In 1996, California enacted a Class Size Reduction (CSR) program. This incentive program gave schools a special monetary allocation from the state budget to maintain K-3 class sizes to 20 or fewer students.
Classes also had to be conducted as separate groups acting as an independent class, meaning, you couldn’t have a whole class of 30 with 20 students separated out for some period of time during the school day.
A few years later, some classes for 9th graders were added to the CSR program. Now, more than two decades and multi-billions of dollars later, California is broke and according to the California Department of Education, nowadays few schools are able to participate in CSR due to serious local school district budgetary crises.
The average class sizes in California during the 2015-16 school year were as such and continue to climb given the state of the economy. While small class size is wildly popular among teachers and parents, perhaps rightfully so, I’ve always gone back and forth about how much I believe class size matters with regard to student learning.
Recently, Helle Heckmann and Louise DeForest, two experienced educators in Waldorf were in our town for one week. They are traveling through America to check on the Waldorf initiatives.
Helle Heckmann directs a kindergarten in Copenhagen called Noken, also the title of a book she wrote. Talking about her experiences could make a whole post, but you can read here more about her impressions on educating children. They had a workshop for teachers and I asked to participate.
The most important message I got from that meeting with those ladies, is the importance of the inner work while working-living with children. Our influence on our kids is much more about ourselves than about what we want them to do or learn. They learn what we give as ourselves.
Lately, I’ve been forgetting to take my medicines – Zoloft and THE PILL – before bed. It shouldn’t be so easy to forget them. They are right there in the medicine cabinet, next to my contacts, staring at me as I plunge myself into blindness in a nightly ritual.
It should be pretty simple. Take out my contacts, put the case in the cabinet, and grab the prescriptions from the shelf. But it’s not. I keep forgetting.
There are some obvious downsides to this forgetfulness. For one thing, I’m (close but) not quite ready to start on Bebe le Deuxieme. Did you hear that, Subconscious? I’m not quite ready yet. Give me a few more months, and then we’ll talk.
Side note: I even called to schedule my annual girly parts check-up, and they couldn’t fit me in until late August. Ain’t nothing happening in the uterus till after that appointment!
The other day while I was focused on pulling the perfect shot of coffee for a pre-teen who didn’t even look old enough to be drinking a triple vente mocha with whip, I toyed with the idea of having a drinking age for coffee like they have for alcohol, like 18 maybe? Although to be fair I indulged in my share of caramel frappacinos in my teen years, ironically at this very Starbucks.
I remembered feeling so hip sitting in the cozy overstuffed chair in the corner with my BFF as we gossiped and laughed and then snuck outside to smoke Kool menthol cigarettes. So who am I to deny an almost young adult of such a benchmark life experience! Scratch that, no legal drinking age for coffee, but shhhh! don’t tell but I’m not giving this 12-year-old three shots, she won’t even know the difference, in fact I’m doing her a favor.
“That’ll be $3.89 please.”
“Um, okay,” she says as she swings her Coach clutch onto the counter and counts out four dollar bills with French tip manicured nails. More Link
Either way, when I made an official declaration last week to get my house in order, I expected some interference. I had no idea.
Monday. The number one goal was to have stress-free mornings with no yelling. The laying out of things the night before went well. Aside from a hidden shoe, that wasn’t a problem. The problem was a faulty awaking apparatus, i.e. my cell phone.
Monday morning it didn’t go off. Rather, it went off, but it was set to silent. Luckily, DH gets up at 6:45 (5 minutes before scheduled departure) and woke me up. I was waking children, making coffee (absolute necessity, no matter how late), fixing bowls of cereal, changing a diaper, and corralling everyone into the car–all while trying NOT to yell. I succeeded, for the most part. We left at 7:15. The middle schoolers were late and I made it in to work with seconds to spare.
As a parent, all I really want to know is that she’s learning something, and that she’s trying. The only negative comment was that her reading fluency is still a little slow. Frankly, I care more about comprehension than how many words she can read per minute.
So all in all, I guess I can call it a successful school year. We even took a look on color career test that is suitable for kids and I learn she has a yellow personality.
My daughter’s’ father has been absent from their lives for most of this past school year.
I recently talked to him, and was trying to catch him up on all that’s happened and their futures. Naturally, he asked about their report cards. More Link
…I smell crayons. The waxy aroma sends me straight back to elementary school. The back to school shopping for new clothes, shoes, and school supplies. The excitement of putting notebooks, pencils, glue sticks, and pretty folders into my brand new backpack. Knowing I’d see all my friends again. Not knowing it wouldn’t last–that school could be a harsh and unfair place.
…I see snow. Remembering the joy of snow days and having the biggest sledding hill in the neighborhood–until my mom leveled it off during a remodel. Devastation. My Aunt Gwen smearing chapstick all over my face to ward off windburn. Avoiding her house at all costs whenever it snowed, I hated it so bad. An act of love, misunderstood.
If you’re a Bostonian, you likely celebrate (and groan) at the sight of a calendar when Evacuation Day, Patriots’ Day and Bunker Hill Day come into view. The day off from work, an extended weekend or vacation and even more competition for that sneaky parking spot at the end of your street.
Well, prepare yourself, stock the fridge and get yourself some traffic cones because Independence Day is on the way! Keep reading to see some of my favorite ways to celebrate the 4th of July!
What to do: Navy Week and OpSail ships visiting Boston
Sweet, sweet Internet. How I’ve missed you. We’re here at our new house and we are LOVING IT. Last Thursday night I hit a point where, upon looking around my house and seeing just what we were up against – the boxes stacked so high I couldn’t see over them, the piles of garbage bags, the stacks of, like, shit – I wondered why the hell we’d ever considered moving. There was so much work ahead of us and all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and forget about everything.
But we’re five days into our new house and we already feel at home. We’re not fully unpacked and there’s still a lot to do but it just feels like home.More Link
I want to tell you a funny story. There is a gas station/mini-mart about a half mile up the highway from my house. I frequent it every week or two, but not to buy anything. Are you kidding me? Do you know how much they want for a box of frosted flakes?
And the gas— give-me-a break! You won’t find higher prices anywhere in town. Nevertheless, it is one of the few convenience stores that I have to say I am honestly grateful for, even if the owners cannot say the same for me.
I do feel guilty though. Oh, it’s not what you think— I’m not a thief, at least not in the standard sense of the word. I simply take full-advantage of the restroom facilities that are offered to paying-patrons, even though I’ve already established the fact that I am not one of those.
I’m not a bum, either, just a long-distance runner, who knows the whereabouts of every Sani-Hut, park lavatory, and high-priced gas station/mini mart along my route. The first two-mentioned places, I can go into without question, whereas with the latter, I tend to feel a little conspicuous. I always have a disclaimer.