A (Cautionary) Tale -- Part 3

Here’s the thing: scientifically they aren’t called jellyfish anymore.  Just like starfish are now sea stars, jellyfish are (sea) jellies.  Communication is about Person A expressing something and Person B understanding.  To that end, calling those groovy quivering masses jellyfish makes sense.  Who wants to confuse jellyfish with shoes from the 80's that create sweat-dirt mud in criss-cross patterns on your feet?  I don't want to make that mistake.  But...

It is kind of cool knowing that the name has changed.  It’s good for the noggin to switch in midstream (“sttttt-EA star” or “jellyffff-IES”).  It creates a feeling akin to hopeful when you become even a tiny bit more educated.  I’ve noticed that the moppets feel this way, too.  It’s fun for them when somebody says “jellyfish” or “starfish" -- they smile as if they know a secret (I sincerely hope it isn't an obnoxious smirk).  A ranger once told them, “We don’t call them seagulls – just gulls.  What if they were flying over a bay instead of the sea?  Would you call them baygulls [bagels]?”  Since then, whenever somebody says “seagull” I can hear them whisper to each other and the word “bagel” pops out between giggles.  But…

They should find learning inspiring, not stratifying.  Heaven help us all if they become those brats that are like, “It’s called a sea jelly.  What – do you have farts in your head instead of a brain?  Derrrr…”  You can bully with brains as well as with brawn.  

How do you encourage the love of constant learning, without creating a know-it-all-jackass (or two)?  Because a love of learning is something worth working for.  With conviction I posit that it's the nerds that make my life better...  the birders/the rangers/the ladies at the massive yarn sales wearing crocheted vests/the stamp collectors... find me one that doesn't speak wisdom and I'll eat my plastic shoe.   

Point being, caution is required on this raising-a-kid-road – zedonks are welcome, jackasses not so much.    

A (Cautionary) Tale -- Part 2

Our family digs horseshoe crabs.  We’ve had the exoskeleton of one sitting on the kids’ shelf for a couple of years now that we might have found on a beach. (Note: we do know that if every yahoo that goes to the beach takes something home there won’t be anything left for others to enjoy – but this was in the name of education, or science… science education actually.)

We take every opportunity to manhandle the prehistoric beauties in touch-tanks across the Eastern seaboard.  Since reading Crab Moon, by Ruth Horowitz we’ve had this dream of seeing huge quantities of them on the beach in the moonlight. 

This spring we went to a Ranger-lead program on Fire Island.  It was a Saturday, and a full moon, and while they won’t promise you anything, there was a chance that we would see horseshoe crabs, as they mate on the beach during May and June on nights when it’s a full moon. 

After gathering in the visitor’s center to see how horseshoe crabs are tagged and identified, and spending some time on crafts (e.g. origami horseshoe crabs) it was finally time.  The gaggle of geeks amassed there that evening walked with purpose toward the beach, only communicating in anticipation-drenched whispers.

With the beam of our flashlights muted by red plastic, we saw (wait for it) – two.  And much to my children’s chagrin they weren’t even mating.  Just two males trolling the beach of Fire Island – like that’s anything to write home about. 

“Well,” somebody said in the dark behind me as we reluctantly left the chaste beach, “I supposed our chances are limited when all the elements have to come together on a Saturday night…”  Curse the limitations of  “school nights!” I thought – shaking my fist at the heavens.

Recently my kids, still wounded by our thwarted attempt at seeing a large group of horseshoe crabs, used oil pastels and paper plates to decorate our closet door.  I asked them what they thought a group of horseshoe crabs would be called.  For inspiration we looked up animal group names online.  Some of our favorites:

flutter of butterflies; wake of buzzards; nuisance of cats; destruction of wild cats; chattering of chicks; quiver of cobras; intrusion of cockroaches; gulp of cormorants; kine of cows; murder of crows; swarm of eels; mob of emus; charm of finches; charm of hummingbirds; draft of fish; stand of flamingoes; business of flies; tower of giraffes; tribe of goats; glint of goldfish; cloud of grasshoppers; confusion of guinea fowl; array of hedgehogs; bloat of hippopotamuses; cackle of hyenas; party of jays; smack of jellies; deceit of lapwings; flock of lice; mischief of mice; scourge of mosquitoes; parliament of owls; pandemonium of parrots; prickle of porcupines; rumba of rattlesnakes; storytelling of ravens; crash of rhinoceroses; shiver of sharks; cluster of spiders; streak of tigers; knot of toads; wisdom of wombats; descent of woodpeckers; zeal of zebras.

And so our collective noun for horseshoe crabs?  We came up with a gallop of horseshoe crabs and a clomp-clomp of horseshoe crabs.  The conversation quickly dissolved into silliness reaching it’s obnoxious climax with The Girl’s suggestion of a bellybuttonbooboo of horseshoe crabs, which I wouldn’t normally even bother to type out, but she started laughing so hard she choked on her taco salad, so she earned it. 

There is a picture book introducing some animal collective nouns called: Have You Ever Seen a Smack of Jellyfish? by Sarah Asper-Smith.  The graphics are brilliant, gorgeous, perfect-in-every-way, but...

A (Cautionary) Tale -- Part 1

In the beginning there was a couple – of nerds.  Veritable nerds – not black-rimmed Ray Ban frames, striped socks, Clark-Kent-haired “nerds” who listen to authentic only-known-by-those-in-the-know bands (though we’ve certainly tried our hand at those things… faux nerdiness to cover up actual nerdiness – psychological warfare for the sake of self-preservation and all that…).  Rather, the type who lurk at dinner parties and say things like, “This doorframe looks right sturdy.”  To which the gracious reply is usually something like, “We’ve found it to be so, yes.” 

The problem with genuine nerds is that small talk and banter does not come naturally, but in an effort to give nice back to nice people our mouths open, and out pop spastic asinine words like so many spandex-clad oompa-loompas. 

The nerds reproduced, birthing first a boy, and two years later a girl.  There was a collective passion to expose the spawn to everything from architecture to zebra hybrids (zebroids, zedonks… all worthy of study). 

The dad’s style was one life-long Clark-Griswold road trip:  “Get out.  Look.  Get back in the car. Appreciate it.  Get out.  Walk up that hill.  Look.  Get back in the car.  Appreciate it.  Get out.  Climb that fence.  Look.  Get back in the car.  Everybody better be having a good time.” 

The maternal unit’s method of choice was to grab a kid firmly in each hand and wander along from one place of interest – be it academic or kitchy – to the next, stopping frequently to tell them to quit being obnoxious and then demand that they explore and express their feelings about the learning opportunity via insightful complete sentences, “If you were Frank Lloyd Wright and you wanted your friend to feel like she was entering a safe place, how high would you make the ceiling?  As tall as Dad?  As tall as that tree?  Why?”

Surprisingly (!), those kids one day were like: “I’m tired.  Just let me sit in the car.  I hate you.” And, “I don’t know.  I don’t care.  Let go of my hand and go be somebody else’s mom.” And gradually the nerds had to accept that a love of learning has to come from within. 

Maybe, just maybe nerding cannot be taught. 

But maybe it can.  There’s tenacity inherent to being a nerd.  Maybe if we readjust our styles and have a bit more time in the day…