Have you ever heard of D.I., or Destination Imagination?
I had only heard the words in passing from an extended-family member whose kids were involved, and I didn’t understand what the heck it was.
Now, here it is January, and I find myself in charge of a team. And I’m still not exactly sure what the heck it is.
What I can gather from what I’ve read, the videos I’ve watched, and the day-long information seminar I attended in December, D.I. is a team competition where the adult managers are constantly warned of the dangers of “interference”.
Ahhhh, interference. This is how I found myself managing a D.I. team. This idea that the kids have to do all the work themselves, with only my guidance—to keep them from cutting off a finger or punching a fellow team member— was appealing to me. In other words, I am discouraged from doing any of the work for them, and even giving them suggestions on how to approach their challenge is a big, fat no-no.
Little did I know that my team of four kids, ages 7-9, would pick one of the hardest, most complicated challenges to do for the big competition this spring. I’d explain it if I could do it justice, but let’s just say it involves creating a skit that involves golf balls, while also building a weight-bearing structure out of wood, glue and hope. The addition of golf balls to this year’s “structure challenge” is new and I think it was added just to shake things up and insure each manager goes a little grayer before the year is up.
My own daughter Jilly is on my team and is the biggest goofball, something I am slightly proud of at times. The other times, I want to wrap her up with duct tape, sit her in the corner and let her teammates work.
Our debut of this idea that exists only in their imagination is the 17th of March, a mere two months away. If the kids advance from regionals, we move on to states on the 31st. I refuse to even consider that they will go to the national championship.
Especially since there has not yet been any consensus on their overall idea and no development of a structure yet. I am half expecting them to enter the competition with a few handwritten notes, a structure of popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue, and costumes made out of the remnants of our dress-up box.
Wish me luck. Actually, wish them luck. I don’t want to interfere.
Destination Imagination: A journey to the unknown
FollowEleven
Eleven years ago today, at 4:18 am, I became a mom.
My “natural childbirth” baby quickly turned into an emergency c-section after the nurses discovered she was breech. . .when I was 10cm dilated and ready to push. Doh!
The lesson I learned? Things may not be as easy as I expect, but the end result is pretty amazing.
To know Belly is to love her. I don’t say that to brag or because I’m her mom, it’s just the truth. She makes so many people happy and has such a kind soul—I know that isn’t all there is to life, but it’s a pretty great start.
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this is the beginning of one of my favorites—to read the entire short story, go here.
“Eleven” by Sandra Cisneros
What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.
Mommy and her laptop, sitting in a tree. . .
If there is one ugly truth about myself, it’s that I’m on this laptop far too much.
I use this computer for work, and to shop for everything but groceries (though I have done that before). I use it to research what we’re having for dinner and to get materials for the class I’m teaching in our next homeschool coop session. I have three email accounts to check, and Facebook and Twitter feeds that I try to pop on at least once a day (okay, 50).
But it is way too easy to get sucked into a vortex. Just one more post to read. Shoot, work needs this tomorrow, I’ll do it now. Oh. . .Big Store X is having a huuuuge sale, and I really should pick up some of their {insert product here}.
Here’s the thing though: My house is not falling apart from filth. The laundry is done (and put away). I cook three meals a day, and they are (almost) always nutritionally sound. My dog is walked (and tired) (which counts as my exercise, right?) My marriage isn’t falling apart (right honey???). My legs are shaved. I read stories to the kids at bedtime and don’t check my iPhone as I do it. My kids aren’t running wild, beating small animals and setting fires. In fact, they are great kids.
The only thing that bugs me about the time I spend online is how it looks to the kids. Will they remember mom as the lady with the laptop in the kitchen clicking away? Or will they remember her as the one who took them to their million activities? Who kicked their butt dancing to The Chemical Brothers on Just Dance 3? Who helped them put away their 1,001 American Girl accessories? (oy) Who sat with them as they tried to remember the difference between an adjective and an adverb and somehow didn’t scream?
I’m debating setting a timer. Working only when they are asleep (a tricky proposition as they stay up later and later). Maybe only going online between certain hours.
Or cutting myself some slack and stop worrying about this. 2012 as the year of less self-imposed guilt? Sounds pretty nice to me.
