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Irony

/ sgudahl / 1 Comment

Last summer we planted cucumbers. Lots and lots of cucumbers. Way too many cucumbers. Aaron loves pickles; he loves them passionately. My friend Melinda loves pickles passionately too, so I knew I would be able to make lots of pickles and have homes for them. So we planted 20 hills of cucumbers.

That’s right, 20 hills. (Go ahead, snicker, I know you want to.)

20 hills of cucumbers makes a lot of cucumbers. A lot of cucumbers.

I made pickles. Dill pickles, Garlic Dills, Dills with Peppers and Onions, Sweet, Refrigerator-Style. I pickled and pickled until I couldn’t pickle any more. (70 jars, 5 kinds!) But the plants kept making cucumbers. I tried to sell cucumbers, but I felt so guilty about charging for these unwanted veggies that I started giving them away. By the box. Pretty soon all my friends said, “We’ve had enough!”

And those dang vines kept making cucumbers. We were desperate to get rid of cucumbers, so we started feeding them to our chickens. It turns out that our chickens LOVE cucumbers. We would slice them lengthwise and set them on the floor of the chicken coop, and our chickens would get so excited they would run across the coop, fluff up their feathers and go to town on the cucumbers. I felt much better, knowing that they wouldn’t be going to waste. They made the chickens happy, and happy chickens make really exceptional eggs.

But as the garden wound down last fall, I told Aaron that one thing was for sure: in future we would only plant 4 hills of cucumbers. I just could not deal with that many cucumbers again, happy chickens or no.

Fast forward to this spring.

We rotate our garden crops and spend a lot of time meticulously planning what goes where, how much goes in, when it goes in, whether we can get two plantings in per summer, etc. We tilled up our plots, which had been resting quietly under a bed of organic compost (thank you, chickens!) and began planting carefully according to the master plan.

Fast forward 2 weeks.

I went out back one afternoon to do a little garden maintenance last week. The potatoes and peas are already 8 inches off the ground; the carrots, onion, turnips, and beets are up. The tomatoes, green peppers and beans are going strong. Only one thing seemed strange…there was quite a lot of green in between our carefully planted rows.

I’m used to tilling up weeds; we have to till or hand remove weeds all summer because we don’t use any herbicide to kill unwanted growth. But there just seemed to be an awful LOT of the same little green 2-leafed weed all over the place.

And that 2-leafed weed looked awfully familiar.

It took me a full 5 minutes to realize what it was. Cucumbers. And I’m not talking a few random volunteer cucumbers. HUNDREDS of cucumbers, and they were EVERYWHERE. It looked like a helicopter had dropped a bucket of cucumber seeds in my garden. They were in between the rows, in between the new plants, choking out my carrots, strangling my onions, and intertwining with my peas. They were in the middle, on the edges…they were everywhere. Every. Where.

I was so flabbergasted, I was at a loss for words for a few minutes. How can this be possible? We hadn’t planned to put cucumbers in these beds; the four planned hills are in a different plot in the back. At first I thought maybe Aaron snuck a bunch of cucumbers into the plot hoping for another pickling extravaganza. One summer we had volunteer tomatoes, and I couldn’t bring myself to pull out a perfectly healthy plant so we just let them grow. I had way too many tomatoes too, but I vowed that I would remedy that problem this year too. Perhaps he was hoping to sneak the cucumbers by me? Then again, Aaron is quite particular as to how things are planted (our rows are perfectly parallel, exactly 36 inches apart) and he would never have planted these in such a random, haphazard pattern.

I was just about to holler for Aaron and demand an explanation when it hit me.

We compost. From our chickens. And guess what our chickens ate quite a lot of last fall…?

The irony is almost too much for me.

Special

/ sgudahl / Leave a comment

More than once I’ve been inspired to write about Carys, our middle child, our special one. I can’t seem to finish a post to my satisfaction, though. If my goal is to paint a picture of who she is, to chronicle the moments that are important, I fail at every turn. She is so unlike any child I’ve encountered so far, that I truly struggle to make her personality come to life on the page. She came into the world in the most unusual way, in a hospital in Joplin, Missouri that would be wiped off the map less than 5 years later. She was born with a hearing loss in her left ear and an intolerance to lactose. She was born quietly and without fanfare, big blue eyes that stared intently at anyone who held her.

We are learning to drum to the beat of a different marcher in our family. A few examples: she refused to sleep anywhere but in my arms for the first year and a half of her life. When other children were busy playing with toys, Carys was trying to take them apart to figure out how they worked. At pre-school screening, the evaluators had to take us aside for a special consultation because Carys wouldn’t do the tests the way they asked her to do them. When they asked her to catch a bean bag with her hands to test her motor skills, she caught the bag between her knees. On purpose. She said she didn’t want to catch it with her hands. When they asked her to list as many colors as she could (looking for the basic 8) she listed 14 colors and called them names like “lemon-yellow, and grass green, and indigo.” Seriously. When they asked her how high she could count, she announced that she could count to 100. Then she said, “one, two, skip-a-few, 99, 100.” I have no earthly idea where she came up with that, it was the first time I had ever heard it. The bottom line was that the evaluators were unsure how to score her development because it was on such a different plane than what they were looking for.

She says the most unexpected things at the most unexpected times, and Aaron will sometimes shoot me a look that says “who the heck IS this child?” And I don’t have the slightest clue. Take last weekend, for instance. The weather has been crazy around here lately, and we had a little bit of thunder the other night. Carys and Cooper were brushing their teeth for bed when Cooper told me he was a little bit scared of thunder. I launched into a flowery description of angels bowling in heaven (we had just been bowling that weekend, and I was having a private little personal high-five at how nicely those circumstances appeared to work together) and the entire time Carys was just listening intently with narrowed eyes. In the middle of patting myself on the back for the smile that now appeared on Cooper’s face, I was suddenly stopped short by Carys who panned, “Mom. That is not true. Thunder is caused by cold air and warm air colliding in the atmosphere.”

Oh. Well thank you, Miss Meteorologist.

I anticipate that raising this one is going to be interesting. Of all her quirks and notions, however, the one trait that has devloped the most prominently is a soft heart. This child has empathy for others and for animals to such a degree that it is more than likely that living on the farm is going to make a vegetarian out of her some day. One day we passed a semi-truck on the gravel  down from our house. Carys said, “Mom, why is that semi full of pigs?”

Before I could answer, Emma says, “Well, where do you think bacon comes from?”

There was a shocked silence in the back seat and I was wondering how in the world I was going to get out of this one. (Thank you very much, Emma-Smarty-Pants.)

Carys gasped, “Mom! You mean, people EAT them?”

I still had no good answer, I just kind of coughed a couple of times, floundering.

Then, she saved me. With a choke and a sob, she said, “Well people don’t eat them until they’re dead, though, right?”

Whew. “No, Carys, we definitely don’t eat them until they are dead. We wouldn’t want them to go to waste, right?” And that seemed to satisfy her. She does still eat meat, and she doesn’t seem to mind watching 60 live chickens get loaded into a truck and then 60 frozen chickens coming back in coolers, but maybe that’s because she hasn’t thought too much about the in-between yet.

Every time we watch a movie and the impending death of a character approaches, I need to be holding her on my lap and talking her through it. She grieved over the  Lion King’s Mufasa for days. She even cried when the scorpion killed the ant in Honey I Shrunk the Kids. It hurts me to see her hurting, but I don’t really want it to change. There is so little compassion in this big bad world sometimes, that a sensitive soul might be just what it needs.

I worry sometimes about the “middle-child” dynamic that I always read about. Being the oldest child in my own family, I don’t really relate. But I am definitely sensitive to it; I’m on the look-out for times when she is separate from the other two. She is very unlike her siblings, which is a dividing characteristic already. I just make sure she gets a lot of mommy-time. I want her to know that I celebrate her differences, and love her all the more for them.

My greatest wish for her is that she is able to hold on to that sensitive heart; that the world outside will be unable to harden it when she encounters its obstacles. I’m sure somewhere along the line she will be hurt, maybe have her heart broken a few times. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing; it builds character and makes us unique in our life experiences. But I just want the core of who she is to remain that free-spirited, forward-thinking, sassy, gentle, soft-hearted person that I was blessed with.

Nostalgia

/ sgudahl / 2 Comments
I got a phone call from my friend Erin last night. These days we are long-distance friends; yet strangely, the distance has made us even closer than we were before. We mostly talk about where our lives are at and where they are headed, but last night she reminded me of where we used to be. And it got me feeling all nostalgic.
It is really true that our past shapes our present; we are who we are because of what we have been through. The hard times make us wiser, and the good times give us a reason to keep going. Erin and I  were new teachers together; I only had a couple of years head start when she joined our District. I had the pleasure of being her mentor as she got her start, but it wasn’t long before she and I were working side by side on everything from classes to coaching.
I believe that for 3 short years, we were living in a bubble of the best of the best of the best of times. Nothing will ever replicate it, and I don’t believe I would even like to try.
Our Language Arts department had 6 members, and it might be hard to believe, but we were 6 women who liked each other. Actually liked each other, genuinely and truly. In any other universe, 6 women together for any length of time would be trouble just waiting to happen. But like I said, we were living in a bubble…it was perfectly perfect, however brief. I write today in tribute to my colleagues, my friends, who built me and serve as the fondest of my recent memories.
We were led by Linda, the Queen, who knew what it meant to make every single day count. She came to school in costume, she had unconventional lessons, she used tough love, and when school was over she turned her ministrations to her coworkers and friends. She cooked for us, she hosted parties for us, and she taught me how to laugh. Linda interviewed me; she told me straight out in the interview that I had the job (despite the Principal’s attempt to downplay and remind her that there were other applicants left to interview) and then she promptly invited me to her house for lunch. Her wit was unmatched; she could pull an innuendo out of almost any innocent line, and knew instinctively when I needed to laugh, and when I needed her to put her arms around me and let me cry it out. I learned from her that teaching is only 10% curriculum and 90% love.
I taught alongside Linda and Mel and Kathy and Erin and Leslie for those 3 wonderful years, and the way that we collaborated with each other and spent time together inside and outside the walls of the school was the key to what made it special. We never did anything half way; when it was Dr. Seuss’ birthday, we sewed Cat in the Hat hats for every teacher in the school, we performed Reader’s Theater versions of his books, had green eggs and ham for lunch, and made a red and white paper chains that stretched down every school hallway. When we taught medieval civilization, we created a “renaissance festival” of our own in the school gym replete with shops and performances and costumes and music and props.
We hosted our own dress-up days, we surprised the students with projects and field trips. We planned dances and pot-lucks and family nights. We searched for ways to teach literature outside the room, to blur the lines between school and real experience. We took them to high-ropes courses in the mountains, we took them camping, skiing, swimming. We wrote nature poetry on the banks of the Arkansas River, we performed plays and sketches in the courtyard.
Outside of school we spent time together because we genuinely liked to be with each other. We made gingerbread houses at Kathy’s, went horseback riding at Leslie’s, had parties at Mel’s, had drinks at Erin’s. There were countless lunches and campfires and river trips and bike rides and walks between each other’s houses.
I don’t mean that we didn’t each have our troubles; of course we had our problems, our personal challenges. I, for one, certainly didn’t recognize at the time just how extraordinary this experience actually was. Marcel Proust said, “Remembrance of things past is not necessarily remembrance of things as they were.” Maybe I’ve got it wrong, or maybe others will remember it differently. But since it is my memory, it remains this way: perfect.
 It isn’t until now, looking back, that I can see with such clarity how amazing those three years really were. Those remarkable women made my first teaching experience as positive and welcoming and wonderful as one could ever have hoped for. Each one of them made life more livable, and work never felt like work. I left the house each morning and went to see my other family. Mel was the spunk, Kathy was the southern lady, Erin kept us young, Leslie brought the crazy, and the Queen ruled over us all.
Like all good things do, our time together came slowly to an end. It wasn’t a recognizable end at the time, of course, but as life evolves and moves and changes, the magic of those perfect three years faded and dissolved. I was the first one to leave; my husband took a job in Missouri and all too soon, it was time for me to go. Mel eventually left for Kansas, Kathy went home to Kentucky. We lost our Leslie to cancer, and the Queen presided until the time came for her to retire. Only Erin remained, and nothing since has ever been quite the same. This was the heart of our conversation last night, because she too, is moving on. She said, “Do you remember how good it used to be?” And yes, I do.
I miss you all, my dear friends, despite the time and distance between us. I keep a few photos from those days on the bulletin board next to my computer at school. One of my favorites is a series of photos we took on one of our many dress-up days, I have no idea which one. Linda is wrapped in multiple feather boas and is sporting a tiara and scepter. Mel and Kathy are arm in arm wearing cowboy hats, vests and boots. Leslie is wearing a red wig and enormous false eyelashes and she laughing out loud. Erin and I are in matching go-go boots and have serious 80’s hair. We are so young; we are so happy. I love to look at that picture when I need a little boost.
I’m not sad, though. To quote that tired old cliché, time cannot stand still, after all. Even if we tried we could never return to our former selves, never replicate who we were and where we were and what we were.
So I’m not sad, I’m simply grateful.
I think we had something kind of special, and it is sweeter because it was short, and rare, and ours.

Call Me

/ sgudahl / 3 Comments
I did something I swore I would never do. Emma turns 9 in a couple of weeks, and I bought her a cell phone for her birthday. I know, I know. I can’t believe it either.
If you had asked me that question a year or two ago, I would have told you that she wasn’t getting one until she was in 7th grade and that is that. And I was thinking that 7th grade would be a generous concession. But the truth is I caved. I waffled, I conceded, I gave in to the paranoia only a mother feels when she is out of the immediate control of her child, and am buying her a phone at age NINE, an absolutely unheard of age for a girl to be getting her own phone.
Let me first qualify my decision a little bit. I’m not buying her iPhone 27 for heaven’s sake. She’s getting a Tracfone, prepaid with no contract. I’m going to monitor her usage with the same ferocious attention that I do what she wears, eats, watches and reads. (Good Lord, I sound like a Tiger Mother…)
Here’s the situation, friends. We live on a farm (you know this already) in the middle of nowhere (you know this as well) and drive in to Fairmont each day. Emma is at an age where she is involved in after-school activities, and also is expected to get herself (and her little sister) to daycare on the bus without any help whatsoever. She is also required to know which days she rides with Carys, which days she puts Carys on by herself, which days I’m picking her up, which days her dad is picking her up, where she is getting picked up, when she’s getting picked up and so on and so forth. (I got tired just typing that.)
We do our level best to keep everything on track, but life happens, you know? Sometimes something comes up at school and I can’t leave right away. Sometimes someone gets sick and Aaron and I have to shuffle who gets who and when. Sometimes somebody just forgets what day it is and where all the kids are. (This is when you are REALLY glad you got a spot in Julie’s daycare. She is on top of things and will call me immediately if some kid somewhere does or doesn’t do something out of the ordinary.)Have I told you yet how much I love her?
Anyway, in the last month, 2 different situations came up that caused a panic. First, Emma was invited to be a skills tutor in an after-school group for math. We then had to coordinate her pick-up time with my basketball practice schedule and Aaron’s work schedule. We were doing just fine until I went to an after-school meeting that ran long. All of a sudden I looked at the clock and realized I was already 15 minutes late to pick her up.
I can’t describe my panic to you; I ran to the phone and tried to get the teacher who was supervising on the phone – no answer. I then called one of my friends in the elementary building who happened to still be there who went wandering around the school looking for Emma while I drove like a bat out of you know where to get there myself. Turns out Emma was pretty cool headed; she went down to the CER office and asked them if she could wait for me in their office. (I teach a lot of Community Ed classes through them, and Emma is used to being there with me.) My friend in the office, Kris, promptly took her down to one of their after-school programs where she was busy doing arts and crafts and eating a sandwich when I finally dashed in, heart racing and breathless.
This is a great example of what kind of an environment I teach in. These people will do anything at all for anyone, any time, anywhere. It made me feel so good to know that my child wasn’t standing outside on a sidewalk wondering if her mother was ever going to show up. I still felt horribly, terribly guilty, and it took me a full hour to calm my heart rate the heck down.
We used to live in a world where kids could find a phone on a street corner; where kids could play on random playgrounds for hours waiting for a ride home. Remember when you could just let your kids walk home or to a friend’s house or to the neighbor’s? Maybe the town kids still do that; I suppose living on a farm gives me a distinct disadvantage in this arena. My kids don’t know their way around town because they’ve never walked anywhere or biked anywhere; I just drop them off and pick them up.
And I know we are in what would probably be considered a small town, and it is nice to believe that Fairmont is immune from the dangers of the big city. But too many days I read newspaper reports of children taken from their playgrounds, their bikes, their own yards, and I’m just not willing to risk it for the sake of convenience.
(Yes, I’m being dramatic. I know. I can’t help it.)
To make a long story shorter, a similar event happened just a few days later when Emma thought she had Choir practice after school. She didn’t get on the bus, and  by the time she realized she didn’t have practice that day, the bus had already left. She went down to the gym where she knew I sometimes have basketball practice and waited (hoped!) for me to show up. By the time I got there she had herself pretty worked up worrying about whether I was really coming and whether I would be mad that she had not gone to daycare on the bus.
So I bought her a phone.
It really does give me peace of mind to know that wherever she is, I’m just a phone call or a text message away. And honestly, if you had looked into those golden-brown eyes bright with unshed tears and seen the waver of her lower lip when she came running over to me, you would have caved in too.
Here’s the fun part of the story.
Her birthday is still 2 weeks away, but once I got the phone loaded with contacts and minutes we decided sooner was better than later. So we took the family out to eat at the Chinese restaurant in the mall last night. (I feel very lucky that my kids love Chinese food…yum.) We finished eating and the kids went over to feed the fish in the koi pond. I slipped the new phone into Emma’s coat pocket and then announced we were going to walk around the mall for a little while and do some shopping.
As we wandered through the mall, Aaron sent a text message to her phone that read “Happy Birthday!” She didn’t hear the beep of the text alert. So as we walked, Aaron repeatedly called the phone. Finally, she notices the music and says, “Mom, what is that sound?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It sounds like it’s coming from you.”
She held the coat up to her ear and went digging through the pockets. When she pulled it out, she exclaimed, “Mom! I think I got someone else’s coat accidentally! There’s a phone in my pocket!”
She was looking back and forth at us, and we were both kind of grinning and waiting.
“It says there’s a message! Should I open it?  It says, ‘Happy Birthday!’ Whose phone is this?”
When she got no response from either of us except stupid grins she finally says, “Is it MINE?”
And then the floodgates opened. She was so happy she was fighting off tears and Aaron was laughing and Carys and Cooper were actually speechless for once.
That made for a pretty awesome Wednesday night.
Of course we followed up the evening with explaining what a Tracfone is, how it works, and what the rules were going to be for having one. Maybe I’m just trying to justify this to myself, but can you really put a dollar amount on peace of mind? Or your child’s safety? (And hey, maybe I can swap some chore time for phone minutes – that might be a good idea…)
Despite all my resolve and earlier reservations, I think I can call this a win.

Job Security

/ sgudahl / Leave a comment
We are reading The Hunger Games in my 8th grade classes this year. I love to teach this book because kids are genuinely interested in it and cannot put it down. The action-adventure theme hooks even the most reluctant readers, and most kids don’t realize how much they are learning while we’re reading it. Before they know it, we are discussing really adult themes like Government Control and Social Classification and the moral value of Reality Television.
I have many Language Arts components that I am required to teach, but this quarter we are spending a great deal of time concentrating on providing textual evidence to support a theme. I have modeled several times the skill of responding to a question and then locating a passage in the story to support their answer. This is pretty much English 101; every class they take from now until the end of time will ask them to find text support. But these kids are brand-new to the idea, and it has been a struggle to get them to do it.
In case you are not familiar with the story, I will tell you that two particular characters (Peeta and Katniss) find themselves having to work together in the story. It is pretty clear from very early in the story that Peeta has strong feelings for Katniss. The question on my daily quiz today read like this: “How does Peeta feel about Katniss? Provide a page number and a quote from the book to support your answer.”
This one was kind of an easy one, I thought. I wasn’t trying to trick them on this first test; I actually want them to experience success so they feel confident moving forward into more difficult processes. There are easily 20 or 30 sentences in this section of the book that give insight into Peeta’s feelings. In fact, one line actually reads: “Peeta sighs. ‘Well, there is this one girl. I’ve had a crush on her ever since I can remember.’”
So there I am, correcting tests, and feeling increasing alarm over the answers that have been given. Some of them answer only in their own words. Some of them include a page number but not a quote. Some of them are even blank! (Blank? Really?)
But this one…this one’s my favorite. Here’s the unedited answer on the test paper:
“Peeta wants Katniss to die. Because in the chairiot (sp) when they are wearing flames on their costume he says they ‘suit her.’ So that means he wants to set her on fire. Page 72.”
After I finished laughing and wiping my eyes, I gave this student half credit. They were able to locate a page number…(yay!)….they were able to articulate a personal answer…(yay!)…and while there is no direct quote from the story, there is at least a reference to actual text.
The follow-up lesson is going to have to address the fact that while the concept of citing textual evidence is indeed emerging, we must take care not to miss gigantic chunks of comprehension in the process.
Good grief.
It’s nice to feel necessary.

2012 Recap

/ sgudahl / Leave a comment
My primary purpose in writing this blog is to provide a record of my thoughts for my children to read someday. I found a great website that actually prints your blog, pictures and all, into a hardcover book. I plan to have that done periodically. I’m not much of a journal writer, and too often anymore, I will forget the details and nuances of a family story. I thought this might be a nice way for my kids to remember some of our moments (good and bad) and to hear them told through their mother’s voice, for someday when I’m not here to tell it in person.
With this in mind, I’m going to shoot for a 2012 Recap that will provide the best picture overall of who we are, and what we were all about this year. This might have been one of my favorite Decembers we’ve ever had. The kids are really in that “sweet spot” as far as their ages are concerned. They are old enough to understand what’s going on, and young enough to believe in things they cannot explain.
One of my favorite moments came from Carys this Christmas. She told me that her daycare provider has the most beautiful nativity scene she has ever seen, and could we please get one so that she could hold the baby Jesus in her hand sometimes. (That was a precious moment to me; I’ll be on the lookout for a nativity scene for just this purpose.) Always a lover of a good metaphor, I took that opportunity to talk about how we can hold Jesus every day in our heart. However, I know exactly what she was getting at, so I went on to say that I still understood how much she might want to hold Him in her hand. (Especially when His figurine is so cute and tiny and carved and painted perfectly!) I hope I can find just the right one for next year.
We also took the kids to see Life of Pi in the theater. I loved the movie, as much for the allegory and its literary elements as for its amazing cinematography. The challenge posed at the beginning of the movie is to tell a story that proves that God exists. I got pretty swept up in the imagery all the while analyzing and evaluating the plot twists and turns, and looking for the connective threads that resolved the question. By the end of the movie, I was moved and inspired and emotional…all the things that really good story will do to me. I am pretty sure that the metaphor of the movie went right on over the heads of my little munchkins, but I tried to explain it to them anyway. Exposure to good works at any age is a good thing, says Mom, the English teacher.
Two years ago, we got an “Elf on the Shelf.” We named our elf “Sam” and he has been the most wonderful addition to our winter routine. The kids come flying downstairs every morning trying to be the first one to find his new location. Occasionally, Sam will bring a small treat or leave a message for the kids and they are beside themselves with excitement. Some of my favorites from this year included Sam dressing up in Emma’s Barbie clothes, riding one of Cooper’s tractors, and hiding inside Carys’ Christmas stocking. The best day, however, was Sam’s last day at our house. He always spends Christmas Eve with us, and on Christmas morning he has gone back to the North Pole to rest and get ready for next year. This time, he brought the kids one early Christmas present, and left a goodbye note. Throughout the day, the kids each wrote notes back to Sam and left them at his feet so he could read them at night when his “magic turned back on.”
Besides being adorable and sweet by nature, (“Bye, Sam, we love you and will miss you!”) reading those notes reminded me of how rarely we as adults allow ourselves to believe in magic anymore. Age and experience makes us hard and cynical; I find myself looking at life with such a critical eye sometimes. I don’t know how much longer they will believe in magic, but I will celebrate it for as long as I can. Life can get really REAL…no need to go there any sooner than we have to.
In 2012, Emma slipped gently over the edge of childhood and is tentatively testing some new boundaries as a “pre-teen.” I had hoped her innocence would last a little longer but I admit it is a little thrilling to chronicle this journey from the perspective of an adult who has “been there and done that.” She has stopped asking me for every little thing and has begun initiating all sorts of things that were previously off-limits.
As a small example, one night I was working in the kitchen and she casually opened the fridge, took out a soda and walked over and sat down next to me, preparing to open it. I noticed her watching me very carefully, and she seemed very reluctant to pop the top. I looked up at her, down at the soda, and back up at her. She didn’t say anything. The look in her eyes was almost daring me to challenge her. We don’t allow soda for the kids except on special occasions, so I was very surprised. When I reminded her of our rule, she sighed dramatically and returned it to the fridge. She poured herself a glass of milk and kind of stomped out of the room.
I had to think about that for a little while. She pushed the edges a little, but didn’t argue when I held the line. I guess I should be thankful for that; I suspect it will only get more dramatic from here. Emma is one of those people who feels things passionately, but tries to hold her emotion in check in front of other people. When it finally spills over, it REALLY spills over.
The next morning I could hear her yelling at her sister upstairs. I couldn’t understand all of the words through the ceiling, but she was definitely YELLING. When I was able to calm her down and get her alone to talk, I said, “Emma, it is not like you at all to scream at people when you are upset. What is wrong?”
Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she wailed, “I don’t know! I think I have anger issues!” I laughed out loud and hugged her hard and told her that feeling irrational was a completely normal feeling. I told her that I hope to teach her better ways to manage it than just blowing a gasket. (However, if you had been there when I found a bottle of pink nail polish soaking into the carpet you would see that’s a skill I’m still learning too.)
At 8 years old, Emma is a reader, an artist, a crafter, and the best mom-helper around. She takes care of everyone smaller than her, and delights in small pleasures. She has wonderful attention to detail, and asks me really introspective questions. She keeps me on my toes, and it is such a delight to watch each new milestone unfold.
Carys, my little peanut, provides the soundtrack to our lives. She is drawn to music in the most remarkable way; she is constantly humming or dancing or singing some little tune. She sings in the car, in the bathtub, while coloring, watching TV, and more nights than not I will find her sleeping in bed with her Hello Kitty sparkly headphones on.
Carys will never be a good poker player; she wears every emotion all over her face. You never have to guess at what she’s thinking. She laughs easily and hard, she wails with utter despair, and she has the most empathy of any 6 year old I’ve ever met. She especially loves animals, with horses being a notable love. We were at her cousin’s birthday party in early December, and her cousin opened a present with an American Girl brand horse in the box. Carys’ gasp was audible from two rooms away; she clapped her hands over her mouth and whispered, “oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh” over and over.
We honestly aren’t into American Girl all that much at our house; my daughters each have a doll, but that’s about it. And I certainly wasn’t thrilled about spending $80 on a plastic horse, but if you had seen the look on her face, you would know why I went home and ordered one. And it was completely worth it on Christmas morning.
My little man Cooper is all boy. I marvel at how he can be surrounded by feminine influence in the form of a doting mamma and two sisters who want him to play dress up and still turn into a rough and tumble superhero flying, race car driving, dinosaur loving little man.
He has a competitive spirit that I’m not trying to squash, necessarily, but I am trying to channel into something constructive. He hates to lose anything, especially a board game or a video game. He gets frustrated when he can’t do something, and will practice over and over to get it right. I’m not sure where that comes from, since I’m generally content when things just sort of go my way. But his father is a little more of a perfectionist, so maybe that’s where he gets it.
He is extremely observant, and always surprises me with his strong vocabulary and his desire to have things just “so.” One of my favorite Cooper Moments of the year came at Christmas.
First, a little back story: I teach and coach at Fairmont High School, home of the Cardinals who wear Red and White. It just happens to be the rival of my hometown Blue Earth Bucs, who wear Maroon and Gold. All of our family still attends Blue Earth so Cooper has naturally picked up on the fact that his cousins are Bucs and we are Cardinals. While I make no outward mentions of the rivalry, somewhere along the line he has come to understand that we are adversaries when it comes to sports.
At Gudahl Family Christmas, Cooper’s Grandma Gail bought all of her grandsons the same outfit. Cooper opened his gift and pulled out a beautiful Minnesota Gopher sweatshirt and pants (maroon and gold, by the way.) He sat there, staring down at the outfit with a scowl on his face. At first I thought maybe he was disappointed to open clothes and was hoping for toys. But before long he picked that sweatshirt up by his thumb and forefinger and declared, “I don’t even GO to this school! I’m a CARDINAL!”
The whole room erupted in laughter and it took me a good 10 minutes to explain that it was okay to wear maroon and gold if it was a Gopher sweatshirt. I still chuckle every time I think of it.
I love that he can be wrestling on the floor with his dad one minute, and climbing up in my lap the next. He can be charming and exasperating and serious and silly, and a more expressive set of brown eyes never existed anywhere else.
Aaron and I continue our journey toward sustainability on our farm. He’s adding to our menagerie outside, and I’m expanding my prowess in the kitchen when it comes to canning and preserving. In 2012 we are happy and we are healthy. What more could a girl ask for?

Connecticut

/ sgudahl / 1 Comment
I don’t think I can post the blog I was working on this week in light of the tragedy in Newtown, CT. I have been playing around with another post about a genuinely funny classroom happening, but when I opened my news browser on Friday and saw the first headline about the school shooting, I immediately shelved that entry for another day. This particular tragedy just hits me too close to where I live. On one hand I am a teacher and on the other I am a parent of elementary students. Those two things together make this particular tragedy almost more than I can manage.
I haven’t been able to read much about it; I can’t look at the pictures, I can’t listen to the interviews. My empathy button is too easily pushed, and with all I have going on in my life right now, I just can’t let myself be affected the way I know I will be if I open myself up to those feelings. My Carys is 6 years old. She is in Kindergarten. She is the sunshine of my life and every single photo of every smiling child reminds me of her. I can’t go there.
I’m trying to remain in my intellect; I’m trying to stay a thinking person instead of a feeling one this time. I know that 26 other families don’t have that luxury, and that makes me feel lucky and selfish at the same time.
Unfortunately, every time I open my Facebook and Twitter feed, I am assaulted anew with images and stories and rhetoric that threaten my resolve. There are generally two types of posts flooding social media. One is an outpouring of pain from parents and educators, and the second is a swift and angry response from the gun lobby in America. A whole faction of people support more restrictions on gun sales, more paperwork, longer waiting periods. They want to limit the access to guns and make them harder to own and therefore use. On the other side is another faction of people who stand on their 2nd Amendment rights as if it is the last port in the storm.
Once again, I find myself in a unique position on this issue. My husband is an avid hunter. We own firearms. I have my own hunter safety certificate, and can shoot a shotgun and rifle with relative accuracy. For a time I was even into shooting trap with Aaron on weekends. Of course I agree that guns don’t kill people, people kill people.
However.
I think the anger and fear of the gun lobby is misplaced. I don’t hear our government saying that all guns should be banned. I hear them emphasizing restrictions and policies and procedures and safe guards. This somehow gets translated to “They’re trying to take away our right to bear arms!” That is a sweeping generalization, and I can’t go there either. I am never swayed by arguments that are conveyed with passion unless they are carefully worded, and as a wordsmith, I am always paying attention to the words.
For some reason, people really enjoy living in extremes. There are so few moderates out there anymore; it makes me feel very lonely. I wish people would realize that the sharply divided political structure we have today will never allow for either side to win completely. No sweeping legislation is ever going to get through the minefield called Congress. Never will a bill or a proposal succeed in completely banning or completely promoting ANYTHING because somebody somewhere won’t let it happen. On some levels, I get frustrated at the gridlock, but in this example, I find it somewhat useful.
No one is going to take away guns. What they MAY hope to accomplish, is raising the bar on who gets them, how they get them, and when they get them.
And here’s where my heart really lies on this issue. If it takes me, (a sane and non-violent homeowner) a little bit longer to obtain a weapon so that the Adam Lanzas of the world (a definitely not-sane and violent person) cannot obtain them, then so be it. I will sacrifice my ability to walk into a store tomorrow and purchase a weapon and as much ammunition as I can afford on the spot if it means that the next Adam Lanza cannot do so either.
Would greater restrictions on gun control have prevented this tragedy? Probably not. Lanza, though reported to be mentally ill, took every single one of those weapons from his mother. She, as far as I am reading, was perfectly sane and even a pretty kind and generous person. Certainly more restrictions would not have prevented her from obtaining those weapons, and that is a valid point too.
I don’t pretend that greater restrictions would have solved this particular tragedy; very likely it would not have. But I also don’t believe that we can continue down this path of unlimited access to weapons without having some checks and balances in place. We can’t have it both ways, unfortunately.
If we aren’t willing to bend on access, then should every school be in lock-down mode from 7-4? Should my Kindergartener have to walk through a metal detector to go to school? If you ask me to choose between owning an assault rifle and my child requiring an armed guard to attend SCHOOL, then I am more than willing to give up the gun. (What exactly is the burning desire for assault weapons anyway, may I ask? The last time I checked, our 12 gauge was providing food for my family on a regular basis and I’m pretty sure it could protect my family from an intruder just the same.) But I digress.
One last wondering, and maybe this is the real question of the day. Why is it so difficult for the parents of mentally ill children to get support and the resources they need to address their situation? (And this IS a problem. Having worked for 13 years as a teacher, I have seen first hand how many parents struggle to get help for their children.)
Our farm feels like a pretty safe little bubble; it feels safer and safer every day. I don’t have any real answers; I have no truth to take away from this. I am sure that even my blog today will raise the ire in some of my friends. I’m not trying to be argumentative, and I’m not trying to push an agenda. I don’t even know for sure exactly what I think/feel because I am so carefully guarding my emotion at the moment.
 There are a few things I know for sure. I know that when Carys gets in my car everyday after school, she is positively bursting with stories about what happened that day. She loves her teacher, her classroom, her locker, her school. She can’t wait to get there every morning. It brings me real joy to see that light in her eyes and hope that the love of learning she is developing will burn even brighter as she gets older.
I know that I drop her off every day in the capable hands of a magical teacher who is kind and gentle and excited about school. I trust that her little heart will be cared for. And I trust, somewhat blindly, that she will be waiting for me at 3:00pm to tell me what she had for lunch and what she painted that day and what story they read and what song they sang.
I know that 26 mothers would give anything to be me right now.
I keep stumbling around for a closing, trying to tie together these threads into a little nugget of truth I can look back on later. I am looking for some kind of wisdom to impart to my children, who will be reading this one day. I can’t find the right words, I can’t find the message, I’m not even sure that I will feel the same way next week that I feel today.
Maybe what I take away today is that our time here is limited; I need to love more and argue less. I need to be more patient, more kind, and more present in my relationships because you never know, you really never know, how long you have with them.
My favorite Facebook posting comes from a movement to perform 26 Random Acts of Kindness to honor the lives of those 26 angels. I’m participating in that one for sure. To the mothers of the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting, my heart goes with you.

Hopeful

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I haven’t written about teaching yet; I have tried several times to write a post about something that happened in my classroom, but by the time I get to the end of it, the meaning and depth of the story somehow gets lost in translation. I don’t know why it is so difficult for me to express. For many of the moments or stories, you really just had to be there to understand.

This time, however, I found one worth sharing.

Right before Thanksgiving break, our school invited some speakers to come and talk to the student body. They were wonderful; they brought the message that we make a choice every day in how we respond to the world around us, and to the situations we are exposed to. One component of the message had to do with the word “Stupid.” Their point was that there are no stupid people; that is a term that we accept and use to define us. They challenged us to view our mistakes as learning experiences, and not to let those mistakes define who we are. Good stuff, and they modeled it really appropriately for 7th and 8th graders. It was a lovely way to spend the last day before break, working on ways to improve our life experience.

Heart, happy.

I was sitting behind a row of 7th grade students. I teach 8th grade, so I haven’t had these particular kids in class yet. I don’t know their names or their personalities, so I was mostly planning to just manage and supervise, and make sure everyone behaved themselves. Throughout the presentation, however, we were asked to break off into small groups and have discussion over the topics. I found myself leading a very spirited group of kids. I had forgotten how fast 7th graders bond to you; I had about 9 best friends in 15 minutes. These kids were eager to talk, and to share, and to ask me a million questions.

Heart, full.

I admit my mind was already on Thanksgiving break; I was listening with half an ear to the lecturers, and also mentally planning my grocery shopping list when I saw the boy in front of me getting kind of wiggly and agitated. I tuned back in to hear the lecturer say, “What if you are called “stupid?” That doesn’t mean that  you are stupid, because stupid doesn’t exist.” And the boy turned around and said to me, “I don’t get it. What does he mean, stupid doesn’t exist?”

I was caught off-guard, and I didn’t have a stellar answer ready to go, so I just said, “Well, nobody is stupid, we just make mistakes and have to learn from them. Just because someone might call you that, doesn’t mean you are. Does that make sense?”

I could see he was still skeptical. I assumed that someone had definitely called him this before, so I followed up with, “You just know in your heart that you aren’t stupid, and you have to let those words other people say kind of slide off your back. You know? Just decide that it isn’t true, and you don’t have to believe it when people say it.”

And then this boy, with big blue clouded eyes and brown curly hair frowned at me and said, “Yeah, but what if your dad calls you stupid? Then you are, right?”

Heart, broken.

Did you feel that? That little pinch in the stomach, that lump in the throat? I don’t know if I can tell the story in such a way that you can feel what I felt right then. I am sorry to say I was speechless. I was not expecting him to say that, and I had no response. I just kind of blinked at him. I mean, what can you say to that?

As he turned back around in his seat, and slouched down into it, low, my heart broke into a million tiny little pieces. I don’t know this kid yet; I don’t know his dad, I don’t even know his last name yet. But I do know that he is carrying around a heavy little rock in the middle of his soul.

Now, to be fair, I have no idea what makes him feel that way. As parents, we are all guilty of speaking carelessly. It could be that one careless word or remark could have stuck, and maybe there were no intentions at all in undermining the confidence of this young man. But somewhere along the line he took hold of that message. I want terribly to undo it.

This one moment prompted me to do a lot of thinking over the weekend, and I will say I have been more careful in the way I temper my words with my own children. I sent up a couple of prayers, too. One, that this young man can feel his worth and value, and that people be placed in his life who can guide him and lead him. And two, that I never make that mistake with my own. Please let my words come carefully; let me think before I speak, let me look at them always like I am their biggest fan and not their harshest critic.

Today we returned from break. As I was walking down the hall to my classroom, I heard someone shout, “Hey! Ms. Gudahl!” I turned and spotted Mr. Blue Eyes himself as he was weaving his way through the crowd to get to me. He said, “Hi. Good morning!” and then buzzed right on past like he was on a mission. I’m looking foward to having him in the room next year…and I’m going to try my level best to give him something good to carry with him when he leaves me.

Heart, hopeful.

Losing It

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My favorite poem of all time is Elizabeth Bishop’s poem titled One Art. I read it in college, and was gripped with the certainty that it contained huge truths about myself. I wrote an essay for Dr. Wood in which I poured all my fears and feelings into 3 pages of despair, convinced that I was irretrievably damaged emotionally. I will never forget this; Dr. Wood was my advisor, and a kinder woman doesn’t exist on the planet. But she wrote in bold red pen on the back of my essay: “This poem does not define you.” That’s it, that’s all. I got a B-. I’m not exactly sure why it wasn’t worthy of an A, but the extreme relief I felt at being given permission to separate self from experience, was enough for me.
I am reminded of that poem today, 14 years later, as I cycle through another round of Losing It.
I think my brain is full. I wish I could find a way to empty it of contents I no longer find useful, like the address of my first apartment, the phone numbers of my high school friends, and word-for-word lines from Tommy Boy. I need to clear up some space for things I really need, like remembering to pick my son up from pre-school, to buy Carys a white t-shirt for a school project, to submit that grant application before the deadline, and to get milk on the way home because we’ve been out for 3 days and the kids are balking at eating dry cereal for breakfast.
Bishop uses her poem to suggest that losing things is an art that one should embrace, admire, and even practice. Certainly, she means to lighten the blow of losing the love of her life, but I still take comfort in the lines “Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.” Well, thank you, ma’am, I surely will.
Let’s take a brief inventory. So far this school year, I have forgotten Cooper at school 3 times. (Thank God for good friends, because one of the other moms has taken him to daycare each of those 3 times so I didn’t have to pay the late pick-up fee.) I forgot to turn in a field trip permission slip. I forgot to take Emma to Choir practice. I forgot to order a new title on Aaron’s truck, and he has reminded me only about 10 times, and a definite edge is starting to creep into his voice. I have forgotten 2 morning Student Council meetings. I forgot to call and reschedule a hair appointment, and I got the reminder call while I was at basketball practice. I missed a parent-teacher conference for one of my own kids! (And I’m a freaking teacher! I know how important those are!)
Yikes.
I would just like to know why in the world I cannot remember these key components to my daily life, yet thousands of useless pieces of information are stubbornly stuck in my brain. I can remember the names of the families I delivered newspapers to in 5th grade. I know the number for JG Wentworth. (If you watch any television in the afternoon at all, I bet you know the phone number if you NEED CASH NOW. I bet you’re even singing the song…) Why do I remember that the wall art in our recently remodeled hometown hospital is a giant stalk of wheat, but I don’t know what day or time my daughter’s Christmas concert is this year?
Even the students in my classrooms are beginning to recycle themselves. More than once this year, I have looked a student directly in the eye and called them by the name of a student I taught 10 years ago. What is up with that?
But the piece de resistance came the morning that I actually drove down the driveway without one of my children in the car. In my defense, I told them to get in the car, then I went all through the house shutting off every light and unplugging various cell phone, Nintendo DS and tablet chargers. I didn’t see my little man Cooper run upstairs to get a truck to play with at daycare. I got in my car, hollered, “Are you all buckled?” to the backseat, and shifted into reverse. I suppose vaguely I remember that only female voices answered me, but it wasn’t until I asked “Cooper, did you find your backpack?” that it registered that he wasn’t in the car. I was already down the driveway approaching the mailbox. I looked into my rearview mirror, and spotted him running headlong down the driveway after my car.

If there is a sadder commentary on the state of my parenthood, I don’t know what it is.

I should be too embarrassed to share this publicly with the world. But I cannot be the only one out there running on half-cylinders, so I’m gonna hope that some of you mothers out there can sympathize and don’t judge me too harshly for this one. I guess I’m just going to cling to Dr. Wood’s kind analysis, and believe that this moment, this lapse, does not define me.

I stopped the car, of course, and when he got to my door, my little munchkin was pissed. (Sorry about the swear word, but truly, the occassion calls for it.) He hasn’t let me forget it, either, let me tell  you. I’ll be making this one up to him for the next 20 years.

Bishop writes that the art of losing isn’t hard to master. Clearly.

Laundry Soap

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By request, I’m posting my tutorial on DIY laundry soap. Try it…it will change your life!

A few important things to know:
1.) This is safe to use in regular and HE washers.

2.) While the initial ingredients have a pleasant “soapy” scent, there is no fragrance added to any of them. That means your laundry will not have that “laundry soap” smell when it finished washing. Your clothes will just smell CLEAN. And I can’t really describe that to you. You’ll see what I mean.

3.) These ingredients are all natural, with no added chemicals. It’s kind of like using Tide-Free, without the price tag. It is safe for sensitive skin…at least I have yet to hear of someone who reacted badly to it, and I give this away to anyone in the world who wants to try it.

4.) The Downy-Ball Vinegar rinse is completely optional. But I highly recommend it.

5.) This is my recipe for powdered detergent. I can give you the directions for the liquid version if you prefer, but truly it adds an extra hour to the process, and I’m all about saving time, people. The powder works perfectly, and I’ve never had a problem with residue.

Okay, here we go.

Go buy these ingredients:

These are the prices at my local Wal-Mart:
Borax – $2.39
Arm and Hammer Super Washing Soda – $3.19
Fels-Naptha Soap – $0.97

I buy about 8 bars of soap at a time, because you can usually make the detergent that many times before the boxes run out. The first time I bought this, I got the soap on sale 2/$1, which made me even happier. Now I watch it from time to time to see if I can catch it on sale again and stock up.

Step One:
Grate the bar of Fels-Naptha soap very finely into a bowl. I use a microplane grater that I got at, (you guessed it) Wal-Mart for $2.99. It is important that the soap is very finely shredded – the smaller the better.

This will take a little while; sometimes the girls will work on it for me in the kitchen while I’m working, but mostly I like to sit with a bowl in my lap and grate soap while I’m watching something on TV.

Step Two:
Pour 1 cup of Arm and Hammer Super Washing Soda and 1 cup of Borax into the bowl with the soap shavings. Stir well.

And…that’s it. Well, there’s an optional Step Three. If you prefer your powder to be really really fine, you can blend all ingredients in a blender. The consistency gets really really powdery, and some people prefer that. I personally like to be done after Step Two.

I bought a cute little white canister with a measuring spoon attached to the side of it. I pour all the soap in the canister, and use the spoon to scoop it into the washer.

Here’s the best part…

It only takes 1 Tablespoon of this mixture to do a load of laundry. Seriously!

Finally, here’s my last best-kept-secret.

You know those blue plastic Downy balls? I bought one ($1.99 Wal-Mart special!) and I fill it with vinegar. That’s right, vinegar. No, really, you heard me correctly. Vinegar. Just fill it up, pull the little plug tight, and there you go.

I drop that ball in with the load and hit start. The vinegar will leave no smell, and also is the best fabric softener known to mankind. For real, I am not kidding, I swear to you it is true.

**ADDITION**
After lots of trial and error, I have added 1 cup of regular Baking Soda to my mix – it seems to be just the right thing for the hard odors!