Food and More Food

For lunch today: rosemary bread, smeared with 1/4 of an avocado, and two slices of tomato.

For lunch yesterday: black beans (about 1/3 can) with feta cheese, chopped tomatoes, green onions, and a vinaigrette dressing.

Ample reasons to work at home?

I upgraded my computer a few months ago. (Actually, I should say that the company I work for upgraded my computer a few months ago!) And for some reason today I decided to see if the struggles I had with updating the blog were resolved with the new machine. Obviously, I'm just typing away right now to see if I can type and I can format...but so far, so good. And I enjoyed reading what I wrote for the few brief posts from so long ago, so I think maybe I'll write a little more. Maybe ten years from now I'll check back in and be reminded of something fun!

There's a book called something like, "No One Cares What You Had For Lunch" about writing for your blog, and while I think that's true, I also think that *I* care what I had for lunch. And since no one reads this blog except for me, I can talk about my lunch. Or, in this case, dinner from last night. I made chili for the first time in...oh, maybe twenty years. It brought back good memories, of big pots of chili over the stove in that run-down house in Connecticut, and the chaos of living with lots of people. There wasn't anything specific about the memory--no conversation that struck me, no person who was particularly important, no incident of any great drama. It was just a white stove, a pile of dishes, and curious look into a giant pot. Food wasn't important to me back then. I think I would have preferred to find some other way of subsisting. But now food is one of my great pleasures. Unfortunately, yesterday's chili was...well, the recipe I followed (or semi-followed, which is really the best I ever do) was not exactly appropriate for my young niece or my mom or even my son. My first bite nearly blew the top of my head off. And I like spicy! So I spent the afternoon trying to tone it down. The secret finally turned out to be chocolate. The sources online suggested unsweetened baking chocolate or high-quality semi-sweet, but eh, I had Hershey's syrup for the niece and I used it. It turned out to be pretty good chili. Still with a definite kick at the end but with some sour cream and some cheese, everyone managed to enjoy it, except for Caroline.

I also baked bread. It wasn't perfect, but it was yummy enough and the loaf was gone by the end of dinner. And then I made a tomato and cucumber salad, thinly slicing tomatoes and cucumber and layering them and then drizzling with olive oil, sprinkling with salt and pepper. It should have been delicious, but drizzling olive oil works better when you have a carafe. I went straight from the bottle and it was more like a glurp of olive oil. Eh, but hey, it was still tasty. And it looked very pretty! Mom brought brownies for dessert and fortunately for me, they had peanut butter chips in them. If not, I could have munched the entire pan, but since I don't like peanut butter, I managed some self-restraint.

Choosing Surgery

I've spent the day on the verge of tears. We--I--decided last week to get the beloved puppy spayed. Honestly, I didn't want to. But it's the law in Santa Cruz, and I felt surprisingly uncomfortable about knowingly violating the law. (Back before I knew it was the law, I didn't care at all.)

It wasn't that I truly believed we'd want Zelda to have puppies. Even though she's an incredibly perfect dog who should certainly be passing her genes along...well, there are plenty of dogs in the world. I do resent the law, though: it seems like such a Republican effort, to make puppies either criminal or for profit, with nothing in between.

But more than that, it's major surgery. We have to keep her quiet for two weeks. WEEKS! Zelda! Quiet!! No jumping, no running. These phrases are oxymorons--things that simply do not belong together. As I told the vet last year when we cancelled our first appointment to get her spayed, asking this dog not to jump would be like asking her not to breathe. It's not an option.

But I did it anyway. I took her in this morning and left her at the vet's. It's the safer choice, it's the legal choice, the world doesn't need more puppies. But I just want to cry.

Dyslexics Have More Fnu

I ran into an old friend in the grocery store today. Well, I'd guess I'd call her more of an acquaintance, really. We met through mutual friends, had dinner once, and talked about getting together, but never quite made it past our mutual inertia to become friends.

But when she commented on the bumper sticker on my car, I realized how long it had really been. It feels like a lifetime since that first meeting at DLS when John said "I can't truly diagnose after thirty minutes, but he's presenting to me as classically severely dyslexic: you need to have him tested." Really, a lifetime. So long ago that it feels like I've always known. But it was less than two years ago, and K didn't know.

And it was strange telling someone new. Eighteen months ago, I went through the telling again and again, and I hardly ever managed without having to fight back tears and look away in order to not cry. I spent six months in turmoil where it felt like the most important thing in my life was this "special needs" label that had dropped on us out of the blue.

And I grew so sick of the people who said, "Oh, my brother was dyslexic; he didn't get diagnosed until he was sixteen but he's doing great now." Right. Like that's the same thing as someone who's five standard deviations off the norm, and reading on a pre-K level in 3rd grade. It felt to me a lot like saying to someone who's blind, "oh, I know someone with glasses." There are shades of experience, and the assumption of commonality made me grit my teeth and want to scream.

But honestly, it was a long time ago. And it doesn't feel that bad anymore. I named this blog after that moment--that stunned numb minute where the words clicked into place in my head and I realized that everything was different and that nothing was what I thought it was. But I also named it Learning Shock because learning about learning has been revelatory. I wouldn't say I was happy about everything I've had to learn in the past eighteen months, but it's definitely been interesting!

The bumper sticker is, of course, "Dyslexics have more fnu." You might think it's inappropriate, whether or not you are dyslexic or know someone who is. But Rory thinks it's funny, and I think that it is a wonderful thing that we can celebrate something that was so painful such a brief time ago.

Life with a Mac

I love my Mac, I really do. But it doesn't make blogging fun. I started out using Safari. But on Safari, you get no tools--no bold, no italic--although I do think there's a button that would let me attach an image if I ever wanted to try it.

So I decided to switch browsers. And I painfully switched to Firefox. It took a while, but when the switch was complete, I returned to the blog. And discovered that on Firefox on the Mac, the text entry box is a mess. You can't backspace to delete, you can't see what you're typing. (Incidentally, it works the same way on comments on other people's blogs. Yes, I look illiterate when I comment, so I don't comment much!)

I tried that for a while, and gave up. Then I tried this two-browser method. I write in Safari, where I can edit. Then I close Safari and switch to Firefox where I can format. Yeah, it works. But it's not what one would call fun.

However, I have to blog for work now, and it's leading me to all sorts of discoveries. Like this, and that. Someday soon, I'll discover how to add color and I will be content.

Summer reading program

I debated this summer about sending Rory to a summer school/reading program. He really didn't want to go, but I (of course) wanted him to keep working on those skills.

At his resource teacher's suggestion, we went the cheap route. I pay him $1 for every fifteen minutes of reading, up to $3 if he reads 45 minutes in a day. Last week, I had to pay him $3 for the first time all summer. I played it really cool, although I threw in a $2 bonus. But inside I was jumping up and down, because he did it for exactly the reason I dreamed of--because he really wanted to know what happened next. At least I think that's why he did it. He might tell me that it was for the money. But either way, he did it!

Yesterday we concluded he hadn't done his reading (an okay choice on Saturday and Sunday, although the first fifteen minutes is required on the weekdays). But when I woke up this morning, I remembered seeing him read yesterday, a different book than the one he's been working on. I think maybe he thought that didn't count. But to me, it counts even more--he was reading for pleasure! Woo-hoo!!!

Summer stupidity

So I thought I'd send Rory to summer camp. And then I thought I wouldn't. Because my kid and summer camp, not so likely to mix well.

But then the camp called and had a space available, and we're reaching the stage where all day long togetherness, while I try to work and he tries to amuse himself, is not always going so smoothly. So I signed him up and took him off.

I should have known.

I did know, really. I'm annoyed that I wasted the money. He was never going to like it.

But I'm also kicking myself. When I first talked to the camp, I specifically asked about reading and writing. (I know, for summer camp? But you'd be so surprised how often it comes up.) The woman reassured me, oh, no, of course not, no reading necessary. This is outdoor camp. This is wilderness camp. Swimming, animal searches, hikes in the woods.

So what did they do the first day? A group story-writing project. And as one of the oldest kids, who got put in charge of the writing? Oh, of course.

When I walked out the door after dropping him off, I really thought about pulling the counselor aside and just mentioning his disability. And then I decided against it. I figured it was unnecessary. I was just being the over-protective mom, right?

Sometimes it feels like the space between being over-protective and being an effective advocate is just too small.