哈，我正在帮我家7年级男娃解决他LA课的困难。昨天他作业是分析那首Where I Am From，他抱怨一大堆。觉得无聊至极。我
看了一眼儿子模仿这首诗写的Where I Am From（上周作业），发现一个问题：儿子选择的很多moments都不是感性冲击的moments，是事实的罗列。就是说，他的思维好像逻辑性很强但感性不太够。右脑开发远远低于左脑。
我从儿子四年级时就觉得公立学校LA教材和教法不太对头。大大超前于小孩的发展。也许是我们习惯小孩前私校的语文课教法。也许是因为我家小孩领悟力综合总结能力比较落后？我觉得我儿子是否能enjoy语文课或学的好，全看有没有一个好的语文课老师。我准备跟儿子的语文老师谈一谈。感觉他讲解不够。这首Where I Am From是一首象征主义诗歌，连接各个逻辑上不相关的意象的是靠意象产生的通感。如果老师不启发一下小孩往那方面想，像我儿子这样的平日思维感觉式弱，靠逻辑行走江湖的小孩，可不就找不到北了。另外，我从现在起在家要给儿子多出些右脑题目 - 让他多用用他的感觉。他的左脑太发达了，有点妨碍他的右脑使用频率和深度。So far 我儿子靠智力混英文课一直拿A, 但如果不给扫除一些根本障碍，估计再混下去拿A就不容易了。高中还没上呢。我已经听够了他每天抱怨LA课没意思。
The sunlight filtered in through my bedroom window. I lay in bed, sprawled between crinkled sheets. The days seemed to run into each other, blending together like a blur. When I first heard of the coronavirus my mind jumped to sci-fi movies and books about mass population extinctions, aliens, and plagues. A month into quarantine, and I quickly saw how reality paled in comparison to these fantasies. Quarantine didn’t involve zombies, or a killer plague, or dramatic fighting scenes. Quarantine was mind-numbing. Halfway through May it felt like I’d already done all that I could do, so I slept. Day in and day out I’d wake up mid-day, check the clock, and will myself back to sleep, folding into the soft sheets of my bed. Time seemed to warp itself, stretching and shrinking. Life fell into an undulating rhythm, and I was stuck in it.
“Hey!” My mom called from downstairs, “Get out of bed!” A grumble spilled from my lips as I pressed myself deeper into the pillows.
“No.” I mumbled, too softly to be heard. The silence stretched.
“I’m going shopping with your dad!”
“Okay.” I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard faint shuffling, and the soft click of a door being locked signaled they had left. The house was still, and I was alone. Finding myself awake and unable to sleep, I shuffled out of bed, running a lazy hand through my tangled hair. My room remained dark as the late afternoon light filtered in through half-open blinds. I felt boredom gnaw at my insides. My eyes travelled around my room taking in the familiarity of it. The white shelves overflowing with books. A vase of lavender, their buds limp and crumpled. Papers cluttered on my desk along with an array of stationary I hadn’t touched in years. My gaze fell onto a pink notebook, and I recalled the days when I wrote a diary. I flipped through the pages skimming over hastily scrawled handwriting, letting the words sink in. I turned to a blank page. The emptiness invited me. I picked up a pen, its shaft decorated with a swirl of feathers, and let my words bleed out onto the page. A poem with just four lines, the words heavy on my tongue bled out onto the paper. I felt my racing thoughts slow. Drawing open the blinds, I felt the sun kiss my face, and continued to write. The next day when the morning sun rose, so did I.
I’ve always had a love for words. The first thing I loved about them was the way they tasted, the way a word would roll in my mouth when I said it aloud. I loved the way my stories could make others laugh. I loved the way my words could make someone cry. I loved how my words could show others how I felt, exposing my innermost thoughts to the world. That moment in quarantine feels so long ago. When it felt like the world had nothing good to offer, I clung onto my words. My words made me acknowledge my thoughts. It gave me room to breathe. Words are my sword, my shield, my home. They are my mirror and my disguise. They are mine. I am still the girl in kindergarten who would whisper stories to her sister during the dead of night. Sometimes life is hard, but my words never fail me. I can now tell people I love them through a simple love poem, or mournfully reflect over an elegy. I can tap my heart and tell others they touched me there. Actions may speak louder than words, but the simplest of words can convey the loudest of emotions, all it takes is a bit of heart.
people say there is global warming. What is global warming? I don't know. 我儿子说so dumb， 直接解释global warming不就完了嘛。我告诉他不是所有人的思维都是直线的。有些人的思维，比如那些偏感性的人，就是beat around bush的。
她九岁写的东西，” someone wake up in the morning, nobody remember who th
In a town far away there lived a dog named Mindy Barouegh. Now Mindy was no ordinary dog, oh no, Mindy was a serial killer in disguise. Actually a pretty wanted serial killer. One morning Mindy felt rather peculiar. She felt as though at night she had missed a big part of this whole mess of a story.
Epilogue end
Hello there readers, it is I Mindy the Mischievous, Mindy the Mystic, and of course Mindy the Mastermind. Ah, it’s my master Lily. Master! Master! Look! Look! Lily’s foot touched my nose. “A dog!” she exclaimed, “I don’t remember having a dog…”Look Lily look! I pointed my paw up to the newspaper and smiled. I’m on the front page! I must have gotten pretty famous last night when I went out for my “job.” Last night my job was to assassinate the Yakuza. Lily just smiled down at me like the peasant I am. Look, just because you’re an S class serial killer doesn’t mean your swimming around in pools of gold. Cough. Cough. Petunia. (Petunia is our next door neighbor’s cat who is an absolute jerk!!!) I looked out of the window one day and saw her making the loser sign at me and from that moment on we were mortal enemies’.L. Lily! Lily! How could you forget about your daughter/partner in crime!?! I must find out who did this. AH! Petunia. That sneaky little bundle of mean stuff like fleas and rabies! I must find her before Lily loses her memory forever.
Chapter 1 end
Aha! I have now located Petunia. Petunia you fowl beast! I have now located you and your fowl kind! The felines. The worst breed of animal Mother Earth could ever create. (Second to bugs and insects of course.) Petunia! Fight me!!! We clawed and scratched for hours on end. It was like the civil war all over again. And on the last day, as the sun set, after 8 years of fighting I saw through the bombs and fireworks I saw that our flag was still there. Oh Star Spangled banner… and we had finally won the fight. Cue the heroic music in the background. This war was now over. Petunia as you can see dog kind stands strong as one. United. And we sailed back home on the Marchflower. When I returned home I found out that everything was back to normal. Now not only am I Mindy the Mischievous, Mindy the Mastermind, and Mindy the Mystic. Oh No I am also Mindy the Marchflower captain. I hugged Lily and smiled. Maybe I will retire. That way I can always stay by my master, Lily. My name is Mindy and I am a serial killer.
大部分人多看多写都会提高，但也就是提高到完全发挥自己的potential，而写作的potential，取决于一个人的感悟，想的多能feel more 的，终究可以练习写作技巧把自己的思想，感情用最合适的文字表达出来。可是如果一个人从来没有过一种感情或者思想，没有感到过有话想说，不吐不快的话，真是写不出什么感人的东西的。所以写作本身不是发生在“写”的那个瞬间，而是发生在far ahead of time, 只是看到一个prompt， 不管是老师布置的作业还是自己想写的，这时候把之前的感情理清楚写出来。
成績是60%左右，有點苦惱。
我儿子由于一出生就在家里被迫讲中文，英语也弱，特别是写作比较差，还影响了历史课。
去年A/E课拿了A-，现在升为Honer课了。
没找Tutor, 就是上了将次英语写作补习班。
我女儿就是一个夏天一起跟读、同读以后，理解力提高了很多
看了一眼儿子模仿这首诗写的Where I Am From（上周作业），发现一个问题：儿子选择的很多moments都不是感性冲击的moments，是事实的罗列。就是说，他的思维好像逻辑性很强但感性不太够。右脑开发远远低于左脑。
我从儿子四年级时就觉得公立学校LA教材和教法不太对头。大大超前于小孩的发展。也许是我们习惯小孩前私校的语文课教法。也许是因为我家小孩领悟力综合总结能力比较落后？我觉得我儿子是否能enjoy语文课或学的好，全看有没有一个好的语文课老师。我准备跟儿子的语文老师谈一谈。感觉他讲解不够。这首Where I Am From是一首象征主义诗歌，连接各个逻辑上不相关的意象的是靠意象产生的通感。如果老师不启发一下小孩往那方面想，像我儿子这样的平日思维感觉式弱，靠逻辑行走江湖的小孩，可不就找不到北了。另外，我从现在起在家要给儿子多出些右脑题目 - 让他多用用他的感觉。他的左脑太发达了，有点妨碍他的右脑使用频率和深度。So far 我儿子靠智力混英文课一直拿A, 但如果不给扫除一些根本障碍，估计再混下去拿A就不容易了。高中还没上呢。我已经听够了他每天抱怨LA课没意思。
https://www.achieve3000.com/products/achieve3000-literacy/
可以通过这个home school 网站买
https://www.homeschoolbuyersco-op.org/achieve3000/achieve3000-literacy/
七年级，成绩不重要，重要的是养成良好的阅读习惯。鼓励孩子多读各种各样的书，再过一年半载，可能就不是家长管得了的事了。知道有孩子到高中毕业，也只能读网上的notes做作业的。
May 24, 2021
Why My Words Speak
The sunlight filtered in through my bedroom window. I lay in bed, sprawled between crinkled sheets. The days seemed to run into each other, blending together like a blur. When I first heard of the coronavirus my mind jumped to sci-fi movies and books about mass population extinctions, aliens, and plagues. A month into quarantine, and I quickly saw how reality paled in comparison to these fantasies. Quarantine didn’t involve zombies, or a killer plague, or dramatic fighting scenes. Quarantine was mind-numbing. Halfway through May it felt like I’d already done all that I could do, so I slept. Day in and day out I’d wake up mid-day, check the clock, and will myself back to sleep, folding into the soft sheets of my bed. Time seemed to warp itself, stretching and shrinking. Life fell into an undulating rhythm, and I was stuck in it.
“Hey!” My mom called from downstairs, “Get out of bed!” A grumble spilled from my lips as I pressed myself deeper into the pillows.
“No.” I mumbled, too softly to be heard. The silence stretched.
“I’m going shopping with your dad!”
“Okay.” I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard faint shuffling, and the soft click of a door being locked signaled they had left. The house was still, and I was alone. Finding myself awake and unable to sleep, I shuffled out of bed, running a lazy hand through my tangled hair. My room remained dark as the late afternoon light filtered in through half-open blinds. I felt boredom gnaw at my insides. My eyes travelled around my room taking in the familiarity of it. The white shelves overflowing with books. A vase of lavender, their buds limp and crumpled. Papers cluttered on my desk along with an array of stationary I hadn’t touched in years. My gaze fell onto a pink notebook, and I recalled the days when I wrote a diary. I flipped through the pages skimming over hastily scrawled handwriting, letting the words sink in. I turned to a blank page. The emptiness invited me. I picked up a pen, its shaft decorated with a swirl of feathers, and let my words bleed out onto the page. A poem with just four lines, the words heavy on my tongue bled out onto the paper. I felt my racing thoughts slow. Drawing open the blinds, I felt the sun kiss my face, and continued to write. The next day when the morning sun rose, so did I.
I’ve always had a love for words. The first thing I loved about them was the way they tasted, the way a word would roll in my mouth when I said it aloud. I loved the way my stories could make others laugh. I loved the way my words could make someone cry. I loved how my words could show others how I felt, exposing my innermost thoughts to the world. That moment in quarantine feels so long ago. When it felt like the world had nothing good to offer, I clung onto my words. My words made me acknowledge my thoughts. It gave me room to breathe. Words are my sword, my shield, my home. They are my mirror and my disguise. They are mine. I am still the girl in kindergarten who would whisper stories to her sister during the dead of night. Sometimes life is hard, but my words never fail me. I can now tell people I love them through a simple love poem, or mournfully reflect over an elegy. I can tap my heart and tell others they touched me there. Actions may speak louder than words, but the simplest of words can convey the loudest of emotions, all it takes is a bit of heart.
写的东西比较长，老二像男生，写得比姐姐好，也是学校老师的功劳
她们的作品都找来读一遍。虽然我对英文作家不熟悉，但对我女儿喜欢的这几个女作家的写作风格不陌生。我儿子喜欢特别funny的作品。也喜欢思维出奇的。那类作家作品特别少。但Youtuber有不少。所以我儿子看youtuber的时间比读书多。他其实写作文很有想象力很funny。五年级时老师还拿过他的作文当范文给其他班小孩读过。但是如果分析作品，思路是个我儿子不熟悉的定式。写象征主义的诗歌，需要自己有比较强的感受，这些他都是弱项。所以做起来吃力，就抱怨无趣。
不过写作都是学校老师循序渐进地讲解过，一般要改好几次。 你儿子如果有天赋，不需要太逼他了，这个东西是一种爱好
还让他们模仿写这样的诗？象征主义诗歌的美和妙得有些人生阅历才能体会到的啊。
老大逻辑思维能力差，写得东西有点啰嗦，妹妹写东西简短精辟，还有些幽默搞笑。现在也是每天打游戏的人
地理历史科普这样的短文，问那些单词不认识？这个那个指好几个，但是下面五六个短答题全对。
读诗的时候，所有单词全认识，五六个短答题全错，让他看正确答案，一看到总是要跳起来喊what's the hell。
小说或小说节选介于二者之间。
我是没招的，我只能推科普阅读保词汇量，同时鼓励读流行热门儿童文学希望能慢慢开窍。
就不会写朋友说的AO喜欢的风格。改了又改，弄得很苦恼，后来都不愿申请学校了。我应该早以前也琢磨一下提高她的写作。。
我觉得有些象征主义作品写的真的是很好，比如艾略特的荒原。但是13岁小孩的思维还是很单纯的，如果是逻辑性强的小孩，也会是单线路的。通感联想不work的。我今天要把儿子生活里有独特感受的照片找出来，启发他去往那边想，重写一遍他那个作业。这个工作难道不是应该老师在课堂上带小孩们做的吗？我儿子说老师只是要求他们分享自己的writing。我儿子又写不出来什么，所以特别怕老师叫到他分享。所以他说他特别hate LA。这怎么行呢？7年级才开学啊。后面还有那么多年LA课呢。混都混不下去了。
我一个理工生只好亲自上阵。男孩晚熟可能也有关系，有些情愫他们体会不到。
她会想的很deep
people say there is global warming. What is global warming? I don't know. 我儿子说so dumb， 直接解释global warming不就完了嘛。我告诉他不是所有人的思维都是直线的。有些人的思维，比如那些偏感性的人，就是beat around bush的。
In a town far away there lived a dog named Mindy Barouegh. Now Mindy was no ordinary dog, oh no, Mindy was a serial killer in disguise. Actually a pretty wanted serial killer. One morning Mindy felt rather peculiar. She felt as though at night she had missed a big part of this whole mess of a story.
Epilogue end
Hello there readers, it is I Mindy the Mischievous, Mindy the Mystic, and of course Mindy the Mastermind. Ah, it’s my master Lily. Master! Master! Look! Look! Lily’s foot touched my nose. “A dog!” she exclaimed, “I don’t remember having a dog…”Look Lily look! I pointed my paw up to the newspaper and smiled. I’m on the front page! I must have gotten pretty famous last night when I went out for my “job.” Last night my job was to assassinate the Yakuza. Lily just smiled down at me like the peasant I am. Look, just because you’re an S class serial killer doesn’t mean your swimming around in pools of gold. Cough. Cough. Petunia. (Petunia is our next door neighbor’s cat who is an absolute jerk!!!) I looked out of the window one day and saw her making the loser sign at me and from that moment on we were mortal enemies’.L. Lily! Lily! How could you forget about your daughter/partner in crime!?! I must find out who did this. AH! Petunia. That sneaky little bundle of mean stuff like fleas and rabies! I must find her before Lily loses her memory forever.
Chapter 1 end
Aha! I have now located Petunia. Petunia you fowl beast! I have now located you and your fowl kind! The felines. The worst breed of animal Mother Earth could ever create. (Second to bugs and insects of course.) Petunia! Fight me!!! We clawed and scratched for hours on end. It was like the civil war all over again. And on the last day, as the sun set, after 8 years of fighting I saw through the bombs and fireworks I saw that our flag was still there. Oh Star Spangled banner… and we had finally won the fight. Cue the heroic music in the background. This war was now over. Petunia as you can see dog kind stands strong as one. United. And we sailed back home on the Marchflower. When I returned home I found out that everything was back to normal. Now not only am I Mindy the Mischievous, Mindy the Mastermind, and Mindy the Mystic. Oh No I am also Mindy the Marchflower captain. I hugged Lily and smiled. Maybe I will retire. That way I can always stay by my master, Lily. My name is Mindy and I am a serial killer.
The End
大部分人多看多写都会提高，但也就是提高到完全发挥自己的potential，而写作的potential，取决于一个人的感悟，想的多能feel more 的，终究可以练习写作技巧把自己的思想，感情用最合适的文字表达出来。可是如果一个人从来没有过一种感情或者思想，没有感到过有话想说，不吐不快的话，真是写不出什么感人的东西的。所以写作本身不是发生在“写”的那个瞬间，而是发生在far ahead of time, 只是看到一个prompt， 不管是老师布置的作业还是自己想写的，这时候把之前的感情理清楚写出来。
所以她从很早就有写日记的习惯，一直保持到现在。我儿子逻辑思维不错。数学课科学课在学校遥遥领先。我一直以为学业上他不用我们操心。这次才发现他的感性思维开发的不够。我会要求他开始写日记或者多画些画。他曾经有一段时间喜欢画漫画。他有很好的幽默感，他的漫画故事都很好玩。