Standardized tests … ugh.
Yeah, it’s that time of year again, when we plunk down stacks of tests in front of the children and expect those to be a true reflection of both a school and a child’s ability.
Clearly, I’m not a fan.
First, some kids simply aren’t good test-takers, especially with the amount of pressure placed on them to do well on these tests. And second, I’ve never believed that a single week of tests is any indication of a school’s quality.
I think these tests also are unfair to teachers. They have to shift gears and focus in the middle of a semester for a week of testing. And that’s a week lost when it comes to what the kids are supposed to be studying and learning.
My daughter is a good student. She’s done well this year in all of her subjects. I’m not going to risk breaking her confidence by stressing over a stupid test. We’ve done the practice tests at home, yes, but I treat them like regular homework. Hovering over her and lecturing about how important this is won’t improve her performance. Rather, I think it would make her anxious. And anxious kids don’t test well.
For her teacher’s sake — and the school’s — I hope she does well. I hope all of the kids do.
But as far as I’m concerned, that test won’t prove anything.
Wye Mountain Daffodils
This festival is a must-do for many Arkansas families. I mean, the photo ops are limitless. And the kids love romping through fields of flowers. Hubs took these a few years ago when he was trying to capture some sister shots!
Flower girls.
Humoring Daddy.
Like Ferdinand, she just wants to smell the flowers.
Joy.
For more Wye Mountain photos, stop by Moody Mom’s place!
So, are you done?
Having kids, I mean. Post a comment below or send me an email telling me whether you are/aren’t and what led to your decision. I’m writing a column about it and would love some input. I’ll use only first names. Thanks so much.
Prom!
Not mine — shudder.
My stepdaughter’s was Saturday night, so we headed up to Cabot to see the kids off. And to take pictures, of course.
Tootie loved seeing all the pretty dresses. (There were at least a dozen couples gathered at someone’s house!) She also loved the mama lab that was romping around the yard.
After photos, we caravaned to a parking lot where a party bus awaited. This, my friends, is a brilliant idea. Each person contributed, and because there were so many kids, the cost was only about $50 a kid. At most. It may have been even lower. And I was happy to note that the limo driver appeared to be very no-nonsense, especially when she listed all the rules.
Anyway, here are a few photos:
Closeup
The E-man isn't big on kissing.
Sisters. (I love this one.)
Inside the party bus.
Karma. Ugh.
Anyone care to guess what happens when one calls her husband a “big, whiny baby” because he keeps whining about a cough and hoarseness?
Am now completely without a voice.
Hubs and the children appear to be more than OK with this situation.
The Mollydog
If you found your way here via my Forces of Nurture column, welcome! If you haven’t read the column yet, go here.
On our last night with Molly, Tootie insisted that we read Dog Heaven aloud to Molly. Of course, I sobbed the whole way through.
This is a wonderful children's book about an afterlife for dogs.
Group cuddle.
And now here are some happier memories. These photos were taken when Molly was in her prime.
Molly always was an over-sized lapdog.
These next few photos illustrate the Battle of Red Chair.
During my years as a single girl, I had this cute red chair that Molly adored.
The canine lounger.
Problem is, when Hubs and I got married, Hubs decided he liked the chair too. There were times when they would actually race for the chair. When Hubs got it, Molly would lie in wait …
When he gets up to refill his coffee mug, he will lose that chair.
Victory!
They tried on occasion to share, but …
... that didn't work so well.
One year, Hubs decided he would be the one to groom Molly. So he ran out and bought some puppy trimmers.
The dog was skeptical.
“Oh, look,” our vet said when we went in soon after. “It’s the Faith Hill cut!”
Molly's mommy did not like the cut. On Faith or the dog.
Molly was a great outdoor dog. She loved Frisbee, ball and hiking. Oh, and grilling. Because she got the leftovers.
"Yeah, I know it's slimy, but please throw it again!"
After we got rid of the Red Chair, Molly found a new place to nap.
Doggie in the laundry basket.
These last two photos are among my favorites:
On top of Pinnacle.
I miss you, Molly. RIP.
My sweet, loving little daughter
She sleeps with a small soft-covered album filled with pictures of Molly. She reads and re-reads “Dog Heaven.” And for the past three nights, she’s faithfully visited Molly’s grave.
“I want to go to Molly,” she said tonight. She linked her arm through mine. “Will you come with me, mama?”
I didn’t want to. It hurts to think of my sweet shepherd buried beneath a crusty winter ground.
But I went. Because she wanted me.
When we got to the grave, she undid the bouquet of flowers and spread them around.
“Where’s her head, mama?” she asked.
I pointed, and she placed a yellow rose there.
Finally, I spoke. “We love you, Miss Molly.”
My daughter smiled. Then she knelt and kissed the rock that marks our doggie’s resting place.
Wanted: Spring (Wordless Wednesday)
Where are you? I need sun.
For more Wordless Wednesday, go here:
RIP, sweet Mollydog
We lost a family member today — my Australian shepherd Molly. She was 15 1/2 years old. I’m not ready to write about it yet. In the near future, yes, but right now I need a little time to process all this. Put it this way — I got Molly when I was 24. I just turned 40. She’s been a steady, loving part of my life for a long, long time. We’ll miss you sweet girl.
Molly B'Golly: Aug. 13, 1994 - March 2, 2010.
The sleepover vs. the slumber party
Tootie’s had a lot of sleepovers — at our house, at friends’ houses — but last night was her first slumber party.
Her BFF Olivia was turning 6, and after the festivities at a local pizza parlor wrapped up, a caravan of cars headed to Olivia’s house.
One by one, little girls headed eagerly toward the front door, clutching pillows and stuffed animals.
I counted silently as they streamed by … 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 …
Wow, she’s so brave, I thought of Kelly, my mom friend hosting the party.
Thus far, I’ve hosted only one kid at a time at Tootie’s sleepovers.
The other parents filed in behind me, writing down phone numbers and issuing last-minute instructions to their daughters to behave.
The girls, of course, weren’t listening.
One was turning cartwheels. Two were performing cheers. And another pair were chasing down a terrified kitten.
Better leave now before Kelly changes her mind about this, I thought, easing my way toward the door.
I could tell the other parents were thinking the same thing by the way they made their own furtive exits and raced out to their waiting cars.
“Good luck!”
“Bye!”
“Show no fear!”
I climbed into our truck, where Hubs and the E-man waited.
“Hurry,” I hissed, “before she changes her mind about this.”
This morning, the phone rang.
“Hello!” I chirped, having slept in this morning.
“Hi,” a weary voice replied.
“You survived!” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Kelly replied uncertainly.
And it was then I made a mental note to myself:
Sleepovers, good. Slumber parties, SCARY.
Meet Cathy Frye — deer widow, mama to two small children and stepmom to two teenagers. By day, she writes for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. By night, she Googles things like “whooping cough symptoms” or “child ate toothpaste.” Cathy describes herself as barefoot, breeding and medicated. Her husband considers her a real catch! 