I hate parents who take credit for every single little thing their child does ahead of the average.

I hate them.

No mother says, “My daughter has gorgeous, curly dark hair. People compliment her on it all the time. I say, ‘Well, everyone has hair that grows differently,’ but I REALLY think that other mothers just don’t brush their children’s hair and that they use dish soap instead of shampoo. After all, it’s so EASY to have gorgeous hair if you just take care of it!”

That is hateful, idiotic, and ridiculous. Yet mothers make just as many hateful and ridiculous comments when it comes to their precious darlings reaching milestones.

“My daughter is SO verbal! She had 500 words before she was two. People compliment her on it all the time. I say, ‘Well, every child develops at her own rate,’ but I REALLY think that other mothers just don’t talk to their children! It’s so EASY to have such a brilliant child if you just speak to them as if they were adult and pay attention to them!”

Yes, you freakin’ moron. Other mothers shove their babies in the closet and let them scream. Someone needs to come to your house and pull your head out of your ass and then kick it really hard.

I hate these parents because contact with a SINGLE person like that makes many “normal” parents have a negative reaction toward any advanced child–and her parents–because they’re anticipating some sort of insinuation that their child isn’t as advanced because they are bad parents. Parents are insecure enough at it is without that garbage, for goodness sakes. Plenty will find an advanced child threatening because they’re so insecure in their own parenting WITHOUT some jerk-off making idiotic statements and acting like their kids prove they are Parenting Gods and everyone else is incompetant or downright abusive.

Here’s the truth:

Research has shown that the parents of advanced children speak with them with more advanced language and on more advanced topics and support more advanced activities (math, science, reading, whatever) from a younger age. Research has ALSO shown that if parents are randomly chosen to adopt more advanced language and expose their children to more advanced things, the difference in childhood development is almost nil. Environment makes a real difference only when improving substandard environments–in which children are actually deprived in some way–to average/decent environments. If you’re already an average/decent parent, becoming the Most Fabulous Parent In The World won’t impact development that much at all. Parental attitudes and value, more than any single factor, DO determine success in an educational system, but even they don’t noticably affect a child’s intelligence or mental maturation.

What does this all mean? Parents who talk to their kids like adults usually do it because their kids understand very well, not vice versa, which means taking credit for your two-year-old’s vocabulary is about as logical as taking credit for not shaving their head bald. Even the “greatest” parent can’t make much of an impact on a child’s IQ, though a really awful one can hurt it. Again, taking credit for their IQ is like taking credit for not physically cripping a fast runner. Wee-hee! Look at me! I’m such a great mom because I don’t beat and starve my children!

Give me a break.

On the other hand, *any* parent can take a large part of the credit for his child’s grades, all things being equal. Parents who believe that they can impact their child’s education have children who are the most successful in schools!

Wait. Nothing about IQ here? Yep, that’s right! IQ matters a lot less than you’d think in schools. In fact, it’s the “bright” kids (IQs of 115-130) who do the best on average, not the very smart ones (IQs above 145). And an average kid (IQ of 85-115, more than 2/3rds of the population) can do as well as a “bright” one with parents who care about education. Even more than that, the parent’s education makes little to no difference on the outcomes of public school education once parental attitudes ahve been accounted for. Think your kids can’t be straight-A students because you were a high school drop out? Wrong again!

So if you braggy parents are going to brag, brag about your kids’ grades. But shut the hell up about how smart you think you’ve made them. Obviously, it was a fluke of nature, because YOU are idiots.

Thank you.

The Gift of the Magi is an O. Henry story in which a poor couple each sells something very important to them to get something for their spouse, or specifically, as an accessory to the thing that the spouse sold. The husband sells his pocketwatch to buy the wife hair combs, and the wife sells her hair to buy the husband a pocketwatch chain.

I hate the story, and here’s why!

I couldn’t imagine burdening someone with the knowledge that I had sacrificed something dear to me to get them a present. It isn’t like it would be impossible for the spouse to find out what was missing, nor is it thinkable that they wouldn’t be very upset at the loss of something precious to someone they love no matter what story was told to cover it. This would foist great significance upon the gift that was given, artificially charging it with sentiment and meaning. Not good.

As the recipient, I would feel terrible that such of sacrifice were made for me–or, if I didn’t know why, I’d feel awful that such a loss was suffered by someone I cared about, quite eclipsing my enjoyment of a gift. I would be hurt that my loved one would feel that something as trivial as a gift would be more important to me than their continuing happiness with what they already have (especially if it’s a part of them or an irreplacable family heirloom) and their own presence on an important occassion.

In fact, thinking of this gives me an idea. I think one of my characters in one of my books ought to make a “great sacrifice” only to have it rejected by the other character because that isn’t what the person wants at all. THINGS aren’t what’s important. It would be a great conflict, I think.

I think I just got another “bad mommy” mark for laughing my butt off when the Bear was peeing in the potty and pulled up his penis mid-pee to see what was going on down there. But it was very, very funny.

Bad mommy.

Worse mommy for posting this to my blog.

Hehehehehehe.

I think my ankle is sprained. *sighs* Which means no exercise, which means I hurt, which means I’m whiney.

I am truly enjoying WHISPERS OF THE NIGHT, though (book 3). I haven’t had this much FUN writing in a long time. My hero is a pain in the ass, and my heroine talks before she thinks, and I just am having THE most fun with them!

There is something seriously wrong with me.

Also, for the first time in two years, my personal life is not in crisis. (Ankles don’t count.) I hope I didn’t just curse myself there… Aside from the @#$#@ swamp cooler not working and it being 90 degrees in here, I’m doing remarkably well!

…and now I have a strained ankle!

Here’s how it happened. We’re ballroom dancers, and we were doing jive drills in the kitchen when both of us did a side flick at the same time–toward one another! His (shod) foot hit my (bare) foot with enough force to bruise it and twist my ankle badly enough that I’ve been hobbling around for hours. I hope I can dance on Thursday!

You have to feel pretty stupid when you hurt yourself like that. The only consolation is that I can make him feel ridiculously guilty. *hehehehe*

Thanks, Rose, for sending me a link!

This one is from Historical Romance Writers:

“This was a very compelling and thoughtful read that conveyed both mystery, danger and a deep sensuality. Sarah was drawn with strength and character as a woman embarking on a new life of quiet servitude. A life that she had fought hard to attain, yet because of something she sensed in Sebastian, she took chances that in the end would cause her downfall from the life she so dearly wanted. One phrase stood out that I thought clearly exemplified Sarah and why she took a chance with the man of mystery – ‘Because you, this night, everything – it is a kind of dream of beauty. And there is so little that is beautiful in my life.’ Those words practically unmanned Sebastian yet his thirst for revenge even as he sensed that Sarah might be an innocent, was greater and so he still went ahead with plans that jeopardized her livelihood. This story was powerful, sensual, extremely well-written, AND I never saw the surprise twist ending coming! I won’t tell, so read it yourself to find out!! This was a total read and one I can highly recommend. Very well done Ms. Joyce!”

…but this one is actually funny. *g*

The Mozart effect is a fraud. For you hip urban professionals: no, playing Mozart for your designer baby will not improve his IQ or help him get into that exclusive pre-school. He’ll just have to be admitted into Harvard some other way.

Of course, we’re all better off for listening to Mozart purely for the pleasure of it. However, one wonders that if playing Mozart sonatas for little Hillary or Jason could boost their intelligence, what would happen if other composers were played in their developmental time?

LISZT EFFECT: Child speaks rapidly and extravagantly, but never really says anything important.

BRUCKNER EFFECT: Child speaks very slowly and repeats himself frequently. Gains reputation for profundity.

WAGNER EFFECT: Child becomes a megalomaniac. May eventually marry his sister.

MAHLER EFFECT: Child continually screams - at great length and volume - that he’s dying.

SCHOENBERG EFFECT: Child never repeats a word until he’s used all the other words in his vocabulary. Sometimes talks backwards. Eventually, people
stop listening to him. Child blames them for their inability to understand him.

BABBITT EFFECT: Child gibbers nonsense all the time. Eventually, people stop listening to him. Child doesn’t care because all his playmates think he’s cool.

IVES EFFECT: the child develops a remarkable ability to carry on several separate conversations at once.

GLASS EFFECT: the child tends to repeat himself over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and
over and over again.

STRAVINSKY EFFECT: the child is prone to savage, guttaral and profane outbursts that often lead to fighting and pandemonium in the preschool.

BRAHMS EFFECT: the child is able to speak beautifully as long as his sentences contain a multiple of three words (3, 6, 9, 12, etc).
However, his sentences containing 4 or 8 words are strangely uninspired.

AND THEN OF COURSE, THE CAGE EFFECT — CHILD SAYS NOTHING FOR 4 MINUTES, 33 SECONDS. PREFERRED BY 9 OUT OF 10 CLASSROOM TEACHERS.

****

I used to only be able to listen to REALLY mellow classical music with the Bear in the room because anything in minor key upset him, and most of my music is in minor key because I am a depressing person. He’d SCREAM if I played Dies Irae from Mozart’s Requiem or Night on Bald Mountain by Stravinsky. *g* I’m only now really breaking out my collection again. His worst reaction is now only slight edginess!

I’ve been getting more and more suspicious of my son’s eating habits of late because, to put it simply, it seems that a lot more comes out that goes in. Impossible, I thought. Unless…he’s eating the dogs’ food.

So I asked. And he confessed.

My son eats dog food.

(I am not trying to convert anyone to homeschooling. I have said before and will say it again–if you don’t want homeschooling, then it is automatically not right for you! But I still want to share my thoughts–as an individual in an individual situation, not as an evangelist but as person.)

One of the most delightful parts of knowing that I will homeschool is seeing the joy the Bear takes in new things and new knowledge and to never have to worry, “But what about Kindergarten?”

I am not nervous about him knowing “too much” and being forced to spend seven hours a day going through meaningless motions. I won’t have to hear a teacher say, “But all children even out in third grade,” or any similar nonsensical pap. I won’t have to listen to a principal object, “But if he does that now, what about next year? We won’t have anything to teach him then! He should get used to being bored because he’ll be bored his entire life.” I won’t be subject to concerned calls from my son’s teacher because he is getting into trouble out of boredom, wandering off to a corner of the room in the middle of lessons, refusing to do work, or simply mentally “dropping out” from the classroom. I won’t have the school counselor tell me that he isn’t ready for X grade because “he can’t skip yet, and anyway, he’s too short and his handwriting is bad and being bored builds moral character.” I don’t have to wonder if it would be better to take all his books and games away to ensure that school has at least some purpose other than being a time of conforming to arbitrary social expectations.

I won’t have to think of my son sitting through The Policeman Is My Friend or I Should Brush My Teeth After Every Meal or Money Is For Buying Things or any similar remedial unit designed for children with deficient home lives. Instead, we can spend more time in pursuit of his passions–or just in playing in the backyard with the dogs. He’ll “waste time” by seeing how deep he can dig a hole rather than in coloring the sixtieth worksheet of the year.

I don’t have to pay attention to national standards that I find shallow and lacking. We can learn about the history animal domestication instead of familiar barnyard animals and African habitats instead of animals you find at the zoo. We can read good children’s books, always at exactly the right level, instead of what a teacher thinks the entire class will more or less like. We can follow passions during school time, but just during play time. To put it simply, I don’t have to worry that his education was meant to fit another child.

I don’t have to obsess over the sorry state of local schools and think about encouraging after school enrichment in an attempt to give him a minimally satifactory education. I don’t have to be concerned that he’ll decide that he hates learning because all the joy has been sucked out of school through mindless repetition, dry presentation, insistence upon regurgitation, and fear of thought. I am not worried that his classmates will make him decide that knowing things is “not cool” and that he should work to know less, or that he will idolize the superificial yet ultimately incoherent philosophy of an older boy who adores Nietzsche because it is the only half-intelligent thing he has heard in years. I won’t fear that my vibrant, bubbly child will be transformed into a much more withdrawn person who quietly dreads school every day.

I don’t have to worry about whether he will want to have so many activities that he hardly has time for sleep. For one thing, without the overhead of attendance, passing periods, crowd control, and group teaching, “school” will take much less time, and so there will be time for many more activities. And for another, with a meaningful and appropriate education, I won’t have to fear that he will adopt a crazy schedule of extracurricular activities that will fill his hours with frenetic motion in a vain attempt to keep boredom at bay.

I don’t need to be concerned about his socialization. I don’t have to worry that he will will be put into an environment in which he is told that other children, who as a population have an average level of moral development lower than that of adult institutionalized criminals, are admirable models for his behavior, so peer pressure is not a source of anxiety. I don’t have to wonder how the artificial, mono-age system is distorting his abilities to interact with people both older and younger than him. Yes, I could close my family in my house and draw all the blinds, and some people do, but I like homeschooling for its ability to expose a child to *appropriate* socialization and to take the nurturing of character (which in schools, which have been brainwashed by the idiocy that is moral relativism, is no longer politically correct) as an important aspect of that.

I must admit that in many ways, I came to homeschooling kicking and screaming. My knee-jerk reaction came from my own experience with homeschoolers. As a child, I knew several painfully shy and socially withdrawn homeschoolers and judged them all in that context. When and where I was growing up, most homeschoolers were, frankly, weird because it took a parent very far from the norm to even consider homeschooling, and (let’s face it) weird parents usually have weird kids, regardless of schools.

I also didn’t want the responsibility of educating my children. I wanted that to be someone else’s job. It’s a scary idea, and there is comfort relying upon the appearance of expertise even though I knew from visiting the local schools and seeing the quality of work produced that it was nothing more than that. Some people are simply not meant to be teachers. It isn’t an area of strength for them, and that’s fine. For me, though, it was a more selfish urge that made me resist.

I didn’t want the financial burden or the time commitment. Homeschooling costs money and takes time I could be using to make more money. And it takes time I could be using for me as well, hours a day. For me, the financial burden was an issue of luxury rather than necessity, and it was, at its core, selfish again. As for the time commitment, I wanted children because I like spending time with them, I shouldn’t avoid some duties because I’m afraid they might be hard, tiresome, or unpleasant.

I dreaded the inevitable battles. At some level, it’s easier for a professional teacher, a stranger, to step in front of a room full of children and say, “Now do this.” The pressures of conformity and the trappings of distant authority both lend themselves to a situation where student resistance is not a large part of the equation. However, those problems are hardly insurmountable, and although I know we’ll have our rough days (get back to me when I decide it’s time for the Bear to be a fluent reader, no matter what he thinks about it), I don’t think that relying upon a system to coerce compliance is the best way to teach him.

But when I used to look forward to the possibilities of school–public or homeschooling–with faint dread and queasiness, now that I have had time learn about how the Bear and I work together and now that I have made a point to observe his learning and have put myself in the role of delighter and facilitator, I feel comfort, excitement, and joy at the prospect of his future education. I can’t wait to see which book he’ll bring me next to read in science or what part of the kids’ history books we’re reading will catch his imagination or when he will decide that we ought to pretend to be frogs or snakes or spiders. It is wonderful to me that I can say, “Stop crying right now or we’re not going to read science” and that works as well as the most dire imaginable threat! And I can see us having, with the usual exceptions, a continuing delightful and stimulating journey in the future. That is worth absolutely everything to me.

I remember Curious George from my childhood as a rather inane and, well, obnoxious character who wasn’t particularly funny, but I know that little boys usually adore the book. So I bought a copy when I was at the UBS, though I didn’t get around to reading it to my son until today.

The first thing I noticed was how awful Curious George’s “collection” was from an environmental point of view. An American strolls into the jungle and decides that he wants what he sees, and so he takes it. There is no concern for the wellbeing of the local ecosystem. There is no mention of respect for the laws of the country concerning local wildlife and its export. There is no mention of customs or recognition of the evils of animal smuggling. There is no method for insuring that the ecosystem and populations of the destination area were being protected through regulations, examinations, or quarantine. Nothing. And, possibly worst of all, the man in the yellow hat is seen as acting for George’s own good by taking him for the zoo, though he doesn’t know it, ignorant monkey as he is, until he is forcibly placed there, as barren and small as the cage appears to even the most cursory look. I found myself adding sinister comments throughout like, “which wouldn’t be legal to day and is very bad environmental practice,” and “compounding his plunder of another country with international animal smuggling,” and “or so the man in the yellow hat would find it pleasant to believe.” Yes, it was a different time with different norms. But that didn’t mean it was RIGHT!

Aside from the obvious environmental unsoundness, though, is the underlying colonial/exploitation mentality that is rather shocking to me now. There must be something wrong with me, but it seems like this book is just SCREAMING for a good postcolonial critical article about it.

*shudders*

I’m afraid that poor George, classic as he is, will soon be shuffled right back to the bookstore where he came from.