And I thought school was bad...

Apparently teachers in Britain feel that students waste too much time on totalitarian trivialities like academics and not nearly enough time on important life skills like the different applications of walking, according to the following article from This is True.

"DON'T TRY THIS WHILE CHEWING GUM: Martin Johnson, the acting deputy general secretary of the Association of Teachers and Lecturers, a teachers' union in Britain, says the national school curriculum is "totalitarian" because it focuses on academics. What should schools teach, then? "Other" types of knowledge, he said. Like what? Like learning how to walk properly. "There's a lot to learn about how to walk. If you were going out for a Sunday afternoon stroll you might walk one way," he says. "If you're trying to catch a train you might walk in another way and if you are doing a cliff walk you might walk in another way." (London Guardian) ...And if you're thinking of sending your kids to ATL-led schools, run! "

Can’t say that I blame them, really. I mean, who wants to spend time educating the very people who will one day run the world in something as boring as mathematics, politics and English spelling and grammar when the fascinating and hitherto unexplored world of everyday activities await!

Kicking Butt

I want to know who created this stupid idea that health is your most precious commodity, because that really just isn't true. At this stage, I would have really loved, adored, begged for being ill.

You see, I'm trying to quit smoking, being pregnant and all that. And if you've never smoked or had to quit smoking, you'll have no idea how hard it is to kick butt while you're disgustingly healthy and hale.

Right now, I've managed to cut it down to about 2-5 a day and I'm still feeling an amount of guilt that you simply can't imagine, but the truth is I'm having a real hard time with the quitting. It's ironic, since I had no problem quitting with my previous pregnancy… though come to think of it, by the time I found out I was pregnant I'd already quit for about two or three months.

The story goes like this. I became horribly, violently, terribly ill during the winter (remember, winter here is from march/april to august/September). So there I was, hacking my lungs out (or what was left of it after ten years of light to moderate smoking, which at the time felt like it couldn't be larger than two pin heads) with my breast so congested and tight that I couldn't breathe air properly, nevermind smoke. So I just simply wasn't physically able to smoke until I got better, which took about a week to ten days, at which time I decided that a) I never wanted to feel like that again, and b) I had already quit, actually, for ten days and should be over the worst of the cravings and withdrawal, only I missed it because I was too busy being ill and consumed in self pity to notice. Simple as that, non?

Non.

You can imagine how superior I was feeling, having quit the coffin nails with no trouble at all, no cravings, no irritation, nada. I was insufferable. Smirking at everyone who complained about quitting smoking in a "I'm-better-than-you" kind of way, I'm sure many people wanted to just wring my neck. People who are coming off the nicotine are very, very easily irritated, as I can well attest now. The only thing I can think is that they didn't want to harm a pregnant woman, so they tried to avoid me, which of course made me feel even more superior, because I thought that they were avoiding me because they were feeling inferior about their inability to quit.

Someone should have just killed me there and then. God knows, if I should run into the me of that time, I would at the very least slap myself silly. Come to think of it, that would be an excellent idea. I could beat myself up and in that way never start smoking again, leading to a present of freedom.

So, anyone got a time machine? If you don't, I'd be happy to take your germs instead.

Naming Monsters

Well. Talk about a hiatus! If my maths didn't suck so completely, I would have calculated just how long I've been gone, but I would spare you that pain and myself that humiliation (not to mention menal fatigue that might lead to a revolt of the braincells) and just say "too long".

Things have been going really well for me, in case you were interested. For a while there, things got very, very hairy, but for now everything is good, so let's get straight to our feature for the day.

Since I am pregnant again, the great Naming Game has started up. Again. As if the first time wasn't bad enough, we then went ahead and actually used the only girl name we could agree on. Innocent, naïve fools that we were! Now we're stuck in the same place again, this time witout that one magical name we could both at least learn to tolerate.

This got me thinking all over again: what's in a name? Well, since I'm one of those people cursed priviledged enough to grow up with "unique" (read: you reek) name, I feel very strongly about the subject. Not that I was teased all that much about my name, come to think of it. In fact, to be totally honest, no one ever teased me about my name. This is despite the fact that I was named after a movie character (can you guess which one). I guess there were just so many other things to single out that my name seemed tame in comparison.

Fact remains, I feel very strongly about people trying to give their children beautiful and unique names and ending up with some or other monstrosity that no one in their right mind (read: not on acid) can even pronounce without the help of copious amounts of (at least) alcohol, never mind spell! I use to scorn such parents, deride them whenever I had the chance, and even wonder wether they feel such a strong drive to make their kids unique because they themselves were so singularly ununique. I have since found out that not only is that the absolute truth, but that I am one of them.

When we were looking for names for her, I realized that I, too, wanted something you-neek, a name that no one else in her class (preferably her town) has. Not that I gave my kid a bohemian, made up name. No, nothing like that. In the end, the name we gave her actually exists, it's a legitimate name, and I've actually grown quite fond of it as time passed. This is only because my husband put his foot down and refused to consider any made up names, for which I'm sure she will be eternally grateful to him as soon as she's old enough to realize that her name isn't actually "Baby". But even with that, it took all of our combined intellects and numerous close-call rumbles to actually get to this name, after almost seven months of debate and struggling.

Now I'm starting to wonder wether the entire concept of names could be overrated. I mean, wouldn't it be less confusing to just name all the kids the same? Imagine the conversational possibilities inherent in this. "Yes, and these are my two daughters, Janet, and my four sons Julian."

At least then Gwyneth Paltrow wouldn't have to try so hard, and neither would I!