Sleeping with the sugarplums

Is it healthy relaxing and unwinding, or unhealthy retreating with depression? Is it hibernating, or a dangerous sleep disorder? Is it okay to put on our jammies at seven p.m., burrow under two quilts, and pull the pillows over our head? Can we pretend to be a bear in a cave?

We don't sleep enough. Studies keep reporting this finding. We don't sleep at the right times or in the right places. Worse, our kids don't sleep enough, even though we are glad to see them fall asleep any time anywhere. Phew!

Aging and dementia wreak havoc with sleep routines. So do pain pills, cough meds, sleep aids, job stress and mortgage worry, pregnancy, menopause, restless legs, caffeine, alcohol, parenting infants, parenting teens with drivers licenses, and overdue library books.

This is the first I've heard of a PBS Sprout channel, or its annual Christmas Eve "Snooze-a-thon". I applaud the idea of kiddies sleeping through the night, but their reliance on a tv or online program of sleeping puppets is frightening. Why would the tots even have access to media in the middle of the nighty-night?

Just the idea of snooze-inducing tv brings back in HD my five surreal days in Dad's hospital room when he was hallucinating. A lowly night-shift aide was the savior who tuned Dad's tv to the C.A.R.E. channel. The channel's music helped cancel out the beeping, blinking, dripping, chatting, pages, squeaky nurse shoes, elevators, and floor buffing machines. Don't let anybody tell you a hospital is a quiet place! It's a 24-hour arcade.

Dad had been sleeping all day between gurney rides for tests and x-rays. When awake he was seriously paranoid. After dark he'd been hallucinating, but in the very wee hours he was all charm and chatting with anyone who humored his requests for sandwiches and ice cream.

Trying to sleep on the hard cot in Dad's room at night so I could confer with elusive doctors by day, I was getting almost as loony as Dad. Not easy to get shut-eye when the patient is ripping out his IV and believes you are an enemy spy

The C.A.R.E. channel showed outer space images all night, accompanied by relaxation music. Galaxies, Saturn's rings, and nebulae began convincing Dad that night was night and a fine time to sleep. All day the channel showed horses frolicking in a pasture near a mountain range, and other subtle hints that day is the time to stay awake. It was simple, brilliant, and effective. Amen!

Asking your doctor might not lasso relief. Asking Santa might not bring a frolicking pony. Ask your hospital if it has the C.A.R.E. channel for patients. Tell the little sprouts to stay under the covers for another bitty while!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

we could string them and hang them from a tree

Found this post in my dregs/draft list. I have no idea who or what I was going to string and hang from a tree last December when I started it. Still the title is fitting for this day which was both the last day of class before Spring Break AND school picture day. Yup, individual, staff, and class photos with a whole lotta saying "cheese" and trying to get little kids to remove their index fingers from their nostrils for just a couple seconds.

Any week requiring verbal reminders that paper towels must not be put in the toilet isn't going to merit a twinkly star.  A twinkly star was as good as it got at Eastridge Elementary. The reward and incentive budget was very low and counter to the education philosophy of our principal, Miss Baker.  A student's paper might merit a check, a plus, a star, or a twinkly star from the teacher.

I would have done absolutely anything so Mrs. Erickson or Mrs. Meier could draw pencil "twinkly star" on my first and second grade papers.  Color inside the lines.  Put on my own overshoes.  Solve arithmetic problems on the blackboard in front of the whole class. Rat out Bobby Tooley for some infraction. Erase blackboards. Play Red Rover and run right on over into Vince Lombardi's Green Bay Packers.  Anything for those two teachers' approval! Most of all I wanted their smiles and attention while they drew that star.

I took piano lessons from a long-suffering neighborhood woman we called "Mrs. Bath Oil". That poor woman received $1.25 for spending a half hour with me, tapping the beat on the keys with her personalized pencils (ANNA MARY BATHEL Instuctor of Piano and Organ), listening to my dismal efforts, and putting lick-on stickers and stars in my music and theory books.  Geez, what a person had to do for $1.25 in the late Sixties!

Tears would run down my cheeks the whole thirty minutes. "I am afraid your daughter does not care for the piano," Mrs. Bath Oil told my mother over the phone after a couple years of our mutual suffering.

Mom didn't give me the option of quitting piano lessons, but we did eventually figure out that my watering, red eyes during lessons were caused by the combination of Mrs. Bath Oil's hairspray, perfume, cigarette smoke, and houseful of cats. Her tears were due to my lack of any progress whatsoever at the keyboard.

This all has to do with stickers and incentives. If Mrs. Bath Oil and I both managed to get through my playing of a song in the Schaum Piano Book she put a sticker on that page. Should I play most of the notes of a piece in the Thompson Piano Book I got a foil star, usually silver. More gifted students merited the gold, blue, red, and green stars.

No promise of a sticker or star could ever make me remotely musical. I just did my time, practicing thirty minutes every morning before school because doing so was not optional.

If my smallest students settle down and fall asleep within half an hour I give them a sticker when they wake up.  If they don't, I don't. Lab rats have to at least press the lever to get the M&Ms.

The other Nap Lady gives every student two or three stickers after naptime just for being their own itty-bitty selves whether they settled down or not.  Her philosophy is, "When you grow up there are lots of things you want but don't get, so you should always get stickers when you are young." I lean toward the life is not a bowl of cherries so the tough get going and learn to not swallow the pits, and you might as well figure that out earlier rather than later.

You don't get the tiara for just showing up, and you have to eat the cereal to find the decoder ring. Oooh!  Life is so demanding!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

The hero or the goat

You blog long enough and you eventually write about goats.  Yesterday on a whim I pinned my mother's silver goat pin on my shirt, just thinking the preschoolers might like it.  Plus, teaching preschool is a whole lot like herding goats or cats or turtles on a rainy Monday.

The children were entirely too busy smearing snozz on every surface to notice my goat pin.  By naptime I was sooo glad to sit in the dark room and listen to the gurgles and snurgles of wee noses accompanied by one of our favorite/effective nap cds.  Gather Round is a Starbucks recording that includes Willie Nelson singing "I'm My Own Grandpa".  Trying to sort out the family relations in this song always makes my brain drowsy.

Speaking of family relations, I am still trying to make the decision to move my dad into a double room.  "Good grief! How did I ever get into this?"  I ask this question every time I have to deal with Dad's finances, feeling like Charlie Brown standing out on the pitching mound in the downpour.  Will I be the hero or the goat?  I'd be glad just to not be the troll under the bridge.


But back to goats, I've temporarily lost my copy of Gregory the Terrible Eater.  Gregory is an average goat except he doesn't like to eat tin cans.  Gregory would be a model recycler.  He could even advise the condo complex residents about proper recycling practices.

Spell Check has been giving me grief about my spelling of "advisor".  My eldest son has been a college adviser/advisor for several years, and he explains that institutions of higher learning make their own spelling rules for this matter.  My Big Red Dictionary reminds me that advice is a noun and advise is a verb.  Good grief!  It seems to be a vulgar transitory desiderative with past participles:

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember these items should not be placed in your condo recycling carts:

• paint cans
• rubber welcome mats
• greasy Kentucky Fried Chicken leftovers.  Ewwww!
• Styrofoam cups, egg cartons, and packing "peanuts"
• dirty furnace filters
• moldy, disintegrating carpet padding
• ugly chandeliers
• pet poop
• light bulbs
• curtain rods
• documents that included credit card and Social Security numbers.  Oops!
• clothes and toys
• wire hangers
• dead houseplants
• bamboo wind chimes
• hundred dollar bills

Let the goat eat them instead.  (And that goat is a classic Provensen illustration for The Color Kittens. It convinced me for a dozen years of childhood that goats really ate tin cans and ONLY tin cans.)

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Dog + Fog = No Blog Posts

Watching t.v. with Dad, I'm creeped out by the endless commercials for Christian Mingle Dot Com.  Apparently one can "Find God's match for you" online.

I am in love, but with a five and a half pound dog, possibly a divine gift for mental health and stress relief this holiday season.  While my trip to Oregon included a wonderful visit with my son and daughter-in-law, scenic adventures in several environmental niches, and a break from both nursing home and computer, the best for my blood pressure was probably hanging out with Wiley the Wonder Dog.  Wiley has two speeds, Doggie-A-Go-Go, and snoozing on your lap.  Wiley is either a baby koala, a canine Einstein, or a Schnauzer-Yorkie mix.  He does NOT like to have his toenails trimmed.  Neither does my dad.  Medicare doesn't pay for old farts to have their nails cut very often, and those poor podiatrists probably wait years to be reimbursed for their services.

Sunday my eldest and I visited the Mt. Angel Abbey near Salem.  We went because Fodor's suggested the library was a "masterpiece of serene and thoughtful design", and one of only two American buildings by Finnish architect Alvar Aalto. Maybe the interior is a masterpiece, but the exterior was less intriguing than the monks' Weber grills on its patio. Since the library was closed, I will not add it to my Life List.

The hilltop abbey was itself a gem of serenity and mindfulness.  Like Brigadoon, it seemed adrift in a sea of mist and fog, removed from real time and concerns.  I felt near Christopher Columbus' edge of the flat earth looking out into the fog beyond the pines.

The Benedictine monks thoughtfully reminded me I should winterize my condo exterior faucets when I returned home.  Please note the faucet cover at the grotto:

What makes a non-dog person in a foggy land go seeking Finnish architecture in the Willamette Valley?  There doesn't seem to be an online specific matchmaking website with or without God's misty assistance. Sometimes we must find our own way or a comfortable chair.  Why seek out an Alvar Aalto project?  Because his chair designs are found in a book I loved as a child. We all find our places of calm where we can retreat.  On a clear day we can see for miles in the valley, but this was a foggy day:

On a  clear day
Rise and look around you
And you'll see who you are.
On a clear day
How it will astound you
That the glow of your being outshines ev'ry star.

You'll feel part of ev'ry mountain sea and shore.
You can hear, from far and near,
A world you've never heard before.
And on a clear day...
On that clear day...
You can see forever and ever more!

So tonight I have Arvo Pärt's "Te Deum" in the cd player.  It fits the fog, the abbey, the aesthetic, and recent memories of a small dog snoozing on my lap. 

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Napping for roller derby

The Lady In Red heaved Dad out of his wheelchair and into bed.  We were discussing World Wrestling Federation moves.  This led naturally into roller derby recollections.

I'd gotten Dad's shirt off, and hospital gown on, but I can't transfer him.  Once she got him flopped onto the bed, I peeled off his shoes, socks, and sweatpants, while Ms. Red checked his diaper. 

Ms. Red said she used to take a good nap just so she could stay up late and watch roller derby on tv. She wanted to be a Bay City Bomber when she grew up.  Ms. Red is young, born in 1963.  My students are younger, but some of them have a future skating round and round, pointlessly bulldozing into anyone in their path.

I watched roller derby as a kid on weekend afternoons in black and white.  Unless the Yankees had a game the viewing choices were slim--bowling, fishing, the local talent show, golf with Arnold Palmer and Gary Player, or "Learn to Draw" with Jon Gnagy.  Several of these options were nap-inducing!

Tuesday Dad wanted me to sit with him until he fell asleep.  He was chilly after supper, so I covered him with two quilts.  I sat next to him, stroking his skinny arms, and eventually just letting the weight of my hand on his chest secure him for his exit ramp to sleep.  It's in my job description.  I do the same thing for seven to ten preschoolers most afternoons.  Hush little baby, don't you cry, close your eyes so you can watch roller derby...

Dad can't put any weight on his legs to stand for the quick pivot into bed now.  He can't hang his arms around Ms. Red's neck and dance with her.   Most significantly perhaps, he can't stand and pivot enough to be put on the toilet for a bowel movement.  My intent is not to be gross, but to document the progressive loss of independence and self esteem, and the sadness of observing this deterioration. 

After my trip I'll have some nice photos of geese.  Right now you will have to draw your own with Jon Gnagy!

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Arkady Renko and the allergy sinus funk

Into the Moscow pothole I happily sunk, ready for the ever-inefficient and corrupt Putin-era cement to be scooped into the bottomless pit.  What a treat to have Martin Cruz Smith's Three Stations to read while Dad or the class rabbit napped nearby.  Book over, I pulled back to a redbud-blooming Texas spring against my will.  Back to driving the rusty Buick Skylark instead of Sergeant Victor Orlov's Lada.

Definitely the shortest of the Arkady Renko novels, Three Stations is not Smith's best.  But weak Arkady is better than no Arkady at all.  Wolves Eat Dogs is on my mind because of the Japanese nuclear reactor situation.

Gray, pollen-filled sky, too-warm and humid air with no hope of rain, this day signals the beginning of tornado season.  Squeezy head days make me want to nap, but was too agitated to actually curl up on the couch.  I'll regret it tomorrow, but I went to hike at the Heard Sanctuary near McKinney. 

Grandma babysitters were trying desperately to tire out Spring Break children, walking them all over the refuge.  A few older children had escaped to the parking lot to sit in warm minivans with their stocking feet on the dashboard and an electronic game in their hands.  Smaller children played Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail of crunched orange Goldfish crackers. 

My father leaves similar crunched Cheez-It messes and a trail of used Kleenex.  His blinds are closed and he bashes his wheelchair into the wall while he demands his coffee.  At least Dad isn't in Arkady's Moscow, wheeling into the perpetual pothole of the Putin era. 

Sightings today at the Heard:

• Great blue heron adding material to its nest

• Canoeing kids watching the heron = great

• Carolina chickadees improving a hole in a tree
• Wrens skipping on exposed tree roots
• Indigo buntings just blew me away
• Cardinals

• Hairy woodpeckers in the wetland
• Snowy egret
• Pair of bluebirds
• Titmouse
• Blue-gray gnatcatchers

• Camera-shy goatweed butterflies (this one has its head under the whitish leaf)
• An out-of-focus funnel spider
• Too busy crescentspot butterflies
• Teasing falcate orangetips
• Two yellow swallowtails too early in the season

• Mossy red-eared slider turtle snoozing.  No novel.  No nap?

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Relaxing in a _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Friday's preschool napper storytime group gave me a good reminder for mental health.  I pass it on to you hangman style.

The kids all knew where the green dog was in Go, Dog, Go, but only one had an idea about the yellow dog.  That dog is reading in a panic.  Been there too much lately.  It's time for a mental health break.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Red Hot Bad Napper Chili

My temper tantrum student brought a most appropriate gift of Firehouse Chili mix.  She has come a long way in our consistent environment since entering school, but she is still red hot more often than not. 

When she is bad she is horrid, just like the little girl with the curl.  She resists napping even though she is smart enough to know a good nap would make her feel better.


As a mom, I read the Mother Goose rhymes with certain personalizations.  Once you do that, you have to use the same personalizations every single time you read the rhyme.  Who knows how "smack dab" became part of the reading?  It must be pronounced like a hissing/chomping reptile with a backhand to the forehead:

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Smack DAB in the middle of her forehead.


And when she was good
She was very good
And when she was bad she was horrid.

Just what does "smack dab" mean? 

In essence, the phrase means "slapped precisely in the center." According to the Oxford English Dictionary, smack-dab showed up in print in 1892: "He hit him smack dab in the mouth" [Dialect Notes I, 232].

The "at" symbol, @, always looks to me like the curl smack dab in the middle of a forehead.  The chili is looking mighty fine simmering on the stove.  Not a bit like a tantrum...

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Nap room wave lengths

The current group of preschoolers taking afternoon naps includes some very light sleepers, a small Whirlwind, and one Belle Lugosi:



Miss Lugosi [not her real name], is three. She falls asleep with her arms crossed on her chest like the Boy King Tut.



The Whirlwind requires my assistance to fall asleep. I place dividers around his nap mat. I hold my hand on his back. It's like gradually moving the barbed wire fences closer and closer on all four sides of a Kansas tumbleweed.



Two three year-olds fall asleep with great difficulty, and only when I pretend to fall asleep in my beanbag chair between their nap mats. Their breathing and wiggles slow. Unfortunately, pretending to be asleep can lead to a very drowsy state of affairs.



Suddenly Miss Lugosi sits bolt upright with her arms extended rigid in front of her. Has Vincent Price called her to his Transylvanian castle? Eyes wide open, she murmurs something incoherent but loud enough to set off a wave of restlessness around the room. Then her body slumps, and it's obvious she's not really awake. She turns over and is sound asleep again.



This ripple sets off a wave of nappers sighing, changing position, tugging at blankies. The little Whirlwind is still out for the count, but others are closer to wakefulness.



As the children roll over and resettle, I'm reminded of waves. Sines. Cosines. That 1973 calculus class in the tiny, overheated subterranean classroom. Shifting bodies under blue fuzzy bunny blankets, each roll over in turn. I vaguely wonder how we used our slide-rules and logarithm tables, before returning to a near-nap state.



Why haven't I taken my camera to the SMU campus to photograph Santiago Calatrava's moving sculpture, "The Wave"? I'm often nearby, and will put it on my artist destination list, with an ETA before naptime.



© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Rockabye reptiles

This is a very tiny green anole trying to settle down for the night. Anole parents have no involvement with their offspring once the eggs are laid. That means no bedtime stories and no lullabies.

While it isn't the tree-top, the wind was blowing, and the cradle was rocking. The leaves in the photo are slightly longer than one inch. The young gecko's body is about the same length, with another couple inches of skinny tail. After testing different positions, the anole probably aligned itself along the center vein and stem of a leaf. That would camouflage it very well.

The bough didn't break, and the little guy got a good night's sleep. I happened to see him climb out of the leaves onto the fence about eight this morning.

While settling the littlest preschoolers for their afternoon naps, I spotted a lizard silhouette moving on the wall. Was I dreaming? No, this lizard was even smaller than the rockabye reptile, with a shorter tail. A Mediterranean gecko had found a gap by the door and squeezed inside. The dark nap room let the nocturnal gecko think one p.m. was time to prowl for insects. An educational opportunity not to be wasted, I caught the gecko in a clear plastic container for the older students to see.

Mediterranean geckoes are very bumpy reptiles with lidless eyes and suction-cup toes. They are so homely they're cute. Plus, they eat insects. Lots of insects. After the older students watched it a little while, they took it outside to release on the other side of the nap room door. It's a good spot with a light nearby to attract insects during normal nocturnal hours.

We are watching two white eggs in the corner of the school garden under some old, soggy leaves. They look like yogurt-covered raisins. According to GeckoWeb, Mediterranean geckos deposit pairs of eggs in this type of location. At my condo complex, geckos live in the weep holes of the exterior brick walls near lights. Whenever I think I should get up and look for some to photograph, it is much easier to roll over and go back to sleep.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Addition Solutions

Tired teacher flips through Mitt Romney issue of Newsweek on the train. Most of the printed material isn't really sinking in. The magazine is just a prop to yawn behind and to create a sci fi force field against unacceptable seatmates. Then a recognized word. Addition. Addition solutions. A special advertising section of "Addition Solutions" is proclaimed for abaci? Flash cards?

Why are the expensive ads in the middle of this slick weekly national news magazine all for substance abuse clinics and treatment centers ? Where are the ads for No Child Left Counting On Their Little Piggy Toes?



About five a.m. she'd sent out an email for near and dear about the site wear [sic] her spider photos could be viewed. So embarrassing to realize the misspelling! Wishing she'd been paid as much for her mistake as the maker of the Newsweek goof. Proofreading is so very important!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Our National Naptime

Eureka! I've found it, but it's nearly two decades since I really, REALLY needed it. I've found a cd that makes kids fall asleep!

If you want to know the name, just mail me a twenty dollar bill... No, I'm going to tell you for free. It's the humanitarian thing to do! It's a good feeling knowing I'm making the world a better place for sleep-deprived mommies (and kids)everywhere.

"Bella Espana" is the name of the cd. My little art students are painting to the music, with some splendid results. They are abnormally calm and focused. Some of them are so calm they fall asleep in class. I'll post images of the paintings soon, but I wanted the word to go out immediately about the nap-inducing effects of this classical guitar music.



The first four tracks are music from Bizet's "Carmen" performed by the Los Angeles Guitar Quartet. The preschoolers love track four, which is the "Toreadors". They know this music from a Disney tv series called "Little Einsteins". Track four gets them really listening to the music. Then the less familiar pieces can work their calming and sleep-inducing magic. As an added bonus, I don't mind listening to it for a solid week of classes.

My colicky son has finished grad school. My son who perfected the technique of ripping wallpaper off the wall by his crib during naptimes is a senior in college. My youngest will probably never tell the guys in his dorm that he could only fall asleep to music from Disney's "The Little Mermaid" or Raffi songs about ducks. I would have loved "Bella Espana" in those years.

I have one other tip for getting little kids to fall asleep: "You must get in bed now, but you may listen to the baseball game on your radio." Mark Holtz died from leukemia in 1997. I had nominated him for sainthood several years before for his ability to engage my boys in radio baseball. Mark, with his signature expression, "Hello Win Column," did the play-by-play for Texas Rangers baseball games on the radio, with Eric Nadle doing color commentary. Following a baseball game on the radio takes considerable concentration. It's exhausting. Eventually, little ears and brains wear out, forgetting to stretch in the seventh inning. When kids drift off to sleep, many moms have thought, "Hello Win Column".