Not Your Mommy's Blog – Page 6 – Cute tagline here. Tomorrow.

The Arts as an Antidote to Testing

If it’s quiet in here, I’m doing it wrong.

I am sitting on the chilly windowsill with my legs dangling, kicking the bookcase below. The sound in my room is such that my clunky boots can’t be heard hitting the shelves right below me. Another teacher walks in – she may have knocked, who knows – and her eyes go wide. To be fair, the scene looks a bit chaotic if you’re used to seeing children at desks with books. I enjoy her facial expression, she puts some paper or another on my desk, and mouths to me “How do you not go crazy with all this noise?”

I clown pantomime that I can’t hear her.

Every few minutes one of the kids motions to me to come across the room and hear his group play something they just thought up. I remind them to make sure it’s written down in some way. Every few minutes a quieter kid looks up surreptitiously and scans the room to see where I am, just to make sure I’m not upset about all this sound. Then they go back to their playing. I swear several of them have the smirk of a 10 year old who thinks he’s getting away with something.

Because they are. Like I said, they’re at school, and they’re playing.

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Character Ed. is not dead.

While driving to school last Thursday, I decided that I am guilty of expecting too much of my students academically, because of residual idealism left over from my well-meaning but ridiculous Elementary Music Education classes. Worse, I’ve been expecting too little of them in the way of character.

Yes, my oldest students should know the difference between various types of keyboard percussion, the theory behind pitch and acoustics, and be able to read and write basic rhythmic and melodic notation.

MORE IMPORTANTLY, they should be able to play these instruments in a way that does no damage and respects others’ right to hear themselves think. They should regulate their own progress on a task and keep their time limit in mind. They should collaborate with a partner without much conflict. They should listen attentively and show respect when other people play for them. They should help clean up and store the instruments in a way that maintains order in the room and allows every student to use them for years to come. In short, there are many opportunities in a music room – or band room, or art room, or gym – for kids to play, and practice how to not be a little jerk.

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Opting out of control.

So we know we fail as teachers the moment we get into the habit of doing a lesson the same way just because that’s the way we’ve always done it. If your tried-and-true lesson is working, every child is engaged, the curriculum is covered completely, and every need of every child in your classroom is met – then wake the Hell up because you’re dreaming.

I teach a modified Orff (basically, xylophones) unit every winter, mainly because it’s fun and a less-boring thing to come back to after Christmas break. We learn songs, talk about the pentatonic (5-note) scale, and do lots of echoing of the teacher and each other. I look forward to these classes. However, I’m pretty psychotic about you playing my instruments the right way. Don’t break it, and get the best sound. Watch it. We play together. Show me bicycle grip. Do we pick up the mallets when we rotate???! (Confession: As a college freshman, what I wanted to be when I grew up was a high school band director. I may have some marching band issues to resolve.) I hate to admit it, but there is definitely a right and wrong way to do stuff, in my xylophone lessons.

In light of the increasing structure in children’s lives, I’m attempting to take a small step in the opposite direction. One 5th grade class happens to be ahead of the other sections, because of my recent health fun and absence from school. So, I’m throwing out the structured Orff lessons and letting them loose. To sum it up, they’re getting free play time with anything they want in the Music room, the end goal being to compose some kind of music and write it down in some way. I’m giving them whatever instruments I have, a couple guidelines that are mostly about safety and stuff-music-teachers-say, and 40 minutes. Yes, the curriculum objectives are now completely changed from what is written in my lesson plans, in doing this. Ask me if I care.

Music is a more loosey-goosey subject, to begin with. There are protocols in other subject areas, pre-written lesson plans for everything. There is a curriculum, and we will test the daylights out of them on it, yearly. Twice a year, actually. Thank you, PARCC. It’s all nicely planned and controlled. However, because of the above-mentioned health fun, I am reminded lately that CONTROL IS AN ILLUSION.

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The arts as an antidote to testing.

During those 40 minutes I get a little glance from several kids that says “wait, you’re really ok with this?” several times. It’s not that big a deal, but they’re uneasy with it. We have set out to do something with instruments before; play the rhythms, demonstrate this understanding or that, compositions with prescribed forms. I still get looks from other teachers who wander in then, too. It’s still loud.

This time the class could write/do/play whatever. Some of them added lyrics or flourish-y dance moves, because they’re freakin’ adorable. Week 2 of this will include some kind of standard notation, because blah blah blah, curriculum. Also, these kids are very sharp and can bridge the gap between iconic and symbolic notation like they’re jumping over a puddle. I gave them no rules about notation – whatever, as long as they could look at it next week and still play it, it was cool. This is not revolutionary, just busy, musical chaos that totally looked like I was doing nothing in the way of teaching. However, the kids are responsible for their own progress. They knew that they have the privilege of playing these instruments so they only play them correctly. They were self-regulating, and writing some very cool little songs. I was pretty impressed with what happened when I let go.

This was my favorite so far:

Also, a shout-out for my two manly men, M&M, who think they have invented music notation for jocks: “Basket-ball” is a short-short-long, or eighth-eighth-quarter pattern, “Football” is long-long is probably going to be half notes, all on bucket drums.

And they sounded pretty good, too.

This thing where we give kids stuff to play with and say “go” is the basis the wonderful curriculum in my 5 year old’s Pre-K class. Somewhere after that it gets tossed. Because their lives now include lessons in how to take tests, that playtime really needs found again. A child’s work is play.

I love this:

In our attempt to be taken seriously as an area of academics, have we taken the play out of playing music? We have our own standardized testing and huge curriculum binders, too. But the arts, and the tragically disappearing recess and Gym class, are sometimes all our kids have left in the way of play at school.

So, for my part, here’s what I’m going to do about all this: My goal, in light of the ever-increasing need to structure and test, is going to be to make sure there is more actual PLAYING in my class. When you walk in (sign in at the office first), you may think they’ve taken over and I’m tied to a chair somewhere. Don’t worry, they know there’s a filing cabinet of worksheets they could be doing instead. That usually keeps them in line. Wa ha ha.

I’m looking forward to this. And, probably, to going deaf before my time. Because holy crap are they loud.

What the Hell is this Crap?

…Hi. Yes, it’s been a long time. Look, before all the CRAP in the below post happened, my pathetic excuses for not blogging since Christmas included “uninspired” and “distracted by other crap”. Now? Boy do I have a good excuse for not doing any writing! Of course, instead of rolling with that excuse, I’m gonna blog. Besides, you know you desperately need to find out why Grandpa over there has what looks like an ill-fitting bra.

See, I didn’t want to be the kind of friend who does a fb check-in at the hospital and lets everybody wonder why. Although when you’re alone and scared in an ER, no one is allowed to judge how you reach out for some human comfort, Facebook nonsense included. For instance, nobody better judge me for chatting up a male nurse about the fact that one set of blood test vials look like those tiny liquor bottles you can get at the store counter. I mean, were we having a party, or what? I also didn’t want to worry people unnecessarily, because ultimately I was FINE. I also didn’t (and still don’t) know all of what was going on.

I do like a good “saga” post, so I’d like to share what’s been up the past week or so. I should at least get a decent blog post out of this stupid situation, right? Right? Since this is a medical story, we’ll start with the ABSTRACT:

I thought I had bronchitis. Instead, I ended up spending 4 days in the hospital and finding out that, for who knows how long, my heart only works at about 50% strength. My diagnosis is dilated cardiomyopathy. Basically my left ventricle doesn’t work right; it’s stretched out, and kind of damaged. The official cause for this is unknown right now, but big scary reasons have been ruled out. The main complication I have is congestive heart failure. This is not as scary as it sounds, but thank you for that horrified gasp. I love you too. This week I had what I’m reasonably sure was roughly a million tests, and got stuck by two million needles. I’m home, and very stable now. There are some major diet and fluid intake changes I had to make, to help my heart work and get rid of the CHF (congestive heart failure). I’m taking a bunch of new meds that have left me feeling dizzier, but better. But, my heart still doesn’t work all that well. I also have to wear a vest-thing with wires and sensors in it, that acts as a heart monitor and defibrillator. These changes will continue indefinitely. I don’t feel symptom-free, but I feel way better than I did last Monday! I don’t know why I suddenly got sick with this. I don’t exactly know the prognosis is for my heart’s improvement, or what this means for the future. I think that’s a “time will tell” thing. The internet has scared the bejezus out of me; I am either feeling confident, or wondering if Web MD is right, and I should work on end-of-life papers. On the other hand, I’m otherwise pretty healthy with no additional heart problems and did I mention I’m only 33, and I’M SORRY but What The Hell is this CRAP?!?! Sorry. I know that was not a proper medical abstract.

So, have you ever noticed that you have no idea when symptoms really started, when you’re asked? I have no idea for how long, but I’d been getting out of breath walking around my school. I figured I’m just a fat-ass who used to run (knee injury) until a couple months ago. Then there was also this annoying cough. Bronchitis again? I’d been sick in the fall. Who knows. I work with kids, they have germs. Two Saturdays ago, we had the little one’s Mario-themed birthday party with 30+ people and way too many Pinterest-worthy ideas at my house. I’d been busting my very tired butt as much as I could. As it was, hubby was picking up my slack a lot, poor guy. Sunday night I didn’t feel good at all. Monday I almost called in sick. Interesting detail here: My favorite jeans wouldn’t fit that morning. I assumed it was, again, due to the fat-assery. Turns out this is a major symptom of CHF! During my teaching day I felt just plain awful, and decided to call my doctor. My husband says this is how he knew I was really ill. I couldn’t get through to the doctor during my lunch, so I went to the Minute Clinic nearby, thinking I’d get some antibiotics. When I got there I almost didn’t sign in for the clinic, and thought I’d just buy some cough drops instead. But there was no wait. The nurse at the clinic told me if I were her relative she’d just drive me to the ER herself, but I should get there ASAP.

Shocked and annoyed, I went to the ER at the hospital down the road, where the waiting room was very full. I should have been scared $h*tless when they let me waltz ahead of everybody. I had an EKG and saw something on the paper about “possible abnormal” but didn’t know what that meant. The (I thought, alarmist) nurse freaked out at my fast breathing and heart rate. Tests, tests, and more tests happened – blood, x-ray, CT scan, etc. Have you ever noticed that, in the ER, all these nice people come by and ask you the same twenty questions? Why the repetition? I wasn’t allowed to eat, drink, or get up to pee. (Yes, that’s what I mean, and I think this process was way more traumatic for my heart than just walking to the bathroom. #nodignity) I was not having any of this. I wanted outta there pronto, with my Amoxicillin. Then a doctor (or somebody?) opened my curtain door and said, “Call your husband. You are pretty darn sick.” The phrases “congestive heart failure”, “pneumonia”, and “admitted” were said to me, I’m pretty sure. She told me I wasn’t going anywhere. Shocked, but keeping it together, I am proud to report that I did not cry. #biggirl I wanted to, of course, because WHAT THE HELL?

Hubby came and helped a lot, and I sent him home because one of us should get some sleep. My mother in-law was home with the girls, thank goodness. There were no beds up in the regular hospital because a neighboring hospital was closing, so I spent a very fun night on a gurney in the ER . No, you can’t sleep in an ER, but they do have cable. I was also one of the lucky ones who had a little partitioned-off “room”. People were “sleeping” in the hallway that night, so I’ll just shut up. I also had a couple more tests during the night to rule out a heart attack, blood clots, and other terrifying stuff. I would have had the sense to be more scared if I weren’t sick and tired, so timing these tests during the night was brilliant. Dr. Extremely Serious Cardiologist (titled thusly not because of my condition, but his perpetually maudlin bedside manner all week – I hear it’s just him) first came in to discuss things with me around 8 AM Tuesday. Basically, he said “You do not have a cold. You are sick-sick, and we have to find out why. Buckle up.” (Ok, he did not say that last part. But he should have.) He started me on meds that had me on the way to feeling better in a couple hours.

Tuesday morning I had a echo cardiogram. It took about an hour, the room was quiet and dark, and I literally fell asleep on the table. It was awesome. I may have drooled on the technician’s arm. This test is basically one of those beautiful baby sonograms, but instead of finding out that you’re having a little girl, you find out that your heart is only pumping with about half the strength it should be and your already way-too serious cardiologist is now Worried About You. One wall of my heart was particularly weak, he said. My heart ejection fraction, something that should have been at 50%, was a 15%. Possible causes included artery blockage (!) and we would check for it with a heart catheterization. I kept getting flashes of the Homer-Has-A-Heart-Attack episode of The Simpsons, where he’s “just workin’ the turkey through”. However, Dr. Serious didn’t like the blockage theory, and instead thought it was either a virus that hit my heart hard and damaged it, or weakness caused by a pregnancy. I said my youngest just turned five two days ago, so that was crazy. He said he would put his money on that theory, and the condition was called “peripartum cardiomyopathy”. It could have been steadily getting worse all this time. Being younger and strong (thankyouvermuch), I could have been compensating for this weakness until now, when being sick, stressed, or both made me crash pretty fast. Well, everybody is young and strong until they’re not, right? Bob brought the girls in to see me Tuesday night. The big kid had a very hard day at school, worrying about Mommy in the hospital. The little one thinks hearts are what you draw on construction paper this time of year, so she was good.

Wednesday was “rest up” day, since Dr. Serious didn’t want me to have the cath procedure till I was feeling better and there was less fluid around my lungs. Hubby had taken off Tuesday but went into work this day, because he does have a job outside of me. I was told several times that day and throughout the week that I looked way too good to be that sick. Well in that case, can it all be wrong? Happily, several times during the day I had family or friends visiting. I had originally said NO to visitors, because of hospital gowns not staying tied. Plus, there is the terrified, wincing face I make when they stick me with needles ten times a day. Not something I want anyone seeing. Now, I’m very grateful family and friends came and brightened my room, and that I got texts and fb messages from people. I am a people-who-need-people person when I’m not worried and captive. I also insisted on wearing my own sweats, not the gowns, and was feeling slightly more human and dignified from then on.

IMAG4349

Sent this to the hubby: “Makin’ this I. V. look GOOD.”

Thursday I was up early (actually, in a hospital, you’re up all the time) to be taken to another hospital, to do to the “simple” procedure that checked for blockage. I got to ride in an ambulance! This sounds fun, but in reality they let you wear nothing but a gown (cold), strap you to a gurney so you can’t wiggle your arms, and they do not put the sirens on for you. Yes, even if you ask. I had the “simple” catheterization procedure (I had a baby with no pain killers and I will still say ‘OW’ about this). I’m not going to tell you where they cut you and feed a tube up to your heart to release dye and take pictures, but OW OW OW. Yes, I had anesthesia, but later on: OW. No blockage, though, which was welcome news. Of course, we still had no real idea why my heart was being a wuss. After 4 hours of bedrest (I had decided that I was allowed to move around the room whenever I felt like, prior to this) I had lovely visits with my kids and hubby. When they left, reality started to set in, and my self-pity party began.

A technician from the “Life Vest” company came, and at first I had a lovely time talking to her. We had to have me wear the (damn) vest thing and plug it into a fax line to send the baseline data about my heart to the monitoring station somewhere out there. This took a while, and during this process I was hanging in an office chair in the nurse’s station, talking and laughing with women about my age, like we were all good friends. Except 3 of us were nurses and 1 of us was attached to the wall by this gorgeous thing:

Obviously designed for studs who prowl the 55 & older community like Jasper Oldman here, this lovely wearable heart monitor/defibrillator vest will bunch up, send out false positives and loudly threaten to shock you, and then get caught on everything as you wear it throughout the day. Yes, all day. And all night. It also comes with the heaviest fanny pack/cross body bag you’ve ever lugged. And, it can save your life if your wussy heart stops, so quit yer bitchin’. Basically if my heart decides to skip a bunch of beats or goes into major overdrive, it will shock me good and hard, and that will hopefully fix the rhythm. So…important vest, if not all that stylish. PS: You know what helps with making this thing comfortable, once you have it on? NOT having boobs. Ooops. Lucky Jasper. My doctor talked to me about it once we had it on and running. Hearing that I needed to wear this at all was upsetting. When I asked “how long?”, and heard, “Usually several months to a year, unless we decide that you need a defibrillator implanted permanently”? That was the sound of $%^& getting real…

My heart doesn’t work right. My HEART. This was not little adventure, not a chance to watch Netflix and recover from a stressful weekend. This is freakin’ SCARY. I have two little kids and a husband who need me to be around forever, and the hospital was not even letting me shower (ew), because they didn’t want me off the heart monitor for 10 minutes. Would this get better? Would this shorten my life?? It sure has heck won’t lengthen it… Fill in other horrible thoughts here. Dr. Serious was talking about this being the beginning of “a long journey together”. “Well, at least he gives me a ‘long’ journey with him!” I thought later. It hit me that right now and going forward, even though I felt ok much of the time, my heart is not able to supply my body with enough blood. Until it gets better (assuming it does), my heart is working overtime, all the time. Although it’s not immediately likely, it could decide it was done. Possibly while driving my kids somewhere. Or teaching. Or sleeping. Worse, it’s been this way for a while, we think, and I had no idea. And I almost bought cough drops and didn’t go to the doctor. PSA: Holy crap. Go to the doctor, people! On the other hand, I was walking, talking, breathing, and doing pretty good as long as I didn’t overdo it. And I was improving, right?

After I calmed down from all that, I started lamenting the less important things like (do not laugh) food and drink. Goodbye Taco Bell and Scotch, I thought. Goodbye going out for a drink with a friend. This thought was sad at the moment, but thankfully kind of wrong. At discharge I learned that as long as I keep the very low sodium diet and limit fluids to 32 oz. a day, it’s ‘everything in moderation’. I can have my precious coffee, though not as much. If I tolerate the lower blood pressure they’re keeping me at with meds, I can probably have a drink just fine. Fun at restaurants and parties is going to have to be more about the company I keep than the food and drink. (But…I love food and drink!) This is all totally doable. But Thursday night I was just getting hit with one harsh reality after another, and I was BUMMED. Hopefully going home the next day, I was wondering if life was going to be boring, paranoid, worrisome, or worse: shorter. The “shorter” idea took the rest of the laments and shut them right up, of course.

Late Thursday I texted my poor, tired husband and told him I was done pretending to be happy and brave and would like to change my status to freakin’ pissed off and terrified because again, WHAT. THE. HELL?!?!?!?!?! I slept off part of that shock (It comes back sometimes but mostly I’m good) and felt better in the morning when they said I was moving to a ‘regular’ hospital floor. I’d been on the step-down-from-ICU floor, until then. This was a good sign! I said goodbye to my awesome PCU (progressive care unit) nurses. I was unceremoniously discharged later on Friday and was home before the big girl’s school day ended. My favorite part of this was my children, my husband, my bed, and my arms not getting stuck by needles anymore.

What I find funny is the timing of all this. Our youngest was a cardiac kid. She had gotten over several issues during the week after her birth, and 5 years ago TODAY they finally went to do the last physical so they could discharge her. Then they heard her heart murmur. They let her go anyway, after a pediatric cardiologist checked her. We thought we’d never see that guy again. Instead we got to be good buddies with him as her heart condition worsened over 3+ months. She developed congestive heart failure (Awwww, like mother, like daughter!) because of a heart defect. Once they tackled it, she looked better right away. She didn’t have the exact same problem I do, but she did improve! She had fluid and all these other symptoms too, and today she’s fine. She’s more than fine – she’s running around, tearing apart my living room for a “pretty pet festival”. She was discharged from cardiology years ago. I want another like-mother-like-daughter moment here, please.

So, the whole “what’s going on with Meg” this week thing is both somewhat scary and not that big a deal. Writing it out has helped me figure that out, so thank you. I did not put a single link to any websites about dilated cardiomyopathy or other big words in this post, because looking at those has been as huge mistake. I have to tell myself that most people who have this problem are much older, and have other health problems too. The general prognosis given on some sites for my diagnosis is not very promising. But I am younger and stronger, as I keep reminding myself. This condition could shorten my life, but I am also going to live in a much healthier way from now on (waaaaah, fast food!) so it could even conceivably lengthen it, too. I will be honest and say that I was a wreckless sodium junky before all this happened. It is easier to stay motivated to take care of yourself when, if you don’t, your HEART WILL STOP WORKING RIGHT. As I understand it now, my heart function may get better, and it may not. But we’re doing what we have to to help it. I am also getting a second opinion at a heart institute hospital nearby, and seeing a specialist in congestive heart failure. I want to ask my cardiologist what this means for my life, in the long-term. I also want to never, ever, ever ask him that, and take it day by day.

I still feel tired, but way better. I wonder about every little tweak or twinge I feel in my body, since I’ve been home. Then I’m glad for the defibrillator vest. Sometimes I (blissfully) forget about all this crap, forget I have the damn box on, and crash it into something. Sleeping at home is awesome, by the way. I’m a huge fan. I still have the “CHF cough”, and if I walk around a while I get winded. I get annoyed by this, and then I remember that, duh, I do still have congestive heart failure, blah blah blah. I’m thrilled to be around my kids and hubby, after all this crap. My girls have unfortunately gotten whatever they wanted out of mommy this weekend, as long as I could do it from the couch. (I’m supposed to be resting.) I am grateful for my lovely coworkers, who have been, no doubt, helping and/or subbing for me in my absence from school. I’m grateful that I have people who love me, to talk to me in one way or another this week. I’m really grateful that I can drop off the grid, family-wise, and not worry an ounce because there is a line of people offering to care for my kids and help my husband with home and work.

So, this was my “chart” board on Friday:

I like this. What does “Special Needs: Self” mean? That’s deep…

I am scheduled to go back to teaching on Thursday. I can’t wait to explain my new accessories to my students. Is it bad to say, “Don’t make me mad. My vest thing could shock you…”? Wa ha ha.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

So, leave it to the BBC to perfectly sum up how I understand Christmas. I know, those Brits are always so warm and fuzzy. ~~Not~~. I love this: Vicar of Dibley, aside from being a funny and intelligent TV show starring the incomparable Dawn French, has pretty much nailed my entire understanding of religion in one quick monologue, flanked by vulgar jokes. From 1:05 to 1:30 or so of this video – GO WATCH IT and tell me I’m wrong. We all have our grown-up issues with faith/religion/That lady pastor on TV with the short hair who yells at people a lot. But this? It tells your inner cynic to stuff it in a stocking. Oh what the heck, it’s Christmas, I’m posting her quote. Deal with it:

“2000 years ago a baby is born in a stable; the poorest of the poor. And yet during his lifetime, he says things that are so astonishing, that millions of people are still living their lives by them today. He said, “Love thy neighbor.” He told us to turn the other cheek, whatever people might do to us.”

I don’t know much else, but 1:05 – 1:35, especially? It’s comforting to hear something that I get, and am very good with. Another awesomer-than-awesome story I stumbled upon just this morning, belonging to the superb blogger Allie Brosh is a post at Hyperbole and a Half. Here you go: The Year Kenny Loggins Ruined Christmas. If you’ve never heard of this creator of the “Do all the things” meme graphic… Do your brain a favor and go read her illustrated narratives. Her Christmas Story is the best thing ever. I woke the husband up by laughing in bed this morning. So, religion, explained by Ms. French so I can get it, and a freakin’ funny story: My Christmas gifts to you, my throngs of devoted readers.

PS: Yes I’ll blog more in the New Year.

No idea what this chick is smiling about. Being Santa is hard work.

Under New (Behavior) Management?

So, I let the elder offspring give this letter to her teacher:

Parents, teachers, and friends, I need you to tell me what you think of that move.

Here’s the background:

I have the feeling that my kid has been put in the ‘rough’ class several times now, probably because she can fend for herself academically and assertively. Talking to parents whose children are in other classes in my daughter’s grade has confirmed it: They’re having a lot more fun. There’s always a ‘rough’ class. How do you know if your kid has landed there this year? Count the rings under her teacher’s eyes.

But it’s a teacher conflict too. We all have a story about that teacher, who seemed miserable and possibly scared the #$%@ out of us in grade school. Mine had a foot-shaped hole in the tile floor where it was rumored she had screamed and stomped her foot so hard that it Broke. The. Floor. She supposedly left it that way as a grim reminder to future students that things could get UGLY.

The elder offspring’s 2nd grade teacher has decided that whole-class punishment is her classroom management tactic. Several times now, all the kids have missed recess as punishment for bad behavior. Yes, like when we were in school. Although for me, that was the 80’s and I don’t remember much of this happening.

Although I (empty) threaten individual students with this consequence sometimes (actually quite effective), I disagree with this policy on several levels:

1. Though occasionally necessary, regularly punishing the whole group is unfair and bad for morale.

2. These are 7 year-olds. They need recess. If you make the mistake of keeping 7 year-olds from running outside and being crazy, you might as well feed Gremlins after midnight, because that’s what you’re gonna get.

Cute before you make a giant mistake. Just like 2nd graders. It will be a loooong afternoon.

Continue reading “Under New (Behavior) Management?”

Spotify and the Music Streaming “Problem”

Taylor Swift made news this week by pulling her entire catalog of music from Spotify.

“…I just don’t agree with perpetuating the perception that music has no value and should be free”, says Ms. Swift in the Us Weekly article linked above.

Oh, Taylor. You have it so very wrong. The model for the production and consumption of music is changing forever, and your attempt to drag your collection of work backward in time is, though as willful and valiant as a toddler stomping her foot, cute but pointless.

A statement from Swift’s Op/Ed piece from the New York Times, suggests that streaming artists’ work is “taking the music out of the music industry”. I respectfully disagree. I pay for the music streaming service of Spotify every month, and every month I listen to literally HUNDREDS of pieces of music I would never have been exposed to, because of the streaming model of music consumption. Small-time, local groups have their music on Spotify, right along with the big boys. No corporate radio station or giant record label is deciding what I hear; I am. I can get suggestions from (real, live) friends I follow and who follow me on Spotify, based on what we listen to daily. (My Spotify username is megderrico.) Practically any and all songs, and several covers of each, are at my fingertips. Phone, car stereo, or home computers are able to play whatever song, list, or mood music I’d like, constantly. I’ve never felt so gratified as a listener, musically speaking.

Poor Taylor; Honey, embrace it. Cause they’re just gonna download you anyway. Or, they’ll skip you altogether and listen to Selena Gomez.

To prove my point, I’ll share my relationship to the music streaming industry:

First of all, there are many other music streaming services. There’s iTunes radio for you fanboys. There’s iheartardio and Pandora, if you want a certain sound but don’t care about the wonder of The Playlist. I do. There’s Google Play and Grooveshark, to name a few more. I have used all these services and then some, and as it stands now Spotify wins, hands down.

As it is the addiction I have chosen from the above list, I DO pay Spotify for my music consumption. Subscriber music services charge a monthly fee and pay a royalty for each time a user plays a song. Whether they pay enough is debatable. As a (sort of) musician myself, I vote NO. But I’m not going to ask them to charge me more at the moment. I am a part-time graduate student at West Chester University, so with all that loveliness and part-time stress, I get the Spotify student rate of $4.99 a month. To me this seems almost criminal. The regular Spotify montly rate is $9.99.

Screen shot of the program on a user’s computer. I don’t know who they are, but if I could read the print I’d probably playlist stalk them.

In contrast to “radio” streaming services, you can create playlists on Spotify (and Google Play, and others), by searching for and dragging titles. Now remember, I have an addiction. This is not just convenient for making the perfect party playlist. I have dozens of lists, ranging from mood lists that include “Pissed” and “Quiet”, to more functional ones like my “Jog”, “Cleaning Lady”, or “Alto Part is Better”. (For this last one, you generally get female soprano vocals and me singing along in the car to the imaginary Alto part I make up in my head when NPR gets boring.) I also have “Guilty Pleasures” which includes some Meatloaf (I secretly love the songwriter Jim Steinman – tell no one!) and “Never Sick Of” (self-explanatory, of course). There’s also “Weird Al Inspirations” – for each song I have the original, then his version. I also have a whole folder of lists for my kids, some seasonal stuff, and the lists that Spotify publishes like “New Music Tuesday” that introduce you to new releases. I also subscribe to my friends’ lists and music-stalk them.

Then there’s the monthly lists… I have had monthly playlists running for back for years, even before Spotify was a thing. Remember Zune? Some songs return almost every month, earning them a place on the “Never Sick Of” list. At the start of each month I copy over from one month to the next only songs I am not tired of hearing. Then I go check into a few oldies, visit a few other genres, and perhaps put a few pieces that remind me of what I was doing that time of year, years ago. Hello, bad high school music. November 2014 is not my best work, but I’ll share it below anyway.

Then there is Tom Waits’ “Picture in a Frame”, which has been making the rotation for over two years, I think. Why so stuck in this song rut? Because you can hear the piano bench creak and the sax solo is so simple yet perfect and yes, Willie Nelso did it first but Tom’s voice gives you the roughened but tender side of the narrator who is just now realizing that he’s fallen for someone, and…Ok I’ll stop. It’s right here…

Tom Waits: “Picture in a Frame”

I have never laid hands on a Tom Waits album, and don’t I intend to. I feel absolutely no need to physically own this beautiful song. Nor do I need to own Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”. What? It’s on the “Guilty Pleasures” list, and I know every last word of those 8 minutes and 30 seconds. A friend can post about a song on Facebook and I can immediately look it up and fall in love with it. I can pull up a song for my students instantaneously. “Hey Meg, do you have any Chinese music we can play for the kids?” Why, yes I do. Want to hear what Mahler’s 1st symphony or The White Stripes sound like? I can have them whenever I want them, and that’s the point. This may be old news to some, but I’m still having a total What-An-Age-We-Live-In moment. Artists who haven’t embraced the streaming movement haven’t gotten the point yet.

In general, Spotify and businesses like it are perfect for us annoying music consumers who adore one or two songs of an artists’ repertoire but can’t commit to saying, “I LOVE Tom Waits, I have all his music.” Have you heard anything else by Tom Waits? Little scary, some of it. However, Tom is still getting something every time “Picture” comes up on one of my lists. As he should.

So to be blunt, Taylor Swift, young and fresh as she may seem, needs to get with the times. Like it or not, something so wonderful can’t possibly be going away. Especially in light of the entertainment world moving towards TV and movie streaming. It’s here, and it’s staying. We are consumers who demand instant gratification, after all.

SO, Taylor, do these sound like the words of someone who does not value music? I would certainly pay more for this gift, if that’s necessary. It might help me cut back. Sometimes I’m basically a prettier version of John Cusack from High Fidelity, just making the perfect mix tape.

Now, to further bare my soul, here are some playlist snippets for you. You can scroll through the songs on the little widget here, but NO JUDGING ME – THIS IS A SAFE SPACE.
November 2014 List: Work in progress. Already I acknowledge the total absence of instrumentals on this list. I’ll get right on that.

Edit: I should not post after midnight. Can’t believe I didn’t share “Never Sick Of”. Tell Fitz and the Tantrums I’m very sorry, please.

And the “Guilty Pleasures” list. There’s actually much more to add here, too.

Comment below about how you get your music fix, and your thoughts about the industry’s direction. Or, your playlist. I always need new stuff to listen to!

Leave my 2nd grader alone, Arne Duncan

This quote and stunning portrait of Secretary Duncan popped up on social media last week. It’s from his speech during a 2009 visit to a Brooklyn elementary school. It is, of course, taken out of context here. But that just means it’ll fit right in with every other quote on the internet, ever. Here’s a post about Mr. Duncan addressing the “educational crisis” in this speech.

He seems to be claiming that you can tell where kids will end up, higher education-wise, because of how they’re testing in second grade. Reading this on a friend’s wall, I actually said aloud, “You leave my second grader ALONE, Arne!” Yes, that’s a tad dramatic, but Arne is a fun name to say aloud.

Though well-meaning, this is some serious oversimplification, and rhetoric to sell the need to test small children. I teach K-5 and let me tell you: By second grade, a couple of them haven’t even really mastered holding a #2 pencil yet, let alone having one help decide their future. In second grade, they’re about 8 years old. Meaning that every bit of their little life has occurred in a shorter time than Seinfeld was on the air. Just let that sink in.

No, Arne, we should not. I mean, I can totally pick out the future trophy wives by the time they’re leaving 5th grade, but that’s as cynical as I’ll allow myself to get as a teacher.

Continue reading “Leave my 2nd grader alone, Arne Duncan”

Wedding Planner: Do Over Edition

I am not into event planning. Ask my daughter; she is (happily) getting a birthday “outing” next month for her 8th, in lieu of an actual party. Lately Pinterest likes to remind me that people I know, who are my age, are getting married now. In contrast, all my wedding decisions are set in 11 year-old stone. Now, on occasion, I actually do girly things. One of these is to fantasize about what I would do differently if I were planning a wedding this year. This is fun, try it! Your wedding is the big party you throw, so all your friends and family can come together and enjoy themselves. So it better be a good, right? Hmmm…

Hubby and I got married at 22. We had a lot of help (thank you, wonderful people who helped!) and we had an awesome wedding. We are not exactly the same people today, in taste or priorities. Nor should we be. So now, to the shock and dismay of my relatives who were there or *gasp* (sorry) chipped in for our beautiful college wedding back in ’03, here’s what I’d do today, instead:

Date:

Same. Maybe a week later, because HELLO, who thought New Jersey schools would still be in session on June 21st? Stupid polar vortex.

Location:

I feel bad that everybody drove to our college campus, mid-way between where our families lived, without nicer hotels or nightlife nearby. We’d now be in Jersey, in someplace outside, that would be set up like a really nice back yard. In my fantasy there is no rain, no heat, and no mosquitoes in this lovely place in Jersey. I said it was fantasy.

Dress:

I don’t get to wear jeans? *shriek* “It’s my wedding!” I do not care about dresses, but I have to say that I hate it when brides don’t look like themselves on their wedding day. This was me:

…somewhere under that giant white frosted cupcake! Actually, as wedding dresses go, this one is still pretty simplistic, and I love it for that. But if I had to wear this now, the only thing good about this dress would be that it is now way too big for me. We would be going dress-casual, people. I know that’s cliche now. Thank me later when you don’t have to go buy new formal wear. For my part, I promise not to wear jeans. But just so you know, there are white sneakers under that giant cloud of satin up there.

Continue reading “Wedding Planner: Do Over Edition”

Sometimes you’re the example…

…and sometimes you’re the cautionary tale.

Follow My Example:

Jersey suburbanites that we are, we pride ourselves on ~~dragging~~ bringing the kids along on outings in the city of Philadelphia. We feel it is an important center of American history and culture for the area, and they should experience this vibrant, growing metropolis. And Mommy and Daddy like the food and bars.

On one of our visits there this past summer, we took a stroll in China Town, enjoyed eating our way through the variety of fresh and ethnic foods at the Reading Terminal Market, hung around and rode the carousel in Franklin Square park, and viewed Independence mall…from the lovely beer garden across the street. What? They’ll go see the history stuff in 5th grade anyway. The restaurant had a bocci court that was a perfect mini-playground – they could draw pictures in the dirt! Then we got ice cream at the Franklin Fountain, because children who let you do all that for 8 hours straight without a care in the world get rewarded with tons of ice cream. It’s the law. We did remember to order them food at the beer garden, and I’m pretty sure it was deep-fried. Hubby’s sister and her boyfriend, who live in town, met us and we took turns with the occasional bathroom trips. We were at one place just eating, drinking, talking, and watching the kids play in the dirt, for over 4 hours. We tipped very well there.

I have used this picture before, but I was so damn proud of my kids that day, it may go in the Christmas card.

Everywhere we went, people in their mid-to-late 30’s smiled indulgently at us and our adorable children. I could tell they thought we made it look so easy to enjoy your children and still enjoy yourself. We probably inspired a couple girlfriends to ask their men where this whole relationship was going because…babies!

Husband and I felt very smart for having the kind of easy-going (HA) children who are agreeable (HAHA) enough to take anywhere. What excellent examples of parenting life we had set for those around us.

Caution, hazards ahead:

Then one recent Friday, our favorite Mexican place in Jersey was inexplicably closed. We decided this meant we had to hop on the train and visit hubby’s sister in the Philly, at her restaurant. The kidlets had had a day off of school that day for teacher in-service, and had gone out to lunch with their Nana to Friendly’s. We forgot that this meant they had recently gorged themselves, and then eaten ice cream sundaes bigger than their heads, because that is what you do at Friendly’s.

Our bigger kid said on the train that she didn’t feel so good. Her tummy hurt. We pretty much wrote her off, because frankly, the bigger kid is a hypochondriac.

We ordered them two kid-friendly meals off the kid-friendly menu at their Aunt’s restaurant. We proceeded to order drinks and food and kick back because of course, it was going to be another care-free night in the city like so many we have had before.

…Ha.

First, neither child would eat their food. Sometimes the little one just doesn’t eat, period. The fact that she had the most perfect chicken fingers known to man in front of her had no effect on that situation. “Not eating” for the big one (who is usually a vacuum) meant eating only half of her local-cow’s-milk-cheese quesadilla. This should have been our sign to turn back…NOW. Sadly, I had started the meal with a double ‘Fiddich, and I wasn’t going to win any awards for keen Mommy observations at the time.

We then went walking in Rittenhouse Square park. It was after dark, but it was a crisp autumn evening, and friendly people and doggies were everywhere. We met a family by the fountain with two chatty little boys. We decided to go to the book store across the street next, and find one new book for each of us. Then maybe some dessert? Where would you like to g – WHAT? The big one says she has to WHAT?

We found a trash can. It was kind of tall for her – an iron, city park trash can. She aimed as best she could and got it on her clothes anyway. Joy. I pictured how lovely that smell would be on the ride home, and we made a B-line for the book store. For a bathroom, not for books. Really.

After stopping to puke a couple more times we made it into the store (a narrow, 3-story Barnes & Noble which was at once soothingly familiar and confusing as Hell because the bathrooms are usually in the same place in all the suburban stores). We had to drag a screaming, clawing 4 year-old onto the escalator, because said 4 year-old has a long list of things she’s deathly afraid of and these apparent death traps are near the top of that list. We also had the fun of wondering what happens when you puke on the steps of an escalator, but thankfully never had to find out. The older kid reached the top floor and made a run for it into the restroom stall – past people who were waiting in line. There she got on her hands and knees on the floor (that last sentence alone made my germophobe mom friends wanna puke, themselves), and wretched for a good 10 minutes. Good times. Other people came and went from the rest room. I couldn’t close the stall door, because the kiddo’s body was right there, so I just had to rub her back and apologetically wave people past. And hold back her hair. Gee, I hope we can bond like this when she’s much older, too…

Now, get this: We actually believed that, after that puking spell, she was done. I know, right? So naive. Well she said she was, so we could continue on our carefree evening, beginning with the quest to buy everyone a new book, as a treat. I think the big one bucked up because she really, really wanted the newest My Little Pony novel. By the time everyone else had picked their book but me, the big kid was heading for yet another too-tall trash can, this one by the front door of the Barnes & Noble. Right next to the poor security guard, right where everybody was coming and going, our kid was puking. At that point I just got in line to pay for their books. What? Where were we gonna go? She was still puking! Might as well leave with some reading material. Notice that it was Mommy, not the kid who probably just ate too much soft serve at the previous meal, who didn’t get something new to read? Boo, mom life.

I requested the largest bag they had for our three small books, for vomit-security, and we started walking back to the train station. We figured this was a safer option than hailing a taxi for the kid who sometimes gets carsick for no reason anyway. No puking in taxis; is just not good karma. So, polite child that she is, she just puked right there on the sidewalk. Oh, and in the bag. And on her clothes. And in front of onlookers, who gave us giant-eyed, accusing stares, us as if we’d dragged a child carrying the plague out for a fun night on the town. Good times, I’m tellin’ ya.

We made it back to the station and boarded our train home to New Jersey, and the big one did not throw up on the trip once! Gold star, baby. Both kids quickly passed out, and I got to relate the story of the Barnes & Noble bathroom floor to hubby. However, walking down the narrow steps of the train station at around 10PM, the poor kid let loose again – with passengers behind her in line on the narrow stairs. We were kind of helpless – we couldn’t move her, because of the narrowness of the stairwell, they couldn’t move around us very well, and OH! Have I mentioned how my body reacts when another person vomits? I can’t help it; I have to fight hard not to be part of the “fun”, let’s put it that way. GOOD. TIMES. Great times, for the people trying to squeeze past the actively vomiting child and her parents (and one sleepy preschooler who really had no idea where she was, at that point).

And the next day? Yeah, she was fine. Maybe she’d caught a little bug, or ate too much at Friendly’s. She always was a reflux/throw-up kid.

Hubby and I are heading out this weekend sans kids because we totally get a do-over after all those “good times”.

I am sure that anybody who ran across us that night got set back a couple years in the family planning department. I think I saw one of them run straight to the CVS to buy condoms.

Sometimes you’re the awesome parents. And sometimes…well, you’re just that type of reminder.