My Wife had to give my daughter an alternative activity (quite brilliantly conceived) to help her deal with peer pressure from the neighbor girl to put on makeup.
Did I mention the girls are eight years of age?
As I usually reply when people ask this empty question, "If that's socialization, then I am actually quite thrilled that they are NOT being socialized".
By the way, when was the last time that "socialists" were considered the good guys?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Reason #1,791
"You're not going to grant the award to New Jersey because of a mistake, a clerical mistake in one piece of paper?" New Jersey Governor Chris Christie
I'm not going to let a typo affect my Children's education!
I'm not going to let a typo affect my Children's education!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Reason #1,789 for Home Educating our Children
High School class assignment: Plan a terrorist attack. Thankfully, this was not in an American school, but it would not surprise me to see it in one. While this might make sense at University level for more mature students, the lessons of Columbine and just simple common sense should tell a teacher that this is a bad idea.
I think that it is important for students to understand the perspectives around terrorism, not to excuse it but that by better understanding its origins and logic that we may more effectively prevent attacks and even engage in a process to reduce the drive to attack.
I think that it is important for students to understand the perspectives around terrorism, not to excuse it but that by better understanding its origins and logic that we may more effectively prevent attacks and even engage in a process to reduce the drive to attack.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Provoked Thought
A friend of mine sent me this link to a "Recommended Christian Essay". Since he frequently sends me thought-provoking stories, I read the story. Here are the thoughts it provoked.
Last Thursday, as I was driving into my neighborhood after a good day at work, I saw a small yellow hand-lettered sign at the intersection announcing “Talking Dog Show Tonite at 6 PM. 119 Brandywine.” Since talking dogs are rather rare in my village, and having some time to spare before dinner, I decided to take the kids over to see this spectacle.
I parked the car in the garage and entered the house. Before I could even call out, “Honey, I’m home,” the kids accosted me at the door asking, “did you see the sign?” and “Can we go?”
“Whoa,” I protested, holding up my hands, “What sign are you talking about?”
“The Talking Dog Show!” They replied in rare harmony.
My wife rolled her eyes slightly (as only she can do) and I confessed to the kids that I had seen the sign and that we could go if they got ready quickly so we could still be back in time for dinner. They immediately scattered to get their shoes on and my daughter asked if I could get her camera so she could take pictures.
Two minutes later we were walking down the street, camera in hand to 119 Brandywine. I asked the kids if they knew who lived there and the oldest replied, “Evan and Rachelle.” I commented, “I don’t remember hearing you kids talking about them—are they new to the neighborhood?”
“Yeah, they just moved here a couple months ago, but they’re pretty cool,” said the oldest, and the others agreed.
As we got closer to the house, we ran into some of the other kids and dads from our street. (One of the cool things about our street is that there are lots of children all the same age who play together.)
There was a small table by the side of the house at our destination with another sign reading: Admission 50 cents. I was impressed at the business savvy of these elementary-aged kids and gladly paid a 9-year-old girl (whom I deduced was Rachelle) the two dollars for our party to enter the backyard.
As we entered the backyard, there were a couple short rows of folding camp chairs supplemented with picnic table benches. A rope was strung between two trees with picnic blankets thrown over it to create a makeshift curtain at the back of they yard.
We sat together on one bench as most of the rest of the neighborhood kids filtered in, most accompanied by their Dads (there must have been a of peacefully-quiet houses on the street for the Moms at home). We exchanged pleasantries with our friends and neighbors as they took their seats.
After a few minutes, Rachelle walked to the front of the curtain and the talking in the audience quickly hushed. With remarkable presence and showmanship she welcomed us to the Talking Dog Show and thanked us for coming out. I briefly looked around and saw that there were about twenty kids and parents gathered on this pleasantly-warm August evening.
“…And without further ado, I present Sparky the Talking Dog!” called Rachelle as she deftly pulled back the curtain. As if on cue, the entire audience leaned forward in their seats. I saw this out of the corner of my eye from my vantage point on the right-hand side of the back row. I smirked at the collective performance but then quickly realized that I was part of it as well.
There, in the middle of the back yard was a rather large brown furry lump. There was also a red dog dish with “Sparky” hand-lettered on it in large black letters. Rachelle took a couple of steps toward the lump and commanded, “Sparky, stand.”
We all again leaned forward in impromptu unison to watch Sparky stand. A second later, out anticipation was fulfilled as Sparky slowly rose as if being awakened from a nap. Now, I’m no dog expert, but Sparky looked an awful lot like Evan Holder, Rachelle’s 6-year old brother. I confess that I can only assume it was Evan because his face was covered in brown makeup except for a shiny black nose. He was wearing the most authentic-looking Halloween dog costume I had ever seen. (I’m sure Mrs. Holder will be recruited by the school to make costumes for the next annual play.)
Evan “stood” on his hands and knees panting with his tongue sticking out and looked attentively at Rachelle for direction. “Speak, Sparky,” she commanded.
Sparky responded, “Hello, my name is Sparky. I am a Talking Dog.” I am sure I heard muffled gasps of surprise from my fellow audience members. Surprisingly, there was no laughter—not even a smirk. Rachelle then ordered Sparky to speak a poem and Sparky responded by reciting “Old Mother Hubbard,” which I am sure held a special meaning for a dog.
Rachelle put Sparky through his paces, singing “How much is that doggy in the window?” and even doing some simple math problems. At one point, Sparky walked over to his bowl and ate some food.
I overheard one of the Dads commenting to another, “Wow, these dogs get smarter every year.”
“I never would have believed it if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears,” replied his neighbor.
I can’t tell how long the rest of the show went because I was already starting to make a mental to-do list for the next day. Meanwhile, the rest of the audience sat in rapt attention focusing on every word from Sparky as if he were the Oracle at Delphi. My kids sat politely, but not at the edge of their seat like the rest of the children in the audience.
“….And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Sparky the Talking Dog!” concluded Rachelle as she closed the curtain to a surprisingly sustained applause.
My children and I got up and started the three-clock walk home as I texted my wife to let her know we’d be home in five minutes.
As we turned up the street, I heard other children excitedly telling their fathers how amazed they were with what they had just seen. “I can’t believe we saw a real Talking Dog!” exclaimed Julian to his Dad. His younger sister Mikki joined in—“That was awesome! I hope we can see the show again soon.”
As soon as we were out of earshot, my youngest said quietly to me, “Dad, that wasn’t really a Talking Dog.” Because I wanted to test the kids a bit, I replied, “Well sure it was—it looked just like a dog, and it certainly could talk.”
The eldest (and most sophisticated 9-year old in the world) said, “that was just Evan dressed up as a dog.”
“But he ate dog food out of a bowl—Evan certainly wouldn’t do that,” I protested.
“Dad, that was just Cheerios—I could see that easily from where we were sitting,” he replied with grave seriousness.
“But…..” I started.
My daughter looked at me as only a daughter can look at her father, “Daddy,” she batted her big blue eyes, “Just because someone says it is a Talking Dog, doesn’t mean that it is a Talking Dog.”
I smiled to myself, confident that my kids were learning discernment. “I bet I can be the first one home!” I challenged as I set off in a light run. “No way!” I was challenged in unison by my three children sprinting off ahead of me.
Last Thursday, as I was driving into my neighborhood after a good day at work, I saw a small yellow hand-lettered sign at the intersection announcing “Talking Dog Show Tonite at 6 PM. 119 Brandywine.” Since talking dogs are rather rare in my village, and having some time to spare before dinner, I decided to take the kids over to see this spectacle.
I parked the car in the garage and entered the house. Before I could even call out, “Honey, I’m home,” the kids accosted me at the door asking, “did you see the sign?” and “Can we go?”
“Whoa,” I protested, holding up my hands, “What sign are you talking about?”
“The Talking Dog Show!” They replied in rare harmony.
My wife rolled her eyes slightly (as only she can do) and I confessed to the kids that I had seen the sign and that we could go if they got ready quickly so we could still be back in time for dinner. They immediately scattered to get their shoes on and my daughter asked if I could get her camera so she could take pictures.
Two minutes later we were walking down the street, camera in hand to 119 Brandywine. I asked the kids if they knew who lived there and the oldest replied, “Evan and Rachelle.” I commented, “I don’t remember hearing you kids talking about them—are they new to the neighborhood?”
“Yeah, they just moved here a couple months ago, but they’re pretty cool,” said the oldest, and the others agreed.
As we got closer to the house, we ran into some of the other kids and dads from our street. (One of the cool things about our street is that there are lots of children all the same age who play together.)
There was a small table by the side of the house at our destination with another sign reading: Admission 50 cents. I was impressed at the business savvy of these elementary-aged kids and gladly paid a 9-year-old girl (whom I deduced was Rachelle) the two dollars for our party to enter the backyard.
As we entered the backyard, there were a couple short rows of folding camp chairs supplemented with picnic table benches. A rope was strung between two trees with picnic blankets thrown over it to create a makeshift curtain at the back of they yard.
We sat together on one bench as most of the rest of the neighborhood kids filtered in, most accompanied by their Dads (there must have been a of peacefully-quiet houses on the street for the Moms at home). We exchanged pleasantries with our friends and neighbors as they took their seats.
After a few minutes, Rachelle walked to the front of the curtain and the talking in the audience quickly hushed. With remarkable presence and showmanship she welcomed us to the Talking Dog Show and thanked us for coming out. I briefly looked around and saw that there were about twenty kids and parents gathered on this pleasantly-warm August evening.
“…And without further ado, I present Sparky the Talking Dog!” called Rachelle as she deftly pulled back the curtain. As if on cue, the entire audience leaned forward in their seats. I saw this out of the corner of my eye from my vantage point on the right-hand side of the back row. I smirked at the collective performance but then quickly realized that I was part of it as well.
There, in the middle of the back yard was a rather large brown furry lump. There was also a red dog dish with “Sparky” hand-lettered on it in large black letters. Rachelle took a couple of steps toward the lump and commanded, “Sparky, stand.”
We all again leaned forward in impromptu unison to watch Sparky stand. A second later, out anticipation was fulfilled as Sparky slowly rose as if being awakened from a nap. Now, I’m no dog expert, but Sparky looked an awful lot like Evan Holder, Rachelle’s 6-year old brother. I confess that I can only assume it was Evan because his face was covered in brown makeup except for a shiny black nose. He was wearing the most authentic-looking Halloween dog costume I had ever seen. (I’m sure Mrs. Holder will be recruited by the school to make costumes for the next annual play.)
Evan “stood” on his hands and knees panting with his tongue sticking out and looked attentively at Rachelle for direction. “Speak, Sparky,” she commanded.
Sparky responded, “Hello, my name is Sparky. I am a Talking Dog.” I am sure I heard muffled gasps of surprise from my fellow audience members. Surprisingly, there was no laughter—not even a smirk. Rachelle then ordered Sparky to speak a poem and Sparky responded by reciting “Old Mother Hubbard,” which I am sure held a special meaning for a dog.
Rachelle put Sparky through his paces, singing “How much is that doggy in the window?” and even doing some simple math problems. At one point, Sparky walked over to his bowl and ate some food.
I overheard one of the Dads commenting to another, “Wow, these dogs get smarter every year.”
“I never would have believed it if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears,” replied his neighbor.
I can’t tell how long the rest of the show went because I was already starting to make a mental to-do list for the next day. Meanwhile, the rest of the audience sat in rapt attention focusing on every word from Sparky as if he were the Oracle at Delphi. My kids sat politely, but not at the edge of their seat like the rest of the children in the audience.
“….And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Sparky the Talking Dog!” concluded Rachelle as she closed the curtain to a surprisingly sustained applause.
My children and I got up and started the three-clock walk home as I texted my wife to let her know we’d be home in five minutes.
As we turned up the street, I heard other children excitedly telling their fathers how amazed they were with what they had just seen. “I can’t believe we saw a real Talking Dog!” exclaimed Julian to his Dad. His younger sister Mikki joined in—“That was awesome! I hope we can see the show again soon.”
As soon as we were out of earshot, my youngest said quietly to me, “Dad, that wasn’t really a Talking Dog.” Because I wanted to test the kids a bit, I replied, “Well sure it was—it looked just like a dog, and it certainly could talk.”
The eldest (and most sophisticated 9-year old in the world) said, “that was just Evan dressed up as a dog.”
“But he ate dog food out of a bowl—Evan certainly wouldn’t do that,” I protested.
“Dad, that was just Cheerios—I could see that easily from where we were sitting,” he replied with grave seriousness.
“But…..” I started.
My daughter looked at me as only a daughter can look at her father, “Daddy,” she batted her big blue eyes, “Just because someone says it is a Talking Dog, doesn’t mean that it is a Talking Dog.”
I smiled to myself, confident that my kids were learning discernment. “I bet I can be the first one home!” I challenged as I set off in a light run. “No way!” I was challenged in unison by my three children sprinting off ahead of me.
Monday, August 2, 2010
More Reading
I continue to realize things as I read more.
The first is just how little I miss listening to the radio. I read about 20 minutes of news on the internet at lunch and pretty much know everythign there is to know. I had long thought that I had to read a lot of news to understand what was going on. I now realize that I really don't need to read that much news.
There is probably a separate blog on reflecting on the role of the media in today's world, and while I am not taking anything from the concept of a free press, I do take issue with a for-profit press that has to create news rather than keep leaders accountable. I used to enjoy listening to NPR because their stories were usually more interesting and thoughtful than regular radio. On Friday, having already finished my most recent audiobook of To Kill a Mockingbird, I turned on NPR. The story that robbed me of 4 minutes of my life was about the oh-so-secret Chelsea Clinton wedding. It was a story about the fact that there was no official story since everythign was oh-so-secret. I used to expect NPR to be better than that, but they have lost it also. They are so enamoured with anyone in that particular political party that they had to stop the presses to cover something that wasn't even a story yet. I think I need to end my membership with them.
I am also starting to see that the more you read, the better you can write. I still haven't read a lot yet, but I find my mind filled with ideas that I have to commit to writing here.
Next time I will tell you about filling my nook.
The first is just how little I miss listening to the radio. I read about 20 minutes of news on the internet at lunch and pretty much know everythign there is to know. I had long thought that I had to read a lot of news to understand what was going on. I now realize that I really don't need to read that much news.
There is probably a separate blog on reflecting on the role of the media in today's world, and while I am not taking anything from the concept of a free press, I do take issue with a for-profit press that has to create news rather than keep leaders accountable. I used to enjoy listening to NPR because their stories were usually more interesting and thoughtful than regular radio. On Friday, having already finished my most recent audiobook of To Kill a Mockingbird, I turned on NPR. The story that robbed me of 4 minutes of my life was about the oh-so-secret Chelsea Clinton wedding. It was a story about the fact that there was no official story since everythign was oh-so-secret. I used to expect NPR to be better than that, but they have lost it also. They are so enamoured with anyone in that particular political party that they had to stop the presses to cover something that wasn't even a story yet. I think I need to end my membership with them.
I am also starting to see that the more you read, the better you can write. I still haven't read a lot yet, but I find my mind filled with ideas that I have to commit to writing here.
Next time I will tell you about filling my nook.
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