"blue tray"

I found this picture today at http://burcuavsar.com/. It cracked me up. Literally, pieces of me all over the floor. My fingers remained intact and fully functioning. Like the chicken moving with its head already cut off. So feel lucky that you even get to read this post.

That was totally beside the point. This picture conjured up some memories of making Eliza's lunch for school. She has grown past this, but I seriously used to number her food items so that she would know what to eat first. Anything labeled with a '1' was a required food item. A '2' was still important, but could not be eaten until '1' was gone. '3' was optional, a treat. '3's of course, were not to be eaten until '1's and '2's were both gone. The best part about this is that she liked it. She had actually been getting stressed out about what she had to eat.

She is a proficient lunch eater now and numbering is no longer necessary.

peace

I'm not delving into the beauty pageant topic of world peace. I am talking about the self-centered sort of peace within. I am wondering if this is, perhaps, more difficult than establishing world peace.

I was reading Brigitta's blog, as I frequently do (it seems to put me in a rather reflective mood), and was reminded of the continual search for peace within. In a recent post she talked a bit about how our interests in the pursuit of knowledge changes throughout our lives. It moved me to think about how mine have evolved. I seem to be constantly undergoing a sort of metamorphosis if you will.

I began college taking mostly biology classes, especially anatomy, physiology, neurobiology and such. After realizing that the sight of blood brings on the queezies. Odd, since the cadavers were awesome. Perhaps that reveals something strange about me? Well, I moved on to pursuing art--drawing, photography, and painting... then, decided it would be more practical to use that in architecture. It was about then that I stopped attending classes for the late nights of drinking. By the time I went to Utah State I decided that I should major in English, but not to teach. I love reading and analyzing literature and writing. But not to teach, not to be an editor. Once again, I tried to move toward practicality and thought I would study politics. I love politics. I love getting upset about politics. I love arguing politics. I loved being required to read about politics because when not required to read about it for school it gets passed up for my other school assigned readings. But really, did I want to work in politics? Then, I stumbled upon Behavior Analysis. I have found something that I truly enjoy learning about and love learning about. It's fantastic.

I'm at the Florida Behavior Analysis conference. It's been fun to attend the presentations. It's been exciting to see all of the applications I hadn't really thought about. So far, I've worked with children with Autism and love the fulfillment of it. I love the children I've worked with and can't explain the excitement and satisfaction in watching the rapid improvements and learning that take place. However, today I was inspired to pursue research and perhaps career in applying behavior analysis to typical populations in the context of improving "green" behavior, such as riding bikes, using reusable bags, recycling, buying organic foods... Behavior analysis can also be used reduce the rate of HIV diagnoses, unplanned pregnancies, and other similar social problems. Can you imagine?? I can barely wrap my head around the possibilities. I am thrilled at the prospect of applying this awesome knowledge to such grave social problems. I still love the idea of working with Autism populations, but the majority of behavior analysts work with developmental disabilities and I am beginning to believe that it is more benficial to society for me to attack these other issues that receive less attention from our field.


There are times that I regret choosing one passion over another. I miss taking the time to paint and write poetry. I miss focusing my energy on my speed and distance when running. I miss these moments of solitude and introspection that occur when writing and reading and painting and running. I can stilll dabble, sure. I can still run, of course. But I am enjoying feeling semi-grown-up with this sense of purpose.

For the time being, I am simply at peace with where I have arrived and who I have become. I have struggled to be here, to be in this exact moment. (my best poetry was written in moments of dark depression, of course) My back-burner passions aren't lost-- perhaps they are merely on hold.

crazy town

What are we going to do about this???

** Update ** Eliza is totally and utterly freaking out!!

She has demanded that I write an addition that states it is not beer.

It is actually cream soda.

(Don't believe a word she says)

nother

I was watching t.v. when I heard something stupid. A girl said "a whole nother..." This is such a weird phrase. is "nother" actually a word? Is it actually a-whole-nother, similar to placing an explitive in the middle of a separate word?

Today I said to Eliza, "There's a whole nother one in the fridge."

Damn it.

little girls are mean

When I say "little girls are mean," I am not referring to the blunt comments made by Eliza. (She used to poke me and inform me that my ass is "squishy").

Little girls are mean to each other. They create and revel in drama. As long as they are on the giving end, that is. Eliza has relayed "mean girl" instances as early as pre-school. At 4-years-old, Eliza had a friend who informed her that she won't play with Eliza if she (Eliza) has other friends. Little grown-up Eliza informed her, very practically, that she (Eliza) can have however many friends as she wants, and that they can all be friends together. In kindergarten similar issues arose, but not too frequently. First grade, not much drama. One particularly nasty incidence occurred where the group of 5 girls temporarily split apart after one called another fat. (IN FIRST GRADE).

Second grade… much worse. I would pick Eliza up from school and notice that she was quite grumpy. One day in particular, I suggested going out for a treat. The mere thought of this brought on some frustrated replies of "Well, I wouldn't even know where to go," and "I can't even think of a treat I would want because it's rainy and I would have wanted ice-cream." Tears obviously followed such statements. It took the rest of the day to pry the real source of upset out of her little lips. During dinner, she finally exploded—her best friend told her she couldn't play with them at recess. I was heart-broken. I wanted to call that bitch's mother and tell her what a little bitch her daughter was. I wanted to go to class with Eliza and beat up any bullies. I wanted to fix it.

Third grade, at a new school. Eliza has always been social and makes friends easily. Since she started school, she's made new friends every day. Today she seemed fine when I picked her up. She seemed happy. She didn't explode at the thought of choosing an after-school snack. Then we started working on her project. She was suddenly in tears at every question that she had about the assignment. I asked her a couple of times what was really wrong with no success. After it had become completely ridiculous I told her to just get ready for bed. That did it. She finally told me that the homework was not the real problem. "I really didn't have a good day." This led to the confession that one of her new friends that she plays with during after school care has been mean for the past few days. Again, I want to call that mom. I want to hold her hand all day at school. I want to tell that girl to be nice. I want to fix it.

The difficult thing about this parenting thing is that I can't fix it. All I can do is hold this little girl in my arms while she cries and tell her that it will get better. That it always gets better. I remind her that sometimes things in life get worse, but they do get better at some point. Either she'll make other friends or this girl will get over it and they'll be friends again. But that just doesn't feel like enough. Maybe tomorrow I'll escort her to class and tell that girl to tell her mom to meet me on the playground after class…

non-issue?

I keep thinking that I'll come up with something clever to write about. Even though much has happened (we've received our belongings, school is well under way, Joe has a job, we have a kitten…), the most important lesson I've learned, has come from Joe and involves the refrigerator. Specifically, Joe has informed me that the placement in the fridge is not "cataclysmic" as I seemed to believe. (Yes, he actually informed me that "This is not cataclysmic.")

I will disclose some obsessive tendencies that I have, trusting that you will not be scared to open your fridge in front of me in the future…

In my own fridge, it brings a slight amount of stress to place an item from one category in the same area as a food item from another category. For example, you would not put juice on a shelf that generally holds left-overs and such when there is a shelf with jugs of milk and bottled water. It happens at times and this is okay, but I do typically move the item to its "correct" place at some point.

This specific issue arose when Joe suggested I put the milk on the middle shelf. I explained that the fridge is not organized for drinks to go on the middle shelf. He failed to see my logic, so I expounded with the following examples: you don't put jam in the same area as categorically different condiments; such as ketchup, mustard, salsa, and salad dressings. These are clearly not in the same class of food items. Similarly, tortilla shells do not belong next to the soda. In Joe's mind, this only furthered his point, that I make issues out of non-issues, or that I am slightly obsessive. I still believe that it supported my point, that the juice or soda belongs only on the drink self.