Mmmm... coffeeee...

No, I'm not complaining about having to get up every morning and go to work; I'm just saying there is an adjustment period, a transition from pajama-clad "Mr. Mom" to shaving daily and wearing a tie. I'll get through it, but there are a few aspects of the unemployed lifestyle I had grown accustomed to, and at certain moments during the school day I suddenly realize how much life has changed. For example...

• regularly scheduled program -- if the clock catches my eye at a certain time, I'll blurt out "whoa! The View is almost over, I'd better get that laundry done before Judge Judy starts!"
• blurting out -- it's not that I talked to myself a lot, that would be a sign of mental instability, but if I wanted to make fun of or chastise the cat, or sing, or merely voice random thoughts out loud just to keep my vocal cords in shape for when the boys came home, I could. In the classroom, speaking out loud those random thoughts apropos of nothing is frowned upon. Something about modeling, setting a good example... whatever.
• music -- had to push the Mute button on the soundtrack to my life; laundry day had its playlist, paying bills its playlist, eating all the leftovers from The Pancake House so the boys didn't know we went out to breakfast without them had its soundtrack...
• coffee -- and eating/drinking/snacking/stealing from the boys' Valentine candy stash any time I had the urge; apparently, having a cup of joe and a box of 'Nila Wafers on the teacher's desk that could be knocked over through absolutely no fault of my own is not how to make a good impression on a Principal stopping by...
• and the number 1 thing I miss from my life as a stay-at-home Dad: my bathroom. Do you know how hard it is to not only wait for the only free minute between recess and library when no students are clinging and no teachers are talking but to find a restroom without 12-15 women clustered around in the very near vicinity???

dry rice chex?

Oh lordy, I hope not --

My professors seem to be leaving a lot out...

Jerry Seinfeld used to teach High School History?

Maybe I'll switch to being a History teacher -- looks easy!

But is it Art?

No, I don't think so...

Just wanted to share my final art project, a little self-portrait I titled

"Imagination Amok: Things in the Past that probably didn't really happen versus Things in my Future that probably will never occur"

(copyright 2008 3BoysProductions, all right reserved, except of course for the images, ideas, and other creative parts that were obviously stolen borrowed from their original sources. Much thanks to ya.)


*other boy questions I've heard ad nauseam this past week include: what's a prostate? who's that girl? can I have a credit card? where's Mommy? promise me you'll never smoke again for the rest of your life.... what's a prostate again?

The Freedom Writers

Freedom Writers Diary

... loved the movie, added the teacher Erin Gruwell to my Hero/Aspire To Be Like list, and the book makes the transformation and accomplishments of the kids even more remarkable...

so remarkable the cynic in me (always present, just at times more "vocal") started questioning the veracity of the stories... towards the end, every page seemed to have a too good to be true factor: this kid's going to Harvard, this one Columbia, this one football scholarship UCLA, this one drafted to play baseball... I don't know, I'll have to find out how much *creative* writing was involved...

TeacherGrump

"Never smile until December."

This has been a common, and quite frankly unsettling, phrase I have heard when I discuss my plans to become a teacher. It doesn't come from the non-educators; those that do not teach often stare at me with utter horror, and say things like "Why on God's green earth would you want to be a teacher?!?!?!?" and "How can you stand to be around all those kids?" ...while also commenting on the abject poverty my family will surely be forced to live in on my paltry salary.

But I've had several teachers, new-ish ones and seasoned veterans, tell me the Don't smile rule as if it's a holy mantra, the only way of surviving the 9th level of hell that is a classroom. Gee, enjoy your job? Maybe I'm naive, but, just like any other job, doesn't the worst day go by quicker and smoother if you smile once in a while and try to have a little fun? Even if it's only to find a speck of sanity-saving humor in an absurdly disastrous and depressing day, ya gotta try to crack at least one little smile. I know, they're just emphasising the importance of discipline, of setting the rules and establishing who's in charge. But I hope that isn't the reality of a classroom, because I think no matter how nervous and unsure I am my first day, or first month, or first several years, you won't be able to stop me from smiling.

CSET test

How to pass* the CSET: Multiple Subjects exam :

onion garlic cashews
dry roasted peanuts
chex mix, cheesey or bold, or both
dried fruit chunks
mini pretzels
chipotle cashews (not too many, they're spicy)
raisins
dried cherries
skittles
more chex mix
frozen chocolate chips
granola bits and goldfish from the kids' lunch snacks
a few of those salted dry peas, for color



take a handful of each, put in an old pickle jar and shake vigorously, but not so much the pretzels crumble and all the good stuff gets knocked off the nuts. take all that dried fruit crap and put in more chocolate chips, and some m&m's if ya got 'em. shake some more, but gently so the chocolate stays on top. wash down with copious amounts of red bull or guava rockstar ("70% juice!")


Cliffs TestPrep (500+ pages)
DK Timelines of World History (650+ pgs)
NY Times Guide to essential Knowledge (1072, I kid you not!)
Barron's American History the easy way (just shy of 500)
Everything your 4th grader needs to know (375+)
... the 6th grader book too (384)
American History desk reference (450+)
People magazine's 100 Most Beautiful (I needed a break!)
XAM (slogan "Xam to cram") cset prep guide
all those language and grammar books and notes from the classes
just finished, yet hardly remembered....

read a page or two here and there, attempt to convince yourself you really will remember when Ptolemy IV invaded Mesopotamia, if Patrick Henry knew how to diagram sentences, and whether the /ai/ and /ea/ phonemes rhyme in free verse.



good luck.




prayer helps.







*seeing as how I have not passed it yet myself, or even taken one section of it, any claims to this method resulting in the successful passing of exam are purely speculative. I'll let you know in apprx 2 weeks, 2 days, and 17 hours from now, if I'm not certifiably insane by then.

work in progress

If the pen is mightier than the sword, and spoken language is more powerful than the written word, it follows that the greatest responsibility of those who respect and care for language is to talk a lot. It can be beneficial to research and report on words, to study where words originated, what words have meant and mean today, and how they are used in various forms of communication. However, books filled with words about words will not replace the impact of language when spoken and heard. Just as poetry or song lyrics must be said aloud to reveal their depth and fullness, in order to truly know the voice, sound and feeling of language it must be shared vocally. In order for a language to be kept alive it must be spoken, not merely captured and preserved on pages. Language gains strength and increased vitality from continuous use, it expands and obtains variety the more it is used. For language to be kept healthy it must be cultivated, nurtured to improve by the search for new words, or better words. Words have the potential to harm, even to destroy, when used ignorantly or maliciously.

Blast from the Past

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to study throughout the night again

How could I have forgotten how much sheer joy final exams are? And whose bright idea was it to schedule them all for the same day? Do you know just how expensive Red Bull is?!?!?

"hence the title"

"Inspired" because I felt I could/should/want to be a teacher. Like wise Shrek and his onion, the reasons are many and do include, in all honesty, not working during the summer months and on Christmas Eve.

The "outta my %#$@*&!# mind" is a room full of loud, goofy, wiggling 4th graders all doing 10 different loud goofy things to not look at or listen to the tall nervous Dad standing at the front of the classroom. While my classmates, experienced aides and tutors etc., talk each week of the students they are involved with or the discussions they had with teachers, I try to work in a "once, on a field trip..." but usually, meekly, just bite my lip in anxiety and dread.

But today, drumroll please, I taught my first class. In a classroom. Full of kids. The loud goofy wiggling ones I think I mentioned. Ok, it was only for 20 minutes. And it was only art* -- angled lines and circles slightly resembling a plastic bottle, quickly deteriorating into abstract doodles or fish. But it was my first kinda teacher-like thing. I lived. It was cool.

Then the teacher had me haul some books and unpack boxes.

Gotta start somewhere.




*"only art" is a term of endearment, my future sister-in-law.

You livia in Bolivia?

I have to do a report on Bolivia -- all I know of the country is "Bolivian marching powder" from Bright Lights, Big City, and it's where Butch and Sundance tried to retire in peace... and from what I've read so far, they have a revolt or a coup, sometimes both, every 6 months.

And now I've learned to never trust the Spanish translations on Wikipedia (or prob. any other site as well) -- glad I noticed the slightly out of context mention of a certain nightmare-inducing children's television character before I stood up in class for the oral presentation:

...al aquivocarse mando al libertador a caballo hasta asia, el cual aprovecho y libero tal pais de los teletubbies. cuando volvio, aplico las mismas estrategias para liberar...

Now I may be wrong, por que yo no se most of the other words either, but I think someone's messin' with my head, and my grade.

Post-it note salad. Extra croutons.

My muse must be a stock car driver on her days off. Flashes of brilliant ideas come to me while I am driving on the freeway, changing lanes and radio stations, telling the kids to stop throwing things, and groping for the pen and notepaper I keep for when the sparks of creativity find me. My most creative writing is dangerous and illegible writing, words and phrases written at 70 mph, jotted down quickly on sticky yellow squares of paper, the pad balanced on the dashboard, coffee cup lid, or my right knee. I need to write immediately when the inspiration hits, or it will be forgotten forever, but in the fervor of the moment I usually neglect to write neatly or to bother with spelling. Many a brilliant idea, the novel to rival Hemmingway or the analytical thesis worthy of a doctorate, is beyond comprehension when I return safely home, sit down at my desk, and attempt to read the scribbled words.

This is where the outlines and rough drafts have their start, the words and phrases written on grocery lists, envelopes, and PTA bulletins. When an idea comes to me, I do not want it to escape into the clutter and chaos that abounds in a life with three boys, I need to try to capture it, hold it until I can get home and unwrap it in the quiet of the house after bedtime. Only then can I empty my pockets and re-read the frantic penmanship and attempt to decipher the fragmented clues I have left myself. Tossed like a salad of post-it® notes, receipts and scrap papers, some of my notes make no sense at all, but other times I find the phrase I need to start a new paper or to summarize an assignment. In constantly channeling these ideas from my mind to the paper the writing process is kept fresh and immediate, so the writings I am working on are not allowed to lie stagnant in the back of my mind, waiting for a calm moment when I can sit at the desk and begin an outline.

I enjoy writing. I enjoy writing fiction, love letters, e-mails to friends, journals, comments and critiques no one asked for on their blog, and I even enjoy writing reports and essays for school. I most often write when the house is quiet, while everyone is away at school or work, or I write at night, after the boys are snoring and the wife is comfortable on the couch. Sometimes there is music playing, but only as a spark for creative writing, to set or jump-start a mood. Marvin Gaye, Barry White, the sultry Alicia Keys not only work when trying to set the move and get the groove, but also help the ink flow smooth when writing a note for her pillow. Goofing around in the blogosphere? Mash some Van Morrison, Dylan, Frank Black, Beck, James McMurtry, the inspiration of a genius lyric to spark the creativity. For NaNoWriMo it had to be RHC Peppers and Foo Fighters, quick and thumping, driving out as many words as possible, even if they didn't always make sense

For academic writing I need total silence to facilitate focus. I am easily distracted, and for all the benefits of Microsoft Word there are the temptations of too many buttons available on the computer. I will look for any excuse to go on the web and look something up, justifying my site surfing as research for the essay, when in reality it may take hours before I steer myself away from that damn "Next Blog" button and back to the assignment. I am also distracted and diverted from completing my writing assignments by my inability to end a sentence, either by refusing to use a punctuation mark other than a comma, or by revising and reworking, then rereading and rewriting again, each sentence. People have told me I can write well, and for the most part I enjoy what I have written, but there is always a nagging sense of inadequacy, a suspicion of whether I have put forth my best effort. Often my writing is too spontaneous, and while I can go back and read a finished assignment or an effort of creative writing and appreciate some sentences or phrases that began as brainstorming on the road to pick up the kids and have been developed into good solid examples of my writing ability, I can also see the lines or paragraphs where I did not pay much attention and towards the end simply lost interest, leading to poor abrupt en

explore your influences

just an assignment I had to turn in, thought I'd share...

To find the genesis of my life long passion for reading and writing there is no need to look farther than my mother’s refrigerator where the alphabet, in magnetic letters of various colors and sizes, has always been stuck to the door. Over the past 40 years the height on the door of the jumbled letters has depended on the size of the child or grandchild most recently in the kitchen, where my mom has been working on spelling or reading or simply playing. While she did the dishes or made supper, we spelled our names or created words and pictures, all the while making the sounds of the alphabet or singing the ABC song. The alphabet was not just a means to occupy our attention, words and language was part learning and part fun, it was something we could do together with our mother, it was time and an experience shared.

Further evidence of Mom’s influence and impact on my enjoyment of the language arts is on my sons’ overstuffed bookshelves, where three generations of treasured children’s stories are stacked and stuffed, well used and much beloved. There are inscriptions written inside many of the covers, in books that had been given as gifts over the years on holidays and special occasions, from “to Candy, 1945” to “for Joel, Christmas 1968” to “happy birthday Jace, 2005.” My mother always read stories to us, and most of the first books were ones her mother had saved from when Mom was a little girl. She read us those and we continued to add new works to the collection, many sent from my Grandmother. Recently I opened a box from my parent’s garage that had been sealed and stored for at least 25 years, and sorted through the books making piles for my siblings and our children, and I was impressed at how many very memorable books had been chosen for us by my grandparents. I should not have been surprised, since someone had to instill in my mother a love for reading so she could pass it on to her children, but I had not realized where this family tradition, the hereditary love for books had begun. I recently thanked my Grandmother for her good taste in gifts, and for the love of reading and appreciation for quality books she helped instill in me. I don’t remember ever discussing books with her, talking about what I liked to read, but having those books must have been a major influence. And not one of those books I received as a child and have now read to my children had been based on a movie or television cartoon, or had any type of fast-food kid's meal tie-in.

Reading and writing in school has also been a major influence, there are several experiences with positive encouragement regarding my language development that helped me to enjoy language assignments. In 2nd grade my teacher held up my creative writing project for the entire class to see, saying she was proud of my good work. I don’t know how good the story could have been, since the paper was the type with the top half blank for illustrating the action of the story, and the bottom half for writing consisted of three lines over an inch wide for our gigantic grade school printing skills, which does not leave much room for plot or character development. In the 8th grade our English class had a writing assignment due every week, fiction or non-fiction was our choice, but no matter how good the story was, grammatical errors resulted in a failing grade. I received several large red F’s on the front page, but also earned comments like “are you going to be a writer some day?” This encouraged me to read and write as much as I could, I wanted to read and get ideas for my own stories, and I wanted to write the stories so well I would continue to impress my teacher.

I have continued to read as an adult, sharing and discussing new finds and favorites with my family as we pass along recommended reading to each other and spend a lot of gift money at the bookstores. Most of my writing over the past twenty years has consisted of Christmas cards, love letters, and performance evaluations at work, until I returned to school a few years ago and was re-introduced to essays and written exams. My brother has also been a great influence in my return to creative writing, as he began an online "blog" ( http://twobuyfour.blogspot.com/ ) to keep his friends and family, now spread out across the states, updated on the adventures of his family’s life and also to share some of his creative writings. Yes, his talent impressed me, but sibling rivalry mandates I must try to get more attention than my brother, so I have also began writing more, attempting to rekindle the creative spark I had when younger. So far I've succeeded in only producing a lot of smoke, but it's more in the effort and exercise, appreciating the process of putting words from inside my head down on paper (so to speak). There is also the strange sense of community when someone reads your words, even if they read from far away exotic locations like India or Canada, and a sense of connection when they share their own writing.

Returning to the roots of a life long passion for reading and writing is exponentially rewarding when you have children of your own to share the experiences. My sons were as excited as I was to open the box of old children’s books, and we had to stop ourselves from reading them all the first afternoon we took them home. It is with great joy that I read to my children before bed, or that they beg to stay up a little later to finish a chapter. Having passed the torch on to the next generation is a reason to be proud but also a challenge to myself, I cannot slack in my own reading, I need to be ready with recommendations and be able to discuss as they grow as readers and writers. I hope to echo the positive influences in my life into their experiences with the language arts, and to help create an impact that will last them a lifetime.

Trying To Scare Me?

Went into #2's classroom on Friday, to observe the 4th graders learn some readin' and writin'. I've done a few field trips with the boys, and come to see a few science projects and oral presentations over the years, but I had never been in a class while the teacher was teaching -- so where did I get the idea I could be, or want to be, a teacher? Trapped in a room with 20 monsters, twenty fidgety noisy wiggling chattering four foot high monsters... what was I thinking?!?!?!? What struck me the most was how loud the class was, not in the out of control free for all sense, but there was constant noise: books closing, books being dropped, pencils sharpened and dropped and sharpened again, chairs scooting in out over and on to someone's foot, whispers and questions and comments and everything repeated three times. The other indelible image was the teacher looking at the clock more times, many more times, than the kids did. To be fair, she is pregnant, and it was Friday. I'm not sure what was louder, the bell at 3:35 or her sigh of relief.

Naked Algebra

...Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Factoring Trinomials.

Started my math class, online!, so I can bring snacks, put my feet up on the chair next to my desk, and turn on the NFL Network while learning how to find the absolute value of quadratic equations. I tried popping on the headphones with some Van Morrison, put that proved distracting. And I can get up and go to the bathroom whenever I want.

Also started espanol. Comienzo clase de espanol. Can't wear my underwear to that one. I mean, I do wear underwear, clean every day, but I can't just wear the underwear, I accessorize with a color-coordinated short/tee/flip-flop ensemble. And usually a hat, 'cause when you're unemployed* you don't have to comb your hair, sometimes all week.







*or a "kept man" as TMW&BW likes to say, usually before reminding me to clean something.

Starting Over

After the countdown: not a blast-off as much as a slow fizzle, fits and starts, a puttering about at the speed barely above inert. Moss is growing on my north wing.

Whether I am ready for school or not, school is ready for me: Math tomorrow, Spanish Wed, and Azusa Pacific (go Cougars!) next Tuesday. The biggie is Azusa, degree program and all that, and I already have homework (see "my autobiography"). So why am I not doing my homework? Why have I not opened the Spanish book I picked up last week to get a head start (cabeza principio)? I could blame Reggie Bush -- Cowboys 3, Saints 0 -- but it's probably genetic. Thanks folks.

For some reason I just don't feel confident enough I really can or should do this. What do I know about teaching? What do I know about kids, except my own uglies? Deep down I KNOW I can teach, I feel I should teach. I'm not worried about a hard road getting there, I just think most people will be in the fast lane with a lot more extras on the vehicle. So... I guess I should do some homework.

3 days...

So why the countdown? Why all the drama, the suspense, the eager anticipation? Just what are we waiting for?!?!? I'm quitting my job, that's what. Retiring? No, I'm not that old. Got a better offer? Nope, nobody wants me. Win the Lotto? Do you think if I was suddenly $98,000,000 richer I would be whining and bitching about being useless and incompetent? I'd pay someone to write how much money I was spending, with hourly updates.

But I am quitting, in a matter of hours I will be unemployed, because I want to be a teacher.

I know, teachers don't get paid a lot. ...But they get summer vacations.

It's a thankless job, no one appreciates teachers. ...They have 2 weeks off at Christmas.

Teachers teach kids, and kids are loud, silly, rude, loud, smelly, snotty, loud, goofy and loud. ...But there's no class on the weekends, or holidays, or special classes that last until midnight throughout the month of December. And there are no coupons!!!!

TMW&BWITW* and I have talked about this for years, especially when she came home from "work" one day and said for the one millionth time how she really loved her job. After 500,000 times I had gotten the point, at #732,006 I used the classic retort "so why don't you marry it?", and after #872,340 I threw my hands in the air and gave in: if she was going to love her job then I wanted to love my job too.

I did try. But I did the math: working 5 days a week x 48 weeks a year x 25 more years until I can retire = over 600,000 shirts to fold! Yes, there are certain things I would like to do 600,000 times in the next two decades of my life, especially if I'm getting paid for it, but I'm not sure how we would explain it to our tax guy. But I just don't love folding shirts, and it was affecting the quality of my laundry skills at home. The basket of clean clothes would sit there, day after day, waiting patiently for me to sort and fold and stack, but it was getting harder and harder for me to apply myself to the task. The cat didn't mind, he had a nice soft place to lounge, but the boys were getting teased at school for their wrinkled, fur-covered tees and shorts.

So I need a job I can love. And hopefully a job that will love me back.

...

TMW&BWITW = The most Wonderful and Beautiful Wife in the World, of course.