac disease, no milk allergy. It’s time to readjust the meds, gradually weaning him from the strongest and then the weakest of the cocktails until he’s on his own, in a manner of speaking.

We could celebrate. It’s not celiac disease, not a milk allergy, not diabetes. Stress adds to the pain, although it doesn’t cause it. The worst possibilities have been ruled out.

But somehow, this doesn’t seem like cause for celebration. It’s more of an ongoing puzzle: what will hurt? What won’t? How far can he go before it all starts again?

There are no answers. From now on, he’ll question what he eats and how much he eats. Maybe eventually he’ll stop worrying about food, and that will lessen the stress, which will lessen the additional pain.

And so it goes.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares

>Crock Pot Potato Soup with or without Ham

>Today’s recipe is simple because my life has been chaotic recently. When I have meetings after school and little time to cook, my crock pot is my friend. This was an experiment, since I’ve never been able to make a potato soup that satisfied me. Can I replicate it the next time I want to? As with most of my kitchen experiments, only time will tell.

4-6 medium russet potatoes, washed and sliced thin (peeling optional)
3-4 cups water or chicken stock
(From my garden, a few leaves of spinach, this summer’s add-in)
a sprig of fresh thyme
green onion, chives
lemon pepper to taste
1-2 cups diced ham
potato buds (for thickening)

Place potatoes and spinach and thyme in chicken stock or water.
Let cook on low for 6-8 hours.
Mash potatoes, but leave enough small chunks to be satisfying.
(Alternative: Use an immersion blender.)
Add 1/2 cup potato buds.
Add ham.
Turn crock pot to high for one half to one hour.

Serve with grated cheese and a delicious homemade bread on the side.

Share and Enjoy !

Shares