I think not. Anyway, it's official: in company with two super-excellent other writers, Danielle Bean and Simcha Fisher, I'm going to be guest-blogging for The Anchoress while she's in Rome. Bright lights! Big city! Look out, because Ma Kettle's got Mapquest. Whatever . . . that . . . means, exactly.
While Ma fiddles with the GPS, I have to think about things. Lately I haven't been doing that -- at least, I've been thinking, but the effort of rendering thought into prose has made me go all lethargic somehow. I can say, this happened, and then this happened, and then we did this, the end, thanks for playing, but when it comes to putting it all together on a larger level, talking about the how and the why and the what-it-means, I lie right down in the middle of the road and say to my favorite demon, Sloth, "Why don't you just come run over me now?" And he does. And then he backs up and does it again. Demons are so obliging when you play their way.
I'm trying to write fiction -- yes, yes, serial-story fans, the operative word here is trying, which as we all know is the word we use when we're not, really, all that hard. Honestly, I don't know yet what Maris is supposed to do next. I'm not sure she's supposed to have done the last three things she did, or that we didn't start off on the wrong premise altogether. The thing about writing fiction, as I am discovering, is that making a world, whether it's another one altogether or a reasonable facsimile of our own, you inevitably run up against all those same questions I've been avoiding lately. It's hard to know what your people do, and what they do next, and then what they do after that, if you don't know what the basic rules are in your universe: the right and wrong, the history that tells you what people have always done, whether your people choose to do -- whatever it is -- that way or not. Now, you can get a fair distance down the road on simple instinct, because funnily enough the laws of your created world do kind of comport with your instincts. But it seems to me that at some point you have to start articulating to yourself what those instincts are, and it also strikes me that you can have been a reflective person all your life and still find that hard.
Or maybe that's just Sloth revving up for another run over my treadmarked soul. I don't know.
At any rate, bright lights/big city is a theme I want to ponder this week, as is the ongoing-unto-perpetuity-world-without-end slapdown thing that seems to go on between the "Trads" and the "Mods" whenever anyone starts talking about Catholic liturgy as, for example, Father Rutler did the other day On the Square. As a convert of fairly recent vintage I feel something like an adoptee who comes bringing, on the one hand, a certain set of baggage -- I tell people my favorite hymn is "Christ, Whose Glory Fills the Skies," and realize that unless my husband is present, I'm the only person in the room who's ever heard of it. On the other hand, I have virtually none of the lifetime-Catholicism baggage which animates these arguments from both sides: mostly I think neither, "Thank God for freeing us from that dead and rotting language," nor, "Thank God for freeing us from meaningful eye contact with Father during the hand-holding around the altar, let it be anathema." Okay, maybe already you can tell that I have certain biases, but they really don't have much to do with the language, as in the tongue, of the Mass. Suffice it to say that I'd like to probe those a little.
Meanwhile, because of course I have to write what we did, and then what we did next, let me just share that I spent the early part of the day promising several pounds of flesh to the very nice orthodontist in exchange for something for which there isn't exactly one good word. A particular child's dentist had told me, at our last visit with him, that this child had a pre-molar "growing through the roof of his mouth." I believe those were the exact words he used. He intimated that this might really not bother the child too much.
Oh, how I longed to believe that. You do not, I promise you, want to lie awake at night visualizing a tooth growing through the roof of your child's mouth, let alone imagining what that might feel like.
So today I am in love with the orthodontist, because now I've seen a picture of the inside of this child's mouth, and it's honestly not the nightmare I was trying not to have. "Growing through the roof of his mouth" translates, as it turns out, as "Well, basically, his canine tooth and his pre-molar are sort of next to each other, which is why the canine sticks out funny." For some reason, and of course teeth are not rational, the tooth which should have slipped neatly into the space provided for it behind the canine decided instead to double-park.
That's not nearly as horrifying as what I had imagined, but it's still going to take about two years, not to mention a fair amount of metal, to repark those teeth. And then there are the pounds of flesh to reckon with. But the orthodontist is, as I say, a nice guy, which is good since we're going to be seeing a lot of him.
Watch this space, because having acquired the nifty new computer, I'm itching to try out more podcasting and other special effects. And whatever I put up at The Anchoress I will cross-post here -- though I hope you'll visit there and keep us all company.
4 comments:
Hmmm....Feeling blogger envy here.
Ma Kettle? Fiddling? Sloth? Not buying it.
Get to weaving. I'm looking forward to it.
Sally I have been introduced to your essays in First Things from my husband. My husband and I have recently come to the decision that when my oldest son starts kindergarten next year I will start homeschooling him. I was wondering if you have any advice for a Mom of 4 who's family doesn't get our family choices already? Basically, I am asking how did you deal with the outside comments after you choose to home-school your children.
John -- you should have seen Aelred and me wandering around Southpark Mall last weekend . . . it was Ma and Pa go to the Big City all right.
Cristina -- You may get fewer comments than you think. And at the end of the day, you are the grownup and the mother, your decisions are yours, and you don't have to justify them to others, even highly invested and much-loved others.
Sometimes you have to remind yourself that as long as you have discerned wisely, considered all the arguments pro and con, and feel as certain as you can feel that what you are doing is the best course you can take, you honestly don't owe anyone else a full-blown explanation.
The year we started homeschooling was such a blur that I can't now remember what I got asked or what I said in reply. We had had children in school and it wasn't working, and we had just made a major move, to an area where we didn't have good public-school options, so all that gave us some easy "We're trying this for now" answers. And I'd still say that we're doing it on a year-by-year basis, even as we enter Year 8.
The honest answer to questions about anything you decide for your family is, "That's really none of your business, thanks." It's not, however, the most charitable answer, especially when you consider that grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, etc, love you and your children and are truly concerned that you might be driving off a cliff with your children in the back seat.
So you can say, essentially, that you're doing what you believe is best for your child, at least at this time. The truth is that things change, and that at some point your game plan regarding schooling will change, too. You can reassure people close to you that what matters to you is your children's thriving and learning, and that you're committed to doing whatever will make that happen.
And you can always just say, "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," in response to any advice you're given. Keeping something in mind doesn't mean you have to do it. Maybe down the line it will turn out to be good advice that you'll want to follow, but you don't have to follow it now. Often, especially at the beginning, it's best to let conversations drop right there, before you either get caught up in rationalizing your decision for someone else or committed to some action you really don't want to take, just because a concerned relative has strongly suggested you take it.
All this is hardest at the stage just before you actually get started. As your children show every sign of thriving, and as everyone gets used to the fact that, like it or not, this is what you're doing, the questions tend to die down a lot. Of course, the truth is that loving grandparents, not to mention you yourself at times, will worry until your first child goes to college -- I have one right on the threshold of that great exit door right now, and I confess that I will breathe a sigh of relief when I see her launched.
And of course, the truth is that if a given child does not thrive, you have to be willing to revisit your decision. There is the danger of being too ego-invested in the idea of homeschooling, and you have to remind yourself that at all times, as your child's first teacher, your responsibility is to do whatever will be most conducive to that child's flourishing as a whole person. That's why, even after 8 years, I still say we're doing this year-by-year, and the course we've taken with our oldest child will not be exactly the same course we take with the other 3.
Not that you have to say all that to anyone else. To strangers, all you really have to say is, "Thank you for your interest in my family," or something else equally non-committal. And smile a lot.
Rushing off to Mass now . . . I've banged this all out off the top of my head, but will revisit later.
That is, I'll breathe a sign of relief because *I* won't be second-guessing the homeschooling decision, at least for that child, any more, not because of any difficulty from family who, though this wouldn't have been their choice, necessarily, have been wonderfully supportive and interested in our doings over the years.
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