Tales from the Shark Tank

My son often remembers that there is an idiomatic phrase for an idea, but not the exact words. That doesn’t slow him down; he just makes something up on the fly. He also generally chooses to have serious conversations while we’re in the car going someplace. This morning he wanted to know how old he would have to be before I’d trust him to drive out of town by himself.

“I don’t know” I told him. “We’ll….” and he finished for me “walk that plank when we come to it.”

And then he asked why I was laughing so hard. Arrrh, matey’s I can’t imagine. Couldn’t be that he’s funny, could it?

Like many parents of middle-schoolers, we are working with our son on monitoring the use of, shall we say, forcible language. He hears vulgarity a lot in school, simply because he’s at the age where the boys seem to think it proves how bold, fearless and (im)mature they are. And like many kids his age, he gropes around for acceptable substitutes to express his feelings without offending.

I had much ado not to giggle at the latest one, though. “Fork-lift! Idiot computer!…..”

When I was in sixth grade, I had to do a diorama.  I still remember it, because my mom came up with the idea of sprouting grass seed in a shallow pan, so that instead of green-painted cardboard I had real grass for my little people to sit in.  I made figures out of  clay, and I don’t remember what all else.  It didn’t fit in a shoebox, though; it ended up being free-standing on its cardboard base.  I don’t remember how I got it to school, but I suspect strongly that I had help.

Now it’s my son’s turn.  His does fit in a shoebox.  He’s supposed to do a diorama about France, and so chose to do the Eiffel Tower.  I had visions of him trying to construct the thing out of clay, popsicle sticks and/or toothpicks, with associated howls of frustration because while he builds amazing things from Legos, things not intrinsically designed to fit together give him fits.  I asked him if he wanted to build a model or if he wanted to put a picture as the background in the back of the shoebox.  To my relief, he thought that the picture was a fabulous idea, but wanted it painted rather than as a photograph.  Hmm.  We found a good photo to work from, and I drew a pencil sketch on watercolor paper.

I helped with the painting of that, and then it was time for modeling compound.  Crayola makes something that can be modeled like clay, air dries very quickly, feels rather like marshmallow, and is paintable.  That’s what we used, and he now has a seated human figure holding a dog on a leash, a cat and another little person sitting cross-legged, two wee chairs and a pedestal table.  They’re all drying on the card table, and will be painted tomorrow before being glued into position.  The table and chairs aren’t particularly in proportion to the people, but hey, he’s 12.  Now he’s painting grass and a sidewalk while I keep him company.  I suspect he’ll remember this as long as I have the Indian Village.

He’s also answered some factual questions, done a written report on French history, and prepared an oral report.  He’s looking forward to presenting the whole thing to his Social Studies teacher.  Me?  I’m looking forward to his teacher’s response.  It’s his project, but I don’t feel at all bad about helping with it.  All I’ve done is mechanical execution.  The plans and ideas have been all his, and that’s the important part.

Part of my son’s homework today was to illustrate the phrase “catch a bus”.

He drew a figure leaning back against a taut rope, the other end of which was tied to a bus.  I’d heard of calf-roping, but bus-roping?

And then he wondered why I laughed so hard.

Every so often, someone asks me why we stay in the house we’re in.  It’s small, cold in the winter, drafty, old, and has mice, which is why we have cats in spite of allergies.  We don’t have room to put half our stuff away, it doesn’t have much closet space, and there isn’t a level floor surface in it.  Indoor plumbing is an afterthought, and electricity arrived with rural electrification.  It was built and added on to by a succession of farmers with no concept of building according to a plan, and it shows.

But then there are the redeeming features.  Our landlady is a joy.  Last winter, when the power went out, she and her husband brought us a generator without being asked.  She calls to chat and to check on me now and then.  We’re friends. Our neighbors are wonderful too.   It’s just comfortable.

And most of all, there is the school district.  I have seen huge urban school districts.  Even the good ones seem to do only what they must, and because they have so many kids there’s a lot of “one size fits all” thinking.  It’s entirely too easy for a kid to slip through the cracks.

Not here.  Every teacher knows every child in every grade.  There’s no “kids will be kids” or ignoring bullying.  A lot of schools say they don’t tolerate it, but in reality turn a totally blind eye.  Not here.   Last year, when it came to the teachers’ attention that our son was being excluded on the play ground, and told “game closed”, they stepped in.  There were to be no closed games.  Period.  It took a matter of a few days for me to have a happy kid again.

And then we come to today.  Some 7th graders decided it would be fun to torment the 6th grade boys in the locker room.  One of  the 6th graders was my son.  Not to worry; he’s fine, because it was handled very well indeed.  The principal and guidance counselor were right on it.  They got statements from all concerned.  They made sure the younger kids were very clear that it wasn’t their fault.  They asked the victims what consequence they would consider fair.  They did the same for the parents.  I got a call from the principal and counselor at 6:00 pm, and they talked to me for half an hour.  The bullies will get in-school suspension (they do their class work, but are separate from the other kids), will not be allowed back until they and their parents have had a conference with the administrators, and will be required to research and write a paper about autism, to help make them aware of non-visible disabilities.  They will also be required to apologize to the kids they tormented.

Punishment to fit the offense, tailored to the children in question.  Input from and empowerment of the victims. Requiring the bullies to accept responsibility, and using the opportunity to teach about tolerance, empathy and diversity.

This school system is a tiny gem.  Why ever would we leave?

Our son, still enchanted with the Cartoon Network survival show, decided to shelve the cat-tail quest until spring, but decided that now would be a good time to acquire a different skill.  He decided that he was going to learn to build a campfire.

At first I tried to discourage this, but the subject would not stay closed.  Finally I decided that the best way to prevent unauthorized, unsupervised and generally dangerous experiments was to take control and provide lessons in safety.

First lesson was lighting matches.  We went through about a dozen, standing in the middle of the kitchen, before he could light his match pretty much every time.  We also blew them out and then dropped the spent matches into a pot of water, with appropriate comments on what could happen if they fell on paper instead.  So far so good.  Then we talked about how to choose a safe place for a camp fire, and what supplies to have at hand.  (Basically tinder (dry grass, bark, etc.), dry sticks of varying sizes, and a large bucket full of water.)  We forbade any attempt until we had cinderblocks to set up what is essentially a fire-proof box, and until Mom was present to instruct and supervise.  He gathered tinder enough for half a dozen fires, and a similar supply of sticks, while he waited with increasing impatience to actually see a fire started.

So finally yesterday afternoon, with all ready, we went out.  I showed him how to construct it, taking advantage of the fact that fire by its nature moves upward.  And then I impressed the heck out of him by lighting one single match, setting it under a corner of the structure, and having a good fire burning in about 5 minutes.

We let it go for about half an hour, at which point the original fuel was pretty well used up.  In the meantime, I showed him what happens when you push fuel in toward the center or spread everything out.  He also learned that no matter how you try, you’re going to get smoke blown in your direction.  Then I poured about half a bucket of water over the whole thing, (which had never been very big) and we went out to commit an act of washing machine, ours having died its final death on Friday.

So today, after homework was done, out we went and repeated the procedure.  This time he looked around and made certain everything we needed was at hand, built the structure, checked wind direction, and began trying to light the fire.  And trying.  And trying.  And trying.  When he finally gave up and asked me to help, it took me a good few tries as well, the breeze being stiff enough to blow the fire out even once it looked like it was going well.  He was getting frustrated by the time we finally had something.  He also learned that you can put a fire out by feeding it too much or too quickly and blocking the air-flow.

So he’s gotten some hard and fast rules drilled into his head, both of the safety variety (Do Not Play With Fire is Rule numbers 2, 4 and 6) and of the parental variety.  (Never Without Direct Adult Supervision is Rule numbers 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9.)  So the obsession has been channeled into safety lessons for now.  I predict the next thing will be a demand to spend the night outside in a tent.  Oh, and rule number 10?  That one’s for Mom.  Put the matches somewhere he won’t think to look.

Our boychick has taken to watching a “reality show” on Cartoon Network called Survive This.  The general idea is that a group of teens has found themselves isolated in the wilderness following an accident, and that they have to both survive and get themselves rescued.  The adult coordinating it is a survival instructor, who comments on the choices the kids make and whether or not they’re wise.  They make a big deal out of saying that this isn’t a contest, there are no challenges or immunity or anything else, just the need to work as a team to make sure of basic necessities: shelter, food, water, etc.

So somewhere in the course of this, the kids are hunting for food in a swamp, and get themselves cattails.  They’re amazingly useful plants: the fluff is excellent tinder and insulation, the mature stems are rigid enough to use to roof a sapling lean-to, the leaves can be woven into waterproof mats for sitting or sleeping, the pollen is both protein and starch-rich and the roots are very starchy and can be eaten like potatoes.  Our son was enchanted by this idea.  And this was something he could actually try, because we live by a marsh and there, across the road, are real, authentic cattails!  He was determined to essay the experiment.  I figured he’d babble about it for awhile, and then forget it.  Nope.  This was something real that he could try.

There’s only one problem; they’re growing in the marsh.  No matter; he would go wade out and get some.  (Before anyone panics, the marsh is two feet deep at its deepest point, and about 10 inches where the nearest cattails are.  Every so often you see geese try to paddle and end up sort of walking.)  Now this kid is usually Mr. Fastidious.  If he gets a splash of water on a shirt, that shirt is no longer Fit For Wearing, and must be changed instantly.  But still….cattails!

So today he got home, and said he was going after cattails.  Right now.  While I was still putting away groceries.  He put his waterproof boots on, and he was ready.  It was with some difficulty that I persuaded him to just look and see where the plants were, but wait for me to get out there before actually going after them.  And sure enough, as soon as I was in sight off he went, down the bank off the path and into the marsh.  His boots sufficed for his first step, but they only come up to mid-shin, and the water was just about knee deep on him.  Didn’t phase him one bit.  It came pouring in over the tops of the boots and he just kept going.  He was an intrepid adventurer in pursuit of Scientific Knowledge!  (Either that or he was 100% pure boy, glorying in the excuse to go into water and mud.)   He actually managed to pull out a cattail stem, very proudly bringing it to me, certain that I would figure out how to prepare the thing.

So home we came, him squelching greenly at every step.  He poured out his boots on the back step, rather surprised that the water wasn’t at all clear and at how much his boot had held in addition to his foot.  Then he went inside, stripped, and took an immediate shower.  Meanwhile, Cloud started pouncing at those amazing fluttery leaves, and I got online and tried to find out what to do with this six foot cat toy in my kitchen.

The conclusion I reached was that what he’d gotten was a part that wasn’t edible by late summer, and couldn’t be made so.  But I tried anyway, cutting up the bottom part and boiling it for 45 minutes, until boychick was convinced that it just wasn’t going to soften enough to eat.  We still have the head, though, and will see if it is as good for tinder as advertised, using an otherwise unusable charcoal grill as a firepit.  We’ll even try sleeping in a tent in the back yard one night, while it’s still warm enough to be pleasant.

He isn’t discouraged.  He wants to try to get some of the cattails at the edges of the fields, so that we can get leverage enough to get the root instead of just the bottom of the stem, and wait until spring for the shoots.  He won’t forget, either.

And tomorrow I’ll see what I can do to rescue his boots.

Some days move too fast to do more than note the high(?) points.  Yesterday was like that.

• Box arrived bearing large Lego kit, a gift for my son.  Opened box.  Son began screaming in delight: “yes, Yes, YES, YES, YES!” while dancing madly around the kitchen.  When shrieking and attendant maternal laughter slowed down, called to thank grandparents for gift.  Son managed the call with restraint and dignity, then went back to dancing.  Babbled about new kit for half an hour before he actually calmed down enough to, oh, say, open it? (Note: next morning, greeted the day with more thoughts on the wonderfulness of the kit. *grin*)
• Mid-morning temps in the mid 70s made a perfect day to go ride my newly tuned and adjusted bike.  Removed bike from garage.
• Heard plaintive laments from roofed cat.  Sophia, this time – usually it’s Tornado (sometimes multiple times in any given day.  Up tree = fun.  Down tree, not so much.)  Went in to retrieve Sophia via attic window.  Cloud got behind me, then jumped blithely out window using nearest human shoulder for springboard.
• Now two cats on roof.  Sophia came to me two minutes after Cloud’s escape.  Cloud took another 40 minutes or so to coax in, finally lured by opening can of cat food in her sight.  Came to sniff and was duly nabbed.
• Actually took bike ride, with boychild jogging alongside.  Temps now in low 80s and muggy.  Fortunately bike creates own breeze.
• Came in, drank water, took shower.
• While drying off from shower, heard prolonged and alarming thumping from kitchen.  Shouted inquiry as to cause.   Son’s response: “I’m trying to climb the wall.  I can’t do it.  I guess I need climbing equipment.”  Boy was serious.  Eeek!  Mr. Literal was trying to enact common figure of speech.
• Took wall-climbing boy swimming as suitable outlet for energy.  Listened to chatter about wonders of new kit and plans for same for duration of drive.
• Came home, listening to chatter about wonders of new kit and plans for same for duration of drive.
• Greeted husband on return from overnight trip.
• Talked to friend.
• Mommy fall down go boom.

Our boy has been watching the Star Wars prequel trilogy, chosen as his reward for his grades. One of the villains uses a two-ended lightsaber, wielding it essentially like a quarterstaff. (Sometime medieval reenactor that I am, I find myself analyzing his style and technique, but that’s another story.) So he decided he wanted to try to fight with a staff. His chosen partner, of course, was me.

But then there was the small matter of what to use for a staff. No problem – he has K’Nex. So he strings together a bunch of them to make two staffs. They are very light and very flexible, unlikely to hurt anyone. They also don’t hold together very well. So if the wielder moves too fast, or in the wrong direction, the things simply fall apart.

So we faced off, whereupon much laughter ensued. He would swing, and I would block, and pieces of both staffs would go tumbling. Or I would snap a feint, only to have one eight-inch section of the staff stay in my hands while the rest landed on the floor. I suppose, though, that it really is an ideal weapon. It’s hard to hurt anyone when your weapons self destruct if they come into contact with anything, or even with nothing if you swing them too quickly. I can’t help wondering how Robin Hood’s story would have differed if Little John’s staff had been made of K’nex.

Our son just made the straight-A honor roll.

It’s a good thing I don’t have buttons; they’d have burst. And when I think about where we started with him, I am in awe of his accomplishment.