Freak of Nature

Good news: no students ask if I'm a boy or a girl anymore. A kindergartner did call me "Mr." this week, but overall I'm making progress on the gender issue.

A kindergartner also made me aware my wrist bone is a bit unusual: I had the kids sitting on the floor while I taught them about internet safety or something, when a little boy pointed at me and said,

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That bump."

I realized he was pointing at my wrist. "It's my wrist bone."

"Why does it stick out like that?"

"I don't know. It just does."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. Let's get back to--"

"Can I touch it?"

"No. Back to..." And I finished my brief lesson, then sent the kids to their computers, where I had to help the aforementioned child with signing in. As I typed his password, he pressed repeatedly on my wrist bone, and we repeated the above dialogue.

The following week, we went through the above experience again in the same class but with more children chiming in on the strangeness of my wrist, but I'm happy to report no one has brought up my freakishness for the past two weeks.

As you can imagine, I have been paying more attention to people's wrists of late, and I must admit mine is odd. But I assure you it doesn't hurt and has never bothered me before now.

Being a computer para

 Let me tell you, folks. I get why no one wanted this job. I make $14/hour for 7.5 hours per day. Then, in order to ensure the upcoming week isn't pure hell, I do at least 4 hours of prep work FOR FREE at home. In general, the kids are pretty fun. So there is that silver lining. 

But most of my 5th grade classes are a nightmare. After this week I'll be done with Digital Citizenship lessons for the month, so I think things will get better. They want to be on the computers, not listening to lectures on cyberbullying. However, this is the most important thing I will ever teach them, so I must soldier on. I went off script with the worst class on Friday and told them cyberbullying has led to suicide and none of them were to ever be the reason someone hated their life (the actual lesson is more sanitized). They looked at me with shock, said no way, and asked how I knew that. So I told them about a case that happened on the East Coast a while ago. I could also have told them about the child that attempted suicide 2 years ago after being cyberbullied at the middle school only a stone's throw from where they sat. But I didn't.

Back to School + the Non-certified Teacher Gig

First day of school for the 2023-2024 school year:

Julia (4th grade), me (elementary school computer para) 

Anne (junior), Claire (senior)

Back in June I saw the elementary school was still in need of a computer para, so I thought what the heck and applied. Schools must be a bit desperate for staff  because I was offered the position without even an interview. It seemed like a good idea back in June, so I accepted, but after only 8 days of school, I'm missing my stay-at-home-mom job. I haven't been this exhausted since I was 7-months pregnant with Anne and moving from Michigan to Massachusetts. However, the school really needs help, so I guess I'll try to stick it out for at least one year. And it's fun riding a bike to school every day while Julia and our neighbor girl zip along ahead of me on their e-scooters. Also, kids make the day memorable:

Kindergartener: "Are you a girl or a boy?"

2nd grader: "I CAN'T GET MY G**D**N COMPUTER TO WORK!"

Kindergartner: "Are you a boy or a girl? You look like a boy, but you sound like a girl."

3rd grader sobbing under a table and pointing at a nearby girl, "She called me a cry-baby!" 

Me: "Just because she says it doesn't make it true."  

3rd grader: "But I am! I'm always crying."

Me: "Well...I cried a lot in 3rd grade too and I grew up to be an extraordinary human being, so don't worry about it."

3rd grader: gave me a dubious look and continued crying.

Yet another kindergartner: "Are you a boy or a girl?"

2nd grader: "I wish [the former computer teacher] was still here."

Me: "Yeah, me too."

The Good News

 Here are some good things that came of Damon's 2 year mission in Mexico preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ:

1. He developed a strong testimony of the Savior, the Book of Mormon, and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. He hesitated to serve a mission because he didn't feel he had a strong testimony back when he was fresh out of high school. But he was a diligent keeper of the commandments and was worthy to serve, so Jake and I pushed him to go. We're grateful it worked out. During his mission and since he's been home, he's mentioned seeing the hand of God in the work, in his life, and in the lives of those he taught. And he now recognizes the the gospel is something everyone needs.

2. He makes polite and pleasant small talk now with strangers! He's such an introvert that I never saw this before the mission.

3. We were blessed and protected because of his service. A couple incidents that come most readily to mind: when I was teaching Anne to drive a year and a half ago, I wasn't paying attention and told her to turn right on a red light even though a car was coming! They didn't hit us and I knew we were being spared because of Damon's missionary service (and Jake's service as a bishop). Then this past spring I was driving 2 of my girls and several of my nieces to my Aunt Kathy's house for a painting lesson. Again, not paying attention, I'm seeing a pattern here, I turned when I shouldn't have, and caused an accident. Thanks to the other driver's presence of mind and God's mercy, no one was injured though both cars were damaged. Miraculously, my sister-in-law (whose van I was driving at the time) ended up feeling blessed by the  incident! Really! That's sounds too good to be true but this is one time when too good really is true. And now I pay attention while I'm driving, so one more blessing to come out of all this.

We still learned how to watercolor:

And Damon is still a pyromaniac:

Best of all, Jesus Christ lives! I sure love That Guy.

Damon Comes Home and so forth

 On July 13th the banners we got from Blue Valley North High School finally came in handy:

To his disappointment, his bags were left in Mexico City, but we didn't care--he'd made it home safe and sound. No Mexican accent, but he often forms his sentences like a Spanish speaker ("the brother of John" instead of "John's brother") and he sometimes struggles to find the right English word. 

And how did he like his basement bedroom? Lots. It reminded him of homes built by the poor in Mexico. If our house weren't so cold (he's finally given up asking us to turn off the air conditioner and wears long-sleeved shirts indoors) it would feel like he'd never left. 

In other news, Julia and her cousin Metta (not pictured) decorated her (Julia's) birthday cake:

This nearly ended in disaster. I went out to do yard work while Julia and Metta put on the finishing touches. Then they decided to make slime out of dish soap and contact solution the exact same color as the cake's modeling chocolate icing. Naturally some ended up on the cake. Fortunately, they realized their mistake before anyone ate it.

The following week we made a whirlwind trip to the mountain ranch

where we've been forbidden to dig up graves, cross the Cascade Bridge, or even put pennies on the train tracks. But not even recent bear sightings stopped Damon, Max, and Jaden (Max's friend) from sleeping out on the mountain. They built a shelter out of branches next to an aspen tree that had been used as a scratching post by something very large, which I wish I had a picture of (the shelter and the claw marks), and by golly, they slept in it all night. [Side bar: I spent too much time re-reading the 6th and 7th Harry Potter books. I wish I'd at least joined the occasional card game. I was just so book-deprived from the bedroom building that I almost couldn't help myself.]

Continuing the whirlwind journey, we then went to Saint George, Utah to have a lovely time with Jake's family and be reminded of the beauty of the red rock. The picture doesn't do it justice.

It was 109 degrees while we were there. My extraordinary 78?-year-old in-laws could sit outside in the shade and visit comfortably but I could not. I thought I was going to die and had to cut our visits short. Sorry, everyone. (Damon had a cold and I had allergies that might have been a cold so we couldn't go in their house.)

Basement Bedroom Before and After

 Before, there was this pegboard on the window wall:

I tore it off and found house centipedes, rodent bodily waste, acorns, and a plastic sheet over the insulation. Prior view from the bottom of the basement stairs:

The internet told me plastic sheeting is no longer recommended for basements in our area, so I tore that off, removed the old insulation, and found more house centipedes, rodent waste, and acorns. No pictures because I don't think of taking pictures when I'm running for the N-95 (thank you Pandemic: the masks finally came in handy), Chlorox wipes and latex gloves.

The window on the left became Damon's bedroom window. The one on the right was supposed to be my home office window. Alas, I've run out of steam and the pallets I like, so that plan is on hold.

This is the current view from the bottom of the basement stairs:

If you were to walk past the woodpile and our slick new tankless water heater (the gas savings pay for the water heater in a mere 20 years, by which time you will need a new water heater which pays for itself never) you'd find Damon's constructed-this-week rolling/sliding bedroom door:

Until this month, I've enjoyed the project enormously. Once July hit I was burnt out and just wanted it done. Didn't even remove the price tag from the pipe the door slides on before I installed it. Didn't search Facebook marketplace or the ReStore for a second-hand one. Using reclaimed materials takes time, and I'm out of that. Apparently didn't even finish driving in the screw. Probably stripped it. Can't remember. Or the blisters on my hands were too painful to finish the job. It was an awkward angle and I couldn't use the drill. Hopefully the others are snug. Also out patience for doing a thorough paint job. Slapped the door's paint on last night, deciding a sloppy one-coat job was good enough. Not apologizing, just saying.

Walking through the door,

you'd find this mirror my neighbor left on the curb on garbage day:

Does anyone else in Leawood scavenge from the neighbors on garbage day? Probably not in broad daylight like I do. But maybe. 

I built the little closet in the corner to hide the breaker box. All reclaimed material except for the door handle, which came from Hobby Lobby. It aggravates me that the little door, which I bought at the ReStore, had been stripped of its knob and hinges. Incidentally, the ReStore proved I'm a tightwad first and a steward of the earth second: if something was cheaper at Lowe's than at the ReStore, I bought it new at Lowe's. 

Jake wasn't keen on me drilling into our home's foundation. It's not wise to let people who don't know what they're doing do things like that, I suppose, now that I'm calm enough to consider the issue logically, but the neighbors may have wondered what I was shouting about the day Jake vetoed my plan to rent a hammer drill. So the little closet it attached to the ceiling (floor?) joists on top and cinderblocks (two that came glued together and free on FB marketplace) on the bottom. The door sticks, so please hold the closet in place with one hand while you pull the door open with the other.

Here's the reclaimed barnwood I love and adore. It came that color. If I could go back to last fall, I'd take Jake with me to Pleasanton to get more. But I was so exhausted from hauling and scrubbing clean what I had, I couldn't face going back one more time. All the good wood was by then covered with a ton of undesirable wood the remodelers had torn out, and I couldn't face digging out the good stuff, even with help. Plus Jake was worn out too, if I remember correctly. Work and the bishop gig, you know.

Okay, I've got to get off the computer and get to work--the rest of the house is a disaster. I painted the bed to match the rug (new from World Market). Jake made the bed for Damon many years ago, and is the reason we have a miter saw and circular saw laying around, which enabled me to build the room. You can sort the rest. 

One more thing: before the paint and rug made it look so good (special thanks to my interior design consultant and sister), I would sometimes get discouraged because it was so much work and was looking so shoddy. I would have to call my sister for a pep talk, which went something like this: it's okay if looks like it was made out of garbage, because it was made out of garbage and there's no shame in using reclaimed materials. It's a privilege to have the means to use them. [This is not unlike the pep talks I call my sister for after standing too close to a well-lit mirror: it's okay to look middle-aged because you are middle-aged, and there's no shame in that. Getting old is a privilege...] 

Reclaiming Wood

 Before Damon left on his mission, I informed him Claire would be taking his bedroom. She'd been an angel, sharing a room with Julia since we moved to Kansas 8+ years ago, and I knew she was tired of it. But, I told Damon, don't worry: I'll build you a room in the basement while you're in Mexico. 

Jake was not on board with this plan: finishing a basement is expensive. Not so, I replied. I'm going to "minimally finish" just one corner with reclaimed wood--it'll be cheap. To which he replied, I don't have time for a project like that. Don't worry, I said. I'll do it myself. And by gum, I did. It's almost done, and barring disaster, I'll show you the pictures next week.

In general, I consider Facebook an evil timewaster. But my sister informed me Facebook marketplace has replaced Craigslist as the go-to for free and cheap second-hand stuff, and she was right. A fellow was gutting an old house in Pleasanton (about an hour from here), posted pics in marketplace of the old wood he was giving away, and I was off and running. Here's some of the wood after I'd scrubbed it clean:

Note how handy stored water is: not only can you drink it in an emergency, it can keep your wood from warping as it dries in the sun.

Unfortunately, some of the wood was treated with creosote (a preservative used on railroad ties and telephone poles). I like the smell of creosote and planned to use it in the basement, but some unhappy research revealed it to be toxic and not approved for indoor use. So after ordering a test kit to for the wood that didn't smell like creosote and reassure us (i.e. Jake) that I wasn't going to poison us all, I built a raised bed garden out of clean wood to prove 1. I could build things and 2. this endeavor was already saving us money (raised bed kits started at $75 at Home Depot; test kit was $30 on Amazon plus $10 for screws plus $20 in gas driving to and from Pleasanton a couple times equals a whopping savings of $15).

See the cantaloupe hanging from the tomato cage? That green oval hovering at the middle back? This is a fun experiment to see how much weight a cantaloupe vine can hold. 

I used some of the creosote treated wood to build stands for our water barrels:

FYI, you want your water barrels elevated, otherwise you won't have enough pressure to push water from the barrel, through the hose, to your garden. Also, the larger water barrel is actually supported by cinder blocks hidden by the wood. AND the City of Leawood was subsidizing rain barrels and rain gardens last year. I didn't have time to do the rain garden, but they reimbursed us $150 for the rain barrels.

As you'll hopefully see next week, I used the non-toxic wood from the first photo to panel part of one wall in Damon's room. To build the wall that separates his room from the rest of the basement, I used pallets, also found on Facebook marketplace for free:

Above is the back of Damon's pallet wall. I was fortunate to find a source of pallets that was not only free, but also high quality and of similar size and build. I was also blessed and lucky to get just enough to finish the room. I've been back since, hoping to get enough pallets to wall off the furnace and water heater to make the basement look nicer, but they don't have many pallets there anymore. I suspect someone offered to pay the roofing company for the pallets with the wide boards I like so much, so they're not putting them out on the curb for free. They don't have a listing on marketplace anymore, either. And I haven't been able to find those wide-board pallets anywhere else. It's like the Rolling Stones taught us: you can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you get what you need.

Emo Res

 The Church has developed a 10-week emotional resilience course. My stake is trying out a shortened version for the youth (shortened meaning the lessons are only 30 minutes long as apposed to an hour+). Jake (who has now been bishop for 3 years [sidebar: in Catch-22 Dunbar cultivated boredom to make time slow down; being a bishop or being married to one is another way to slow time, i.e. it's been a long 3 years]) asked me to lead the Emo Res Youth Group for our ward.

To train for this assignment, I attended another ward's meeting where I was forced to confront the green-eyed monster. This ward has a youth program like the one I grew up in, the kind I always assumed my kids would also have: lots of active youth who know each other well and enjoy being together. There must have been 15-20 kids there. 

In contrast, at our first meeting the following week, there were four kids: Claire and Anne and the 2 teens of the family we asked to host. My job is to lead the discussion, which should primarily by the youth talking. Getting comments from this group was difficult and awkward. Anne didn't want to be there, and only attended because I made cookies and promised to keep it to 25 minutes. A few weeks later, 2 additional youth showed up, bringing our numbers up to 6, and the lesson was quite a bit more enjoyable, but alas. Those 2 never showed again, and now the host family has lost interest and we're down to just Claire and Anne and Julia (who is a couple years too young, but as it's now at our house, we invite her to join). We trudge through the lessons as best we can. ("best" is used loosely here; our lesson on anger management featured yours truly raging for the full 30 minutes, i.e. my anger was not managed unless you concede that I never threw anything or physically injured anyone).

But this past Sunday we finally had a lesson that felt slightly less torturous. The lesson was "Building Healthy Relationships." We learned to use "I" messages rather than "You" messages, as "I" messages are less likely to offend. The manual gave some examples: a "You" message would be "You never listen to anyone, and you're not really listening to me now." The "I" message version would be "I feel hurt when I don't think I'm heard. Looking at me when we talk helps me feel like you care." 

Julia caught on quickly: "You are a brat" was her example of a "You" message. Her "I" message was, "Callie and Lydia, I feel you are a brat." (I typed that correctly: more evidence that kids are having difficulty recovering academically from the Covid years.)

Later that day (which happened to be Father's Day) Jake got this card from Claire: