Tagged: children
Attention School Teachers and Administrators: The Emails Have To Stop
For fun, this week I copied the text from all school emails over to a MSWord doc in order to learn a word count. (I have two kids in this school. H- is elsewhere and I did not add that school’s emails. I didn’t want to come across as extreme. Time will tell.)
The total—not including a PDF attachment late entry of today—was 1410 words.
For reference, Cat in the Hat is 1600ish and One Fish Two Fish… is 1300ish.
Depending on your speed of reading aloud, those books take somewhere over 10 minutes, but shy of 15 for sure. In your head, maybe 5 minutes.
What were the emails about?
- The need to comply with unnecessarily dynamic drop-off and pick-up procedures.
- Visit to nurse for complaint of splinter.
- Homework completion is required.
- A case of head lice was discovered.
29 words. 5.2 seconds. And I wasn’t trying. Trying would be:
- Don’t be a knucklehead in the car line.
- N/A
- N/A
- Check your kid for head lice.
14 words. 1.7 seconds.
Please keep in mind none of our parents ever communicated with the school while we were in school. Parents, in the 80s-90s (and I’m sure many ignore everything today), could literally never talk to anyone at school, not just for one week, but for the entire year. And the school didn’t care. And the parents didn’t care.
The emails have to stop.
I am happy to report that in recent reading about Vietnam, I came across the best concluding anecdote I could ever imagine.
From a 1971 NYT article regarding border crossing operations in Laos:
“The sign ‘Warning! No U.S. Personnel Beyond This Point’…On the back, facing Laos, is a faintly scrawled message to the North Vietnamese Army: ‘Warning! No N.V.A. Beyond This Point.’”
In short, there are limitations to what the written word can accomplish. One would like to think the educators would understand this best of all.
My 4-Yr Old Recognized Beauty
She FT’d me as they were walking into the garage to leave for mega-church. The door opened, and the way she holds the camera it was difficult to not notice the barely cloud-speckled blue sky. Then I saw she did too. And without prompting she said, “It’s a beautiful day,” and faded almost into a hum, “in the neighborhood,” which is of course from Daniel the Tiger or whatever the name of the Mr. Roger’s-based show is called. (Not that she has seen it in several months since I tossed the TV, but I feel like being clear that she isn’t an abstract idea floating around in the aether, but a little girl.)
Anyhow, it’s true.
And that’s the point I want to make to all you anxiety-driven, suicide-prone, depression-claimants. Take a look at the lilies of the field. If my four year old can see them, then surely they are there.
Science Teachers: Teach the Truth
I was at an FBO (airport gas station—incidentally, this means very, very wealthy people are frequently around. I assure you, they do not inspire). Anyhow, I was there awaiting some maintenance on the helicopter for an afternoon the other day and I couldn’t help but notice that on the TV was a silly show where a “Science is fun!” guest teacher was visiting an inner city school to pep up the otherwise dry material.
It caught my attention, as you might expect, faithful reader, because the topic of my guided reading through the Great Books of the Western World is “Foundations of Math and Science”. So when I hear, “Newton”, “Force”, “Inertia”, and certain other keywords, I am always interested to take a closer look.
The particular concept the energetic guest was bringing to the kids was inertia. His whole game was to demonstrate inertia by yanking the tablecloth from under some dishes as they remain in place.
He says, “Inertia: the tendency of an object to stay at rest until a force acts upon it.”
The definition isn’t troubling. The troubling thing is…can you name it with me? On three. One, two, three: Everything in the universe is demonstrating it!
Whether this zany, cooler-than-your-teacher (and actually, kinda disrespectful) man shows up to a school and says the words “learn” “newton” “inertia”, or not, inertia is demonstrated by not only every object in a student’s immediate observation, the student’s body itself, but also by every object in the entirety of the universe!
But the man adds, “Isaac Newton would be so proud that you’re learning!!”
And there is the whopper. Isaac Newton would be proud if kids were learning (they’re not), but he would not be proud that a man claiming to be an expert is teaching kids that he is demonstrating inertia.
With me?
Inertia isn’t “demonstrated”. Inertia is.
“Pete, you’re being way too sensitive here.”
Am I?
****
Why does learning have to be fun?
From what I have read, the math and science greats do not seem to have had much fun while attempting to communicate their ideas. Moreover, many of their lives were fairly difficult—as they were battling commonly held conceptions held by nearly each and every fellow man.
Instead of “fun”, I say let’s teach the truth to kids.
Straight from the man.
Definition III from Isaac Newton’s Mathematical Principle of Natural Philosophy.
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The vis insita, or innate force of matter, is a power of resisting, by which every body, as much as in it lies, continues in its present state, whether it be of rest, or of moving uniformly forwards in a right line.
This force is always proportional to the body whose force it is and differs nothing from the inactivity of the mass, but in our manner of conceiving it. A body, from the inert nature of matter, is not without difficulty put out of its state of rest or motion. Upon which account, this vis insita may, by a most significant name, be called inertia (vis inertio) or force of inactivity. But a body only exerts this force when another force, impressed upon it, endeavors to change its condition; and the exercise of this force may be considered as both resistance and impulse; it is resistance so far as the body, for maintaining its present state, opposes the force impressed; it is impulse so far as the body, by not easily giving way to the impressed force of another, endeavors to change the state of that other. Resistance is usually ascribed to bodies at rest, and impulse to those in motion; but motion and rest, as commonly conceived, are only relatively distinguished; nor are those bodies always truly at rest, which commonly are taken to be so.
(My underline.)
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If that doesn’t do it for ya, if you still don’t understand what Newton means by the word inertia, then the only sentiment I may offer as a last ditch effort is this.
Imagine a man moving while inside a moving vehicle. Got it? (It doesn’t have to be a car with a man reaching back to grab a snack from the back seat, or a pirate ship approaching a storm while the captain paces to and fro by the helm, or an airplane with a man squeezing down the aisle after a bathroom break. It can be any vehicle, any person, but the vehicle and the person inside must be moving.)
That is the Newtonian picture of the universe as described at the end of that definition. Because, Newton says, the vehicle we’re in (which you didn’t know we’re in—and he doesn’t mean merely planet Earth) is moving; there is no “rest” in the plain sense.
Inertia, then, is the conception (defensible by math and experimentation) that all bodies resist. It’s an action. Or a force. To resist, there must be something to resist. (Period.)
And I’m out.
Moms and Dads of School Children: Buy Their Lunch
It’s immoral to accept free lunch.
Reader: no one, not one person who genuinely needs charity will ever read this blog post. So calm down.
And then call the school and inform them they are not to serve your child(ren) lunch unless your child(ren) pay (or what is equivalent, you have set up the lunch account and it has money in it).
I am calling the school now. I will report back with how the conversation went.
At Bedtime, You Gotta Be Smarter Than The Toddler!
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.
The trick is having them lay in bed as soon as possible in the bedtime routine. That’s the trick.
I had been reading to them (the best possible thing imaginable). But we had been sitting on the floor together. Or almost together. Usually Bee-bop and Rock-steady would find their way around every corner of the room as if led by a bewitched divining rod while I read and beckoned them back to the fold. But the reading was happening and they even were memorizing the words in turns. So I was fine with it.
But then we would excitedly pray (Aaronic blessing from frame on the wall—“Favor, A-, not favorite”) and sing and then I would put them to bed. Finally, I have a little thing I say to them every night.
But if I left at this point, someone would get out of bed and the light would be on and playing would ensue.
Any parent knows this is enough to drive you crazy. Just GET IN BED!!
No more. Tonight I had a moment of clarity and put them in bed before the book. They both tried to sit up to see the pictures until…they got tired of maintaining that position. Then they laid until the page turn and then sat up and then laid down again after examining the picture.
Finally it was pray, say the thing, and then I sung any remaining pressing ideas to sleep.
Boom!
Lights out.
What an amazing dad I am. And not a moment too soon.
For Men Only: A Disturbing, But True, Analysis of White and Black Women’s Options for Kidnapping Children from Fathers
In college I was fascinated by the cafeteria scene with its Black lunch tables. There we were, 40+ years after the civil rights movement, and segregation still existed. Freely chosen, to boot.
Years later, I began attending Black Baptist churches (still do) because the music and reliance on the Bible (both of these centered exclusively on the Gospel) is second to none.
I share these details to highlight that the following was not something I was looking to learn. But learn it I have.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, knows that black women have neatly exchanged black men for Uncle Sam. Even-steven. The women have probably even come out ahead, by most measures, in the exchange. And Uncle Sam couldn’t be more flattered. The numbers, I won’t bore you with them here, are staggering. In a word, black children would likely report that they didn’t even know that their mom has touched the man that is their father, let alone wrapped her legs around him in the throes of passion.
What is wrong with these women? Why are they so “easy” in the “willing to sleep with anyone” sense? Is it that lonely at night? I just don’t see it.
And why would they want to raise children by themselves? Why? I have tried and tried, but I do not understand it.
I want to ask, shouting, “Ever hear of birth control?”
None of it makes any sense.
But that’s black women.
White women have a different tactic to get to the same result of kidnapping children from fathers.
They wait. They linger among the crowd for years, usually four more than any black woman, never doing anything too remarkable. They just sit back and watch.
Meanwhile, some of the white men are laboriously studying and working diligently towards their goal of becoming successful men. Respected men.
Eventually, the men begin their profession, one of the most respected available (still carrying a certain mystique), that of the aircraft pilot.
Mind you, the white men and women know that pilots travel for their job. The expression is “banker’s hours”, not “pilot’s hours.”
Only now do the white women (btw, by black women I mean skin color, but by white women I mean culturally white) see their chance and begin to woo whichever pilot they fancy. Some woo all the pilots and it is a poor soul indeed who ends up with her.
In the end, the white women use birth control (or perhaps they wait to consummate the marriage), but whatever the case, the pair, for their own unique, if coincident, reasons, formally bind themselves according the Law of the land before they mix the baby batter.
Shortly thereafter, sometimes only two years, other times ten or twelve years, these white women complain that their husband—the father—is gone all the time. And they feign misery and divorce follows.
Meaningfully no different than how Uncle Sam welcomes his many black step-children, Uncle Sam happily opens his arms to Billy and Susie, under the premise, “Sir, you’re gone all the time. How can you possibly have time to raise them?”
Kidnap complete and sanctioned.
Law or no law, both white and black dads are now outta the picture. Generally the black dads are viewed as shiftless and drug addicted men who would probably beat their women if the relationship continued, while the white dads are viewed with more attention to the specific caricatures available to each relationship. Regardless, the point here is not the dads—but the women, the moms.
What is wrong with these women? Why don’t they want fathers for their children? How can today’s boys and young men possibly hope to raise their own children when considering these facts?
It’s as if the Universe has said, “Congratulations, boys. You live in opulence and unlimited wealth compared to your ancestors. But there’s a catch! You don’t get to be fathers.”
Obviously, gentlemen of all colors and backgrounds, don’t make a baby before being married to the woman. That goes without saying. (Even as it ultimately doesn’t matter.)
But are we saying no pilots can be fathers? Are we saying no children should be raised by pilots? (Obviously “pilot” is merely a very concrete example to be used as an analogy to the many other hard-to-acquire jobs which make white men strive to obtain and which are appealing to white women.)
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To any women or future women (God Bless You) that have made it this far, you now know your options. You can either have babies via one night stands (starting at pretty much any post-pubescent age) and then raise them by yourself, or you can wait a bit, get married, have babies, and then divorce the stud and raise them by yourself. I’m not sure which option is right for you. (And there are likely others.)
Just rest assured, ladies, whether you are A. lonely and start early, or B. scheming and wait, you can achieve your goal of raising kids without their father.
Flattery for Women. Like in This Post I Am Complimenting a Woman. Seriously.
Women don’t get “a pass” in my book. People who know me truly, know this about me truly.
The “compliment” that I read in a book and inspired this post is great (still included at the end), but in truth, “Women don’t get ‘a pass’ in my book,” (my hook for the post) is actually about the best compliment I could ever pay y’all.
You’re not weak; you’re not “special” in some “need extra allowances” sort of way. Dishes are dirty after you do them, same as men. You can figure out how to pull into a garage correctly, same as men. Wooden utensils still get ruined when left to soak absentmindedly in the sink for long periods of time. Some ice cream scoops are not dishwasher safe, for me and for you too. Kids don’t learn obedience only from fathers. Neither do they learn strength and steely character only from fathers. You do not get a pass, women. Hear me?
The following comes from Jack London’s short story, “The Wisdom of the Trail.” Sitka Charley is an injun, back when there were those. As for nearly all London tales, the setting is the great white Northlands. The only two words I would add is, “…land…sea…and air!”
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“Sitka Charley did not know this kind of woman. Five minutes before, he did not even dream of taking charge of the expedi-tion; but when she came to him with her wonderful smile and her straight clean English, and talked to the point, without pleading or persuading, he had incontinently yielded. Had there been a softness and appeal to mercy in the eyes, a tremble to the voice, a taking advantage of sex, he would have stiffened to steel; instead her clear-searching eyes and clear-ringing voice, her utter frankness and tacit assumption of equality, had robbed him of his reason. He felt, then, that this was a new breed of woman; and ere they had been trail mates for many days he knew why the sons of such women mastered the land and the sea, and why the sons of his own womankind could not prevail against them. Tender and soft! Day after day he watched her, muscle-weary, exhausted, indomitable, and the words beat in upon him in a perennial refrain. Tender and soft! He knew her feet had been born to easy paths and sunny lands, strangers to the moccasined pain of the North, unkissed by the chill lips of the frost, and he watched and marveled at them twinkling ever through the weary day.”
I Can Now Describe Gravity. Could You?
Gravity is one example of a certain force, being the centripetal force. This force can be analogized to the force that is keeping a rock in the whirling sling of a warrior or hunter—it is a force, not merely the leather or fabric that connects the rock and hand.
Gravity, then, is the name of this centripetal force when describing why we walk on the Earth instead of drift away, and gravity is how the moon maintains its orbit. And gravity is how the Earth (and moon) maintains its orbit around the sun.
Or at least that is how Newton conceived it.
Thank you, Great Ideas Program and Great Books of the Western World. Thank you very much.
Why I Can’t Adopt MLK’s “Content of Character” Line
“Is that okay to say these days?”
“Probably not. To be sure, ‘No.’ But they’re my kids, and I like mulatto best. Haha.”
****
Mulatto has a certain clarity of meaning beyond just the fact that they are the product of me and their mom. Don’t you agree? Yes, it means white and black parents. But it also conveys, in 2024, “You’re kinda barking up the wrong tree already, stupid.”
Sure, I admit this is a bit harsh. And as such, I have not been using it exclusively. But my wife and I’s two kids garner enough attention, or I should say, my wife and I’s two kids’ hair garners enough attention that I needed something “full Pete” to say in response to all comers. In other words, I needed a line. But mulatto wasn’t cuttin’ it.
Naturally, MLK’s “not by the color of their skin” line is accurate, but as everyone has seen, it is also terribly ineffective. At the least, it is tired.
In having and using a “line”, I also am arming the two kids with their own “line”. Cuz, despite my general optimism in life and even my new line’s particular contribution to that hope, the problem ain’t going away. So I have been wanting to come up with something worthy of my progeny, for my progeny. And I have.
Again, they’re mulattos. Through and through. That is a fact. But while that word is funny to me and folks who know me well, it is unintelligible to Ethiopians and taboo to Yankees.
Here’s my solution. It starts with the fact that “mixed” is kinda en vogue. So, picture with me, say, a Home Depot parking lot. On a Sunday. Got it? Heavy foot and vehicle traffic. Sunny blue sky. Wind that negates low-talk.
I have J- in the cart, An- is at the car, and Ag- is about to help An- into her door when a dude, older, and a mix between homeless and Colorado Native, says to his partner—wife or fellow bum—and loud enough for all to hear, “Oh those are two beautiful babies.”
I smiled and thanked him politely.
Then he randomly re-appeared and continued as if never having left the area—but he and his companion had left—“I have some mixed grand-babies and they are just the most beautiful kids. You are lucky to have them grand-babies.”
I informed him, good-heartedly, that they were my own children, to his shock, and then he doted some more before leaving.
Mixed? Hmm. Mixed.
Eureka!
Next time, here’s my response.
“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”
****
That is my new Full Pete “line” and I believe it accomplishes everything I want it too and probably a teensy bit more at no additional charge. It has bite, but is not record-stopping like mulatto. It is at least as memorable as “content of character”, if not more so. And most importantly, it can carry the fire of truth forward into future generations.
Mixed?
We have to stop the nonsense, folks! Who’s with me?
“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”
Passing Tests: A Primer On Purpose
Certain unpleasant circumstances (whose ultimate superficiality are yet to be determined) have led to me taking back full control of my step-son’s education. Long story short, I had it once, lost it in hopes of marital bliss, and have now taken it back. The long game is back in view—marriage be damned.
He’s newly 14. And he does not think. “But I repeat myself,” by Twain applies here.
Pilots take many, many tests. Merely to become a pilot requires passing many tests. It stands to reason, then, that as a group, we pilots know a thing or two about passing tests. Relatedly, we know a thing or two about the skill of memorizing information. One example, before returning to the step-son bit, of these test-taking skills conveniently aligned to memory skills is when taking a multiple choice test, there is a general rule, “too long to be wrong.” Get it? If three of the four answers are tremendously shorter than the other, it is more than likely (but don’t blindly skip reading the long one—always read in full the answer you select) that the test creator did not suddenly choose to waste their time by typing out an unnecessarily long wrong answer. Take away from this tip that we pilots (among other test taking masters) put to use other factors than content when viewing a test. Think of it like the self-defense advice to not forget about all available ways to use your surroundings during attacks etc.
One task that I have my step-son accomplishing each day, then, is reading from the classics (currently on The Apology of Socrates) one paragraph at a time and writing as brief as possible an abstract of the paragraph. This is not easy—and that’s the point.
We skipped chatting about Tuesday’s and so yesterday we had to cover two paragraph’s worth. Both attempts were unsatisfactory (he seemed to have skipped reading in favor of using some commentary I had previously provided to accomplish the summaries—which I take as evidence that his culture’s ignorant and unfortunate reliance on oral tradition still outweighs his reading level). This was disappointing, but that’s okay—the process is half the point.
But then there was one of those moments which make ya lose all hope. As I tried to grease the wheels a bit for the next day (I had read ahead), I said something like, “So as you do tomorrow’s paragraph, keep in mind that yesterday’s had Socrates dealing with politicians, then today’s had him dealing with poets-” I was suddenly interrupted by a boastful, “-Yeah, tomorrow’s is a short paragraph.”
Hmm.
At least he knows what a paragraph is?
As evidenced in “too long to be wrong” and throwing office chairs at gunmen, he’s not wrong in hoping to draw a connection between paragraph length and difficulty of meaning. But he clearly stopped listening at “tomorrow’s paragraph”.
In the end, this whole experience of family and children seems to be an experiment on “purpose”. My revised hypothesis today is, “If there is no purpose, then there can be no test.” This updates what I now see as the laudable—but I’m suspecting will prove to be merely laughable—claim to “teach kids to think”.
Where does purpose originate? Easy: the living god. But who knows his ways?
Onward!