So much talk about child-led learning, and parental support, and the many possible ratios of the two.

That last post was about me trying to let go and let Mr. T lead; this time I’m switching angles and writing about a time when I didn’t let go.

A couple of years ago, before our family took an amazing trip to Italy, H made this model of Florence’s Duomo.

The model was his idea. He was reading Brunelleschi’s Dome, by Ross King and was fascinated with the dome, couldn’t believe how big it looked in Florence, when viewed from above on Google Earth. H’s dome might not look that impressive on first glance–it’s just a foamcore model. More impressive was the fact that he made it on his own–with no instructions, no blueprints, no measurements to work from. He looked online for architectural plans, and found some drawings of the dome, but nothing with measurements. So he made his own scale plans by measuring photos on the internet.

This might be a workable concept if making a traditional building, with traditional right angles. But look at the terracotta sections of the dome and try to envision how they’re shaped. Then envision how you would cut the pieces from foamcore to make them come together into a dome.

Now, spacial-visual skills are one of H’s strengths–you may have heard me talk of the dizzying Lego diagrams he could follow at five. He was sure he could work this out, and he tried. He cut piece after piece out of foam core for the dome section and tried again and again to fit them together. Eventually he got so tired of cutting them that he was hacking them from the foamcore, with an X-acto knife. Then finally, one day when he was so close to getting the thing to work, he had enough. He picked up his duomo-in-progress, hurled it across the living room where it smashed against a cabinet, and said he never wanted to see it again.

Well. Any parent who ostensibly follows their child’s lead with his learning would take this as a not-so-subtle signal to move on. But no-o-o. Not me. I just couldn’t let go of the project. H had put so many hours of research and effort into his model, and he’d come so close to making it work–I couldn’t let him throw it all away.

So Chris* and I appraised the smashed model. We could see that H’s last version of the domed roof had actually come close to fitting–it was just that the hacked edges weren’t lining up. So Chris used H’s pieces as a template, and recut the pieces as only an un-frustrated person can.

Then I begged and cajoled H to try one more time. He said no! I begged more. Eventually he caved. He made the dome pieces fit, and finished the model, up to the brass cross at the tip.

I’m so glad I pestered him. Look:

That was the view from our hotel room in Florence. It was directly across the street from the Santa Maria dei Fiori Cathedral and Il Duomo. The old, eight-feet high wooden windows were worth the price of the room. We never tired of the dome’s ringing bells, or looking out the windows at that ancient terracotta roof, at the crowds in front of the cathedral. Each morning I drank my cappuccino at the window, watching people ride their bikes across the square to work–my favorites were the nuns, and the women riding upright in their stylish skirts and scarves, looking like extras from Roman Holiday.

But I think no one loved that view more than H. He owned that dome. He had conquered it. It was his.

Which brings me back to the little dance in which sometimes my kids lead, and sometimes I lead. I try to let them take control, but sometimes, I think, they can use a little push. A little insistence even. They need someone to say, I think you should try to do this and here’s why. H needed me to hear me say, I know you don’t want to work on that Duomo any more, but I’d really like you to make another attempt at it.

I try not to do it too often, or my words lose their power. I do a lot of biting my tongue.

But here’s what I’ve discovered: if you make an effort to listen to your kids and follow their leads most of the time, they may, on occasion, listen to you.

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* Chris has decided the he doesn’t want to be referred to as My Charming Husband. Too much pressure, I guess. He suggested Cristiano, his commenting pseudonym, which was actually the name of our concierge at this particular hotel in Florence. But I don’t know–referring to him as Cristiano makes me feel like I’m married to an Italian concierge. So I’m going back to using his regular ol’ name; hopefully if some business acquaintance googles his name, Chris won’t be embarrassed by his shenanigans on the Wonder Farm.

boy holding pomelo

Because I like to have a photo with each post. Because I thought I could make one more contribution to yellow week. Because the pomelo looks like a planet. And because the image itself could be a metaphor for the words below.

Our homeschool group sponsors a history fair each spring. Kids display exhibits on an any interest related to history. We encourage them to include an interactive element–something to do, or taste, or try. Kids take turns visiting exhibits, and staying at their own exhibits to answer questions. They also create stamps or stickers related to their topic, which they use to mark visitors’ passports. It’s always a fun, inspiring morning.

I try to help my kids come up with a display idea a couple months before the fair. Since we’re studying India these days, I figured I’d help them come up with projects related to that country. Lulu quickly came up with her idea of making an Indian dollhouse–although her interest is flagging a bit, not helped by the fact that she made a set of Fimo pots and utensils for her kitchen, which I inadvertently burned while preheating the oven to make pizza on Friday night. Doh!

Mr. T has been playing with options for a few weeks. First he said he wanted to make some sort of forest sculpture, so we researched Indian trees–mangroves and banyans. I was especially excited about the idea of him making a banyan tree out of Model Magic, because he loves that material, and because we read In the Heart of the Village: The World of the Indian Banyan Tree. It’s a beautiful book about a small Indian village and how life revolves around the old banyan tree in the village center. Mr. T could make animals to go in the tree! He could make shrines to Hindu deities at its trunk! He could talk about how banyan trees factor into so many traditional Indian tales!

But no. Mr. T decided he didn’t want to do that. So we shifted gears–me feeling a little disappointed. We talked about doing a project about Hindu deities. Mr. T has always loved deity legends, which began when he first listened to the wonderful  D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths on disc when he was four. He’s gone on to listen to them again and again and again. Last year he learned about Norse gods for the history fair, this time using D’Aulaires’Book of Norse Myths, and The Adventures of Thor the Thunder God, among others. 

We’ve been reading the fun Little Book of Hindu Deities, written and charmingly illustrated by Sanjay Patel, an Indian-American animator at Pixar. We played with the idea of making a comic book about Hindu deities. This seemed like an intriguing idea, given Mr. T’s love of drawing fanciful characters.

But again, no. Mr. T just wasn’t excited about these ideas, nor any of the many others we discussed.

I knew what the problem was.

As interested as he is in India, in the tales we’re reading, and the food, and the photos and the videos we’ve seen, what’s he’s really excited about right now is–space.

It started when he watched Wall-E once again, and started asking questions about galaxies. Then he started inventing his own galaxies, and journaling about the moon. When I was too busy to constantly read him books about the planets, he pulled out the books himself and started studying charts and using his budding reading skills to learn about moons and rings and orbits. I’m amazed what he’s picked up on his own.

I knew what I needed to do: I needed to let go of my idea of an India project. So I asked, Hey, Buddy. What would you think about doing your history project about the history of the planets? 

His eyes grew wide.

If you want to, you could make papier-mache models like your brother did when he was your age. Now his eyes were as wide as his brother’s old scale model of Mars. Yes! he said. Yes!

So we’ll do it. We’ll whip up some flour paste and rip up some newspaper. He’ll make a mess with paste and paint and I’m sure he’ll love it. Since he’s doing this for a history fair, not a science fair, I’ll help him focus on how people have interacted with the planets: how they discovered them, how they named them. Which will bring us back to those gods–we’ll work Hindu deities into his project yet.

But in the end, it’s his project. One of my biggest challenges as a parent is knowing how much to support; how much to let go. It’s an art, really, offering just the right amount of enthusiasm and help to make their ideas come to life. It’s an art that I make a mess of constantly; luckily I have three fabulous teachers, trying to help me get it right. Trying to help me leave things in their hands.

So when erin at house at hill road invited folks along on her yellow week, I jumped in.

Yellow has never been a favorite color of mine. I don’t own a single piece of yellow clothing–I look terrible in it. So I was surprised, when I walked around our house hunting for yellow, to discover it everywhere.

Almost every room in our house has yellow or gold as an accent color–it seems we use it the way some people use red. And it isn’t just in the background. We put a big hug of honey-colored tile in our kitchen; the entire exterior of our house is stuccoed in yellow. It’s a great foil for foliage.

So maybe I like yellow more than I realized. There’s nothing like it for adding a little sunlight. (But I’m still not gonna wear it.)

I have a lot to learn about photography, but jumping in the pool has been fun. Thanks for inviting us for a dip, Erin!

No, the Bon Jovi lover is not me. I wasn’t even a fan during their late 80′s heyday. (Although I did manage to make my ultra-fine hair pretty big back then, with help from Sebastian Shaper Plus.)

The Bon Jovi fan is my seven-year-old son.

How did this happen, you ask? Well, in another incitement of my waldorf guilt, in November my two older kids pooled their money to buy Guitar Hero World Tour. And as much as I despise having a gaming system in the house, this game has less to despise. The kids play virtual music. Together. My favorite band incarnation is H on drums, Lulu on guitar and Mr. T on vocals. It wasn’t long before Mr. T was perfecting his own favorite song: Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer.”

It’s pretty funny hearing your seven-year-old traipsing around the house singing, “Oh, oh we’re halfway there, oh oh, livin’ on a prayer…” But not funny enough for my jokester of a husband. He had to intensify the situation. One day in December he took Mr. T out to do a little Christmas shopping. Mid-morning he called from his car.

“I bought him Slippery When Wet.”

“You bought what for who?” I asked.

“You know, Slippery When Wet, Bon Jovi’s big album. For Mr. T. We’re playing it now. He loves it!”

And so he does. He’s loved it over and over and over again. At high volume in his bedroom, jumping on and off his bed. Shouldn’t he be listening to They Might Be Giants or Ralph’s World? Or The Beatles, at the very least?

Of course, if you’ve learned anything about my youngest after reading this blog, you know how much he likes to talk. So for over a month our talk has had Bon Jovi references. Many references. And as I take part in these titillating discussions, I realize that Mr. T is actually learning a few things. Consider:

Music history: We spent the Christmas Eve drive to My Charming Husband’s parents’ house in a full-family discussion of whether Bon Jovi was considered hair metal. Were they better than typical hair metal bands? Weren’t they more in a class with Van Halen? Were they hair metal? (My guitar-playing husband–who never has been a metal fan, I’ll have you know–nevertheless insisted that Bon Jovi was not on a musical par with Van Halen.) So then we had a hair metal shout-out: Twisted Sister, Quiet Riot, Night Ranger, Ratt, Motley Crue (sorry, I’m not searching down an umlaut character on Motley Crue’s account). Stryper led to mention of Christian metal; then we had to acknowledge hair metal predecessors glam rock and heavy metal. Next thing we knew, My Charming Husband was talking about German metal, a category I didn’t imagine actually existed and the whole conversation pretty much disintegrated from there. Bring on the Christmas carols!

Current events: Mr. T came home from an evening at my parents’ house and told me that when he asked his Grammy if she liked Bon Jovi, she said yes because Bon Jovi did lots of good work for others. Really, I wondered? Bon Jovi? We quizzed Grammy over Christmas dinner. Turns out she’d mixed up Bon Jovi with Bon-o. (Silly Grammy.) Which led to further discussions of Rockers Who Do Good Work.

Music appreciation: Mr. T loves to nettle the rest of the family by insisting that Bon Jovi is better than The Beatles. At first we tried to give him concrete reasons for why this isn’t so. (Music. Lyrics.) But then we tired of his adamancy and just started nodding our heads sarcastically. Then one evening, during a nightly wrestling match between him and My Charming Husband, Mr. T decided it was a battle between Jon Bon Jovi and John Lennon. When it became clear that neither was winning, Mr. T stood on the couch and insisted that he’d morphed into a new mega-wrestler named Jon Bon Lennon. And then he pummeled his father.

Singing to his Mama that she gives love a bad name.

Etymology: At one point we explained to Mr. T that Jon Bon Jovi’s real name was John Bongiovi, which is Italian. And I told him that bon means “good” in French, and assumedly is a variation of the Italian word for good, buono. “What does giovi mean?” Mr. T wanted to know. “Can you google it?” So we did, and discovered that it’s a conjugated form of the verb giovare, which means “to be useful” or “to be good”. “That’s a lot of goodness,” Mr . T said. “What’s with all the Bon bands?” He was referring to one of my new faves, Bon Iver. So we googled Bon Iver and discovered that the name is a variant of bon hiver, French for “good winter”. (We also discovered some other interesting backstory which included mononucleosis and a Northern Exposure episode.) Fascinating stuff.

Yep, that’s why we homeschool: even mediocre hair metal bands can be learning opportunities. (Although Mr. T has moved on somewhat. Yesterday he was singing a different Guitar Hero song, Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker”. Luckily, I suppose, he wasn’t singing the original lyrics: I’m a joker, I’m a smoker, I’m a midnight toker. No, he was substituting names of the Hindu deities he’s been learning about: I’m a Brahma, I’m a Rama, I’m a Parashurama. I tell you, there’s never a dull moment around here.)

Let me make it up to you with some pretty photos. I know you like pretty photos.

what homeschooling looked like this week

planning for an Indian dollhouse • drawing a banyan tree scene • using base 10 blocks to understand the difference between “402″ and “four hundred plus two hundred” • starting a moon journal • plowing through the newest stack of library books • also: Shakespeare class for Lulu • shelter class for Mr. T • reading Indian tales over hot chocolate in a cafe • playing tetherball • algebra • watching animated tales of Hindu gods • Rosetta Stone French • overnight literary conference for Lulu • a rather wet Park Day • lots of ballet • Lulu’s book group • Zoombinis on the computer • written response to a Langston Hughes poem • a new journal of creatures for Mr.  T • a video about rovers on Mars • dictating the neverending story of Scritch and Scratch, two children-turned-wolves • starting a fictional journal of a 16th century girl for Lulu’s Shakespeare class • reading Farmer Boy to Mr. T • more Unfortunate Events in the car, driving from place to place

It always surprises me how much they do, when I write it down.

So I’ve finished the first month in My Year of Excellent Essayists, and what a glorious month it’s been! I’ve enjoyed reading Annie Dillard so much that I’m reluctant to let her go, and move on to the next essayist in the queue. 

If you’re interested in essays, a fantastic resource is The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present, by Phillip Lopate. It’s impressively complete, just loaded with wonderful works. And Lopate’s introduction to each essayist gives helpful historical context and insight into the writing.

In his introduction to Dillard, Lopate writes, “Dillard is a self-described seeker, a pilgrim on a mission to retrieve a sense of ecstatic wonder before the natural world.” Now you know that someone who lives on a wonderfarm is bound to find that intriguing! And indeed, for a while I’ve had in mind an idea for an essay of my own: an essay on looking at my own world, my world with kids, through eyes like Annie Dillard’s. So this month has been particularly exciting–I’ve been reading Dillard on a deeper level, not merely to appreciate her words, but also to interact with them.

random notes:

I mostly stuck with Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. The fact that Dillard wrote this while still in her twenties was enough to make me wish I had an eject button beside my writing chair. I read this for the first time in my twenties, and I’m sure there were parts I didn’t even understand back then. 

The essay “Seeing” refers to pennies, how eyes function, Van Gogh, Perseid meteor showers, cataract surgery patients and Thoreau, among others. Dillard manages to leap from the Andromeda galaxy to planarians in the space of three lines. She’s a master weaver of sorts; calling her curious would be an understatement.

Lopate writes that Dillard, “came to essays through poetry, and her prose has the unmistakable imprint of a trained poet.” You can see that in the lines I share below. I’m sure this little project of mine will reveal my utter weakness for lyricism.

Then, of course, there is her power of observation. Dillard can spend hours watching muskrats and her description assures that her reader sees those muskrats too.  Pilgrim is an extended solo nature walk; Tinker Creek is her own Walden Pond. For a mother who spends her day in a flurry of clutter and chaos, walking along Tinker Creek is calming. Then again, Dillard writes, “I am no scientist. I explore the neighborhood.” She’s taught me to pay closer attention to my own neighborhood–whether it’s the streets outside my door or my kitchen filled with kids. It isn’t so much what you observe as how you observe it.

She often leaves little treats at the end of paragraphs. A surprising, incongruous line that might get explained in the next paragraph, or might get explained several paragraphs later. Interesting.

I like reading Pilgrim at Tinker Creek in small doses. It’s heady reading for me. And sometimes it’s a little lonely–it makes me miss people.

a few lines to love:

(mostly taken from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)

“But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of days.”

I like the thought. And the image of a world planted in pennies.

“Night was knitting over my face an eyeless mask, and I still sat transfixed.”

Ah, such a metaphor. And the repeated “s” sounds.

“But I couldn’t sustain the illusion of flatness. I’ve been around too long. Form is condemned to an external danse macabre with meaning: I couldn’t unpeach the peaches.”

This one might be hard to grasp out of context, but I love the seriousness of the danse macabre paired with the whimsicality of unpeaching the peaches. Making nouns into verbs–fun, fun, fun!

“Some days when a mist covers the mountains, when the muskrats won’t show and the microscope’s mirror shatters, I want to climb up the blank blue dome as a man would storm the inside of a circus tent, wildly, dangling, and with a steel knife claw a rent in the top, peep, and if I must, fall.”

Oh, the alliteration at the beginning–all those m’s–and then the crazy, imaginative image at the end.

“I like slants of light; I’m a collector. That’s a good one, I say, that bit of bank there, the snakeskin and the aquarium, that patch of light from the creek on bark.”

I find light imagery creeping into my own writing constantly; Dillard’s work is full of it. The idea of collecting slants of light charms me.

“Fish! They manage to be so water-colored.”

Makes me laugh.

“I looked up into the channel for a muskrat, and there it came, swimming toward me. Knock; seek; ask.”

She’s such a master word-manipulator!

“If I freeze, locking my muscles, I will tire and break. Instead of going rigid, I go calm. I center down wherever I am; I find a balance and repose. I retreat–not inside myself, but outside myself, so that I am a tissue of senses. Whatever I see is plenty, abundance. I am the skin of water the wind plays over; I am petal, feather, stone.

Ah.

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.”

I found this one as the footer quote on good + happy day  and then stumbled upon it myself in The Writing Life. Isn’t it a lovely reminder for living an intentional life?

the plan for february:

So I’m going to flat-out cheat with the plan, and stick with Annie Dillard for a few more weeks. In the last few weeks I’ll read some Michele de Montaigne, who is widely considered the godfather of the essay. I’ve been meaning to read Montaigne, but somehow I think a couple of weeks with a 16th century essayist will be plenty.