Aragorn, costume design courtesy of Deborah Carlisle

I have a handsome, faux leather clad, deliriously happy 8 year old.

Should I go red?

from the Sartorialist

Start the week off ight

I loved this article by Penelope Trunk about Perfectionism, you should read it. Apparently my little Ez is a bit of a perfectionist at school and it is causing some issues. His teacher says he is super smart and capable but wants to do things perfectly the first time and if he thinks he can't, he ends up in the quiet reading corner for quite awhile (once over 45 minutes), feeling very upset. So I have been thinking a lot about perfectionism and how to help Ez realize it's okay to make mistakes, which honestly I don't understand how he doesn't get that having a disorganized, slightly sloppy, wack job for me as a mom. Or maybe he is rebelling against just that, but I think he is too young for that kind of behavior. And then there is his wonderful dad who is a total perfectionist and just today after taking the worst pie he has ever made out of the oven (which of course is leagues better than my worst ever pie that a dog would likely retch at after smelling), and declaring what a bad pie it was and how disappointed that he was and on and on and on....And he was quite angry and I was hoping he would stop and lighten up and he never did. By this illustration, I am not saying it is Matt's fault that Ez is a perfectionist, and certainly the world is a better place with a few people like that out there but I think life is harder for perfectionists and so...

So lately I have been using a lot of meta cognitive strategies, talking aloud while I do something if I am struggling. Saying things like, "Hey, this is hard but I know that even though I don't have it right this time, the more I try I will get better." And "Gee, Whiz, this new uke tune is tricky, my fingers can barely get this chord and it sounds like noise, but eventually I will get better at it". And the slightly more obvious, " Ezzie, did you know that if you don't make mistakes you can't learn?" To which he nods.

she ain't no rockstar

I am having a lot of fun with my ukulele. And I decided that if I waited until I was any good I might not get to share for a really long time. My uke and I have a lot of fun together. It has inspired me to listen to more Neil Young and Bob Dylan.  So here I am in all of my imperfectness. This is what I am doing when my papers are written, instead of the dishes and instead of wallowing/or pulling my hair out.

I need a milkshake

I hope Molly and dad don't mind but I wanted to share a detail from their last email about their trip out West. It's about a milkshake.  

Molly - ...the viscous sludge, manhandled into dimpled styrofoam cups by an obese woman who set about the business with such grim determination that I knew we were in for it… 

Dad- Sometimes a negative can be as significant as a positive.  The Marianas Trench in it’s way is as impressive as the Himalayas.  The malts referred to above were created in a small town of less than 500 in Eastern Wyoming on US 20 by three earnest and immense women.   The malt shop had been in operation for about 6 months and in that time they had not developed the foggiest notion of how to make a malted milk shake.  The mixing wand for the milkshake was in a closed 2’ by 2’ box with a plexiglass door, the like of which I have never seen.  The strongest of the three placed the milk shake cup in the shake making box so that the mixing wand was immersed in the liquid.  She closed the door and then wrapped her blacksmith arms around the entire contraption.  In wrestling parlance she had placed it in a bear hug, and as the machine spun the mixing wand, the woman shook the entire machine as if it was a vending machine that took money but refused to dispense.   The malt she produced by these machinations was biblical in its badness.  It was malted milkshake hell.  If the best malt shop can be equated to the Taj Mahal or the Alhambra, this one could certainly be equated to the reactor at Chernoble, and is no less noteworthy.  Take my advice, avoid milkshakes in Eastern Wyoming like the plague.