stay away from fast women
Happy God’s Friday everyone. Today I’ve harkened back to what qualifies as an ancient tradition in my “hodge-podge of religious understandings” theology: I’m fasting. Not just the knitfast, which I agreed to earlier in the week, but also a foodfast likeunto the ones I used to do when I was a teenager. It’s a little different this time around, though. The knitfast is a somewhat-desperate attempt to focus my mind on the religious significance of the holiday, rather than the effect a holiday might have on my projects, and thus it encompasses an embroideryfast and a finishingfast (although the Boy thinks it may be ethically permissible to replace the buttons on my spring jacket, since this is repair work more than anything else). And although I’m fairly committed to keeping up the craftyfast until sundown tonight, I may conclude the foodfast a little early if it begins to interfere with my ability to effectively parent my child. It’s one thing to ride the hunger waves when you’re childless and relatively carefree; it’s another entirely to stick your metaphorical foot in a bucket right before you spend the day with an active (and kind of sick) toddler. Blake’s going through the last stages of a cold right now, and although the digestive problems have stopped, he now has a throaty, phlegmy hack that could scare a smoking octogenarian. Add this to his age, and you have the potential for some serious irrationality and tantrums. It’s wise if mama doesn’t deliberately contribute to this carnival of cranky.
”You’re not eating or knitting? Aleta, have you thought this through??” – the boy
Report cards are finally done, and as soon as I posted class marks, I was besieged with students asking me if there was any way they could change their mark. No, no and no. I don’t actually care about midterm marks in the grand scheme of things; for one thing, they’re an indication of progress, not a final analysis; for another, they’re often heavy on formative tasks and light on summative tasks (i.e. lots of small assignments and few big ones); for a third, I think a low midterm just makes a high final grade that much more impressive. I can deal with angry parent phone calls, just as long as most of them are angry at their kids and not me. (I took that other class, thank you.)
I’m just thrilled to be done, more than anything else. I can handle whatever’s next with a clear heart.
”Why did I get a 2 out of 5?”
”Because it’s the wrong answer.”
”But miss, it’s the thought that counts.”
[stunned silence] ”No, that only works with gifts. I expect you to think everytime.”
- a student & I discuss evaluation policy
And because it’s just not spring unless someone dies, it’s my sad duty to report that Ceilidh was euthanized yesterday. We had long since passed the point when she was “our” cat (which was somewhat conclusively demonstrated to us when the Boy’s mother phoned us to let us know that Ceilidh had moved to Sarnia with the Boy’s mother’s sister-in-law), so we were not part of the decision-making process. Apparently, she was sick. The Boy won’t talk about it.
I fully expect to spend a good portion of our visit to his mother reminiscing about the time Ceilidh threw up in his mother’s shoe. Although my favourite Ceilidh moment ever was when the Boy was running her around like a wheelbarrow and she led him right into the countertop. Bang! Head injury! And I like the story of her slapping Q’s face, because it’s such an arrogant, Ceilidh thing to do. And I guess there was that time when she was a kitten when she jumped in to Corinne’s KD pot. Hmm. Maybe I am going to miss her, despite the fact that every time she met Blake, she tried to take a swatch out of his skin.
"Today I found myself saying, 'don't worry Ceilidh. Daddy will be home from the woods soon and we'll be a family again.'"
”Aleta, you’re just going to have to face the fact that you love that cat.”
– myself & josie, during one of our car-pool sessions.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*