Middle vs. Elementary

X finishes 6th grade next week. Her first year of middle school. My first year of parenting a middle schooler. There is a lot to say about each.

I have almost no involvement with the school--maybe none, outside of writing emails to a couple of teacher beseeching them for extra time for X's project. Or saying that we agree, she should not be making faces at you during class. I put it this way: "We have reminded X not to let her face betray her emotions." In other words, "your class is pretty darn boring and X thinks you talk down to the kids, but we've asked her to act otherwise." (I do not blame the teacher, here; she is just doing her job the best she knows how and it probably works just fine for most of her students.)

I am not so good at acting otherwise, myself. In fact, about 10 years ago, I decided I would walk out of any meeting that made me physically uncomfortable. I have had to excuse myself a few times. And I was probably rolling my eyes way before I got out of there.

Anyway, back to school involvement. As my long time readers (hey, my only readers!) know, I was an activist back at X's elementary school in San Francisco. Looking back, I think I was flipping from mania to depression, fueled by the dual sense of power and futility that comes with working closely with a small, struggling elementary school. My lasting impression: I was more involved in the school than in my child's education. Part of that was because, as I have written, we saw that school as our family' social justice project. So, I wanted to see all kids get exposure to art the way that X had. Unfortunately, X didn't much like the "artists in residence" who were ultimately hired.

I burned a few bridges too. More than in my professional life, where I am a little cautious to maintain relationships (usually), I would cross whatever lines I had to get the programs I wanted at a cost we could afford. I still have mixed feelings about that.

Earlier this year, I was forwarded an email from the current PTA at X's elementary school. Of course, this PTA has its own priorities, and they are dismantling most of what I worked to build. I know from my day job that no one person alone can make lasting change in a school. But still I tried. The changes are inevitable, and from my new vantage point, are less painful than they might be.

This year, my focus was on X, helping her make it through that first year. Even though we purposefully chose this school because its homework requirements were less than at some "magnet" schools, it was still a challenge for her to get her work done. Many nights, my job was to sit next to her as she struggled to get words onto paper for yet another book review or report on world culture. And I sympathize; I too struggle to get words on paper. Anyway, supporting her that way was much more satisfying than coaching her on keeping her emotions to herself, how ever useful a tool that may be.

X reports that middle school is hard and kids should not have to do so much work when they are kids--similar to her theme in elementary. She's pretty convincing. On the plus side, she has a circle of 11 friends (we counted them last night) and the parties and overnights that come with that. She's had good experiences through the "Gifted and Talented" club, and has enjoyed school dances and such. Those things mean a lot to her--and therefore, to me.

Temporarily Terse

It's terse; it's stark; it's kind of bare.
Mom of One, a placeholder.
A new blog look to go with it.

Renaming, Again

OK, it is time. I need yet another new name for my blog.

I have my Texas license and plates; the local Nordstrom has my address. I can drive to a (limited) number of locations without getting lost. X has finished almost a year in school here. D is out fraternizing with the locals several late nights a week. The boxes are all unpacked (I think) and we are settled into our townhouse.

I can't be San Francisco Mom of One anymore, either GTT or in Austin. But clearly, I can't be Austin Mom of One. And just Mom of One sounds too stark.

So, who am I? Or, I mean, what is the name of my blog? It could be just GTT, but I think a place-oriented name isn't right this time.

Help me?

Sand!

Sandcastles and surf. That was last weekend, in Corpus Christi and North Padre Island.

We arrived late Friday at the Corpus Christi Omni to check into our upgraded $65 (yes!) room. This Omni is a slightly faded lady, but it didn't matter too much. They treated us well and even let us pick free room-service breakfast drinks. X and I both love room service--well, who doesn't? We were thrilled to place our card on the doorknob asking for coffee, cranberry juice and ice tea.

Oh, but on to the beach! It's about 20 minutes from Corpus Christi, and we got to choose from a patchwork of city and state beaches. We'd never been to the beach in Texas before. It was great! Fine sugar sand and warm water with big-enough-but-not-too-big waves. We stopped at a souvenir shop on the way there and got a boogie board and a small inflatable boat. That was enough to keep us busy in the surf for a couple of hours. And that was about as much sun as we could take.

Back in the hotel room, we all took naps. Then we set off to explore Port Aransas on Mustang Island. We were checking out places to stay for the next time--right up against the beach. The best way to do this, we decided, was to drive right along the beach. Hey, it's legal there. The sand was all packed down like a little country road--at first. The further we went, the looser and rougher it got. I was driving and slightly panicked. OK, maybe D would say more than slightly. We kept thinking we'd find a road off the beach that we could take back to town. Finally, in looser sand than I liked, I pulled a U-turn and plowed my way back to the packed sand onto a connecting road and into downtown Port A, as they say. Which, given my tendency to mispronounce the place as Port Ar-anus, struck me as funny. Anyway, we discovered that if we'd kept driving through the drifting sands for 7 miles, we would have found a connecting road.

The town was better than it sounded. A not-too-chi-chi spot, with more souvenir shops, one with front doors framed by 12 foot sharks with open jaws. Get the picture? No, I didn't take any. I can't get used to having a camera that will fit into my purse, so I often forget it. We looked, from the outside, at slightly run down little cottages and newly built beach houses. D watched fishing boats arrive back at the town dock, tourists carrying snapper and such.

We picked a restaurant on the dock for dinner. Our first course was Oysters Rockefeller, which I hadn't had in years. The main courses were a bit of a let down after that, but it was nice sitting on that covered patio overlooking the water. On the way back to the hotel, we bought supplies for the next day's activity: making sandcastles.

During the drive down the sand, X and I had noticed fancy sandcastle making in action. One castle looked like it belonged in a fairytale. The other was more sculpture than castle: a bust of someone. We had decided that we should try for ourselves.

Next morning, we were on the beach by 7, with our molds and a bucket. We made a basic castle and then sculpted with our fingers, the way we'd seen the pros do. We added details with the drip method, because our sculpting wasn't all that effective. We aspire to more next time.

I've written about this trip in more detail than I'd planned. I think it's because it represented a real turn around in mood for me, after my usual spring-time blues. I am glad to be back.

Birthday Dinner

I haven't done much cooking over the past year. I am a good-enough cook, but I just lost the will. X eats just five things, but mostly a lot of Annie's Mac'n'Cheese. D has gotten into the habit of going out for dinner at around 10, fueling his late night work. And I have been living off of snacks and sandwiches. There, I admit it. The family dinner is, of course, more virtuous, but has not been one of our virtues.

Anyway, last night I mustered it up to cook a birthday dinner for D. I knew what would please him and it was simple: fish and a vegetable. When I want to make him happy, it's an easy method.

It's tomato time in Texas already, or at least they had some local tomatoes at Central Market, the nearest fancy grocery. So I decide to go for the classic tomato-mozzarella-basil salad. Central Market is always a challenge for me. After one year, I still haven't learned where everything is. I kept looking for the vinegars near the salad dressing but turns out they had a whole half aisle to themselves. Sherry vinegar seemed like a not-too-tangy choice.

The cod looked pretty good, and I thought a simple lemon-butter sauce would match its uncomplicated flavor. Lemon butter and vinegar in the same meal seemed a bit weird, but I knew he wouldn't mind. It's each flavor that matters to him. As much as my spouse can seem a mystery after 14 (or so) years, I guess I have learned a few of the subtleties.

When it came time to cook all this, I recruited X's help and it was good help. She made the salad on her own pretty much. And she used some little tricks on the cutting board: slicing a bit off the bottom of the tomato to steady it while she cut the slices, for example. She even knew what a chiffonade was, though she needed some help in execution. I didn't teach her any of that. We haven't done much cooking together, outside the key-lime pie we made for Christmas (for D). She explained how she learned: it was all Good Eats, and the other cooking shows on Food Network. We often watch Good Eats together. We like it because the host, Alton Brown, explains the whys of cooking as well as the what--sometimes even scientific explanations. Sometimes he even has Shirley Corriher on. She's an actual biochemist of food.

X's comment: Who says you can't learn something from TV?

Not me.

(She points out that I have already used that line in a blog entry. But I am too lazy to find the page.)

Oh, yeah, D loved the dinner and thought the vinegary tomatoes cleansed his palate for the buttery fish. (See, I knew he'd like it.) We bought a key-lime pie (also his fave) from the local and wonderful pie store, which does not seem to have a URL. Like many places in South Austin, it's just down the street from a landmark bar--in this case, the Horseshoe Saloon.

(Apologies to Deb for my foray into her territory. )