By Shawnelle Eliasen
"Mom, can you help me out? What's the capital of Delaware?" My eight-year-old son, Samuel, looked up from his paper with wide, green eyes.
"Mom, can you help me out? What's the capital of Delaware?" My eight-year-old son, Samuel, looked up from his paper with wide, green eyes.
"I'm not going to tell you, Mister Man," I said. "Look it up."
"I'll see if I can remember," Samuel said. Then he rattled off most of the states in the East, capitals and all, but Delaware he couldn't recall.
"C'mon, Mom," he said. "I know you know."
"Look it up," I said with a smile. "I'll hand you the map."
I offered Samuel a small U.S. map, brightly colored states protected with shiny laminate. It was best for Samuel to find his own capital, but the truth was, I couldn't recall the city if I tried. Even though we'd been studying the 50 states and their capitals for our home school geography, the capital of Delaware, and most of the others, escaped me.
It just wasn't there.
"Dover," Samuel said, smile wide and wonderful, his finger pressed against the map.
"Awesome," I said. But I was still troubled that I couldn't remember what I'd learned just the day before.
The Dover incident wasn't an isolated occurrence, and that bothered me. Maybe it was because my husband and I had five children and our home was filled with people coming and going, busyness, and constant stimulation. Maybe it was just a matter of too much going on. System overload. My brain couldn't collect all the information that rushed in. Some information was bound to spill out. Like state capitals.
I believed this for a while. It seemed feasible. Too much input. But then one afternoon, I got a phone call from the orthodontist's office. Apparently someone had forgotten my son Grant's checkup. We'd have to reschedule. But it would take three weeks.
"I feel terrible that Grant's appointment is so far out," I said to my husband, later that evening. "I can't believe I forgot to take him to get his braces checked."
"Everyone drops the ball once in a while," he said.
"Plus I couldn't remember the capital of Delaware."
"What? Shawnelle, Grant's teeth will be fine. It's all okay."
But in my heart, it wasn't. This constant inability to remember things was getting me down.
The next day, my sons and I gathered in our home school classroom. It was Friday, and many of our tests were saved for the end of the week. Samuel had a science test. I paged through his fourth grade test booklet, skimming the essay questions. We'd been studying forces and machines. But as I read through the questions, I was challenged. What was the definition for force? How does a block and tackle decrease the effort needed to do work?
Could I answer these questions, not in general, but according to the text, material I'd covered the week before?
I wasn't sure. But it seemed like a challenge. I copied Samuel's test page, and resolved to see what my brain had retained.
"What are you doing, Mom?" Samuel asked, when I pulled my chair next to his and slid a test in front of each of us.
"Taking your test," I said.
Then I sat down and scribbled like mad, taking the test, right next to my son.
The result furthered my conviction to remember more, to do better.
This gnawed at my brain, the next day, while I went for my morning run. My feet hit the pavement with a steady rhythm. Thud thud. Thud thud. Why was retaining information such a problem? Then an idea began to percolate in my mind. Though the result was frustrating, maybe I was on the right track, taking that science test. Maybe my brain needed to be stretched and exercised, just like my body. The brain is a muscle, too. Keeping my legs fit and strong was an ongoing challenge, especially since I'd hit the big four-O. It made good sense that the same would be true of my brain.
A mental workout was just what I needed. I sprinted the rest of the way home, excited to share my new plan.
The opportunities for cognitive exercise were endless. Possibilities lurked around every corner. When the kids and I went shopping, I'd spend a few minutes looking at the list, and then Samuel would quiz me as I drove to the store. On Bible club night, after the kids had nailed their memory verses, I'd recite the same verses, too. We memorized poetry during lunch. And then there were the science and history tests. I took every one. I wondered if my brain was becoming more fit with this exercise, just like the muscles in my legs and arms. Then one day the boys and I watched a nature show on television. My little sons were drawn in by the details of the koala. They were so excited. After the documentary, we found an article online.
When Lonny got home for dinner, the boys were a fount of information.
"Dad, koalas aren't bears at all," Samuel said, over his plate of spaghetti and sauce.
"Really? Please pass the salad," Lonny said. "Where do they live?"
"Australia," another little son piped.
"So why aren't they bears?"
I speared a green leaf with my fork. "English-speaking settlers in the 18th century thought that they were bears, because they resembled bears. But Samuel's right. They're not bears. They're marsupials." I munched my salad and recalled a few more cool facts. "And do you know, they eat only eucalyptus leaves, which are poisonous to anything other than the koala. They have a special digestive system that enables them to eat the plants."
"Really?" Lonny asked.
Our little boys nodded.
"Yeah," I said. "And they have special storage in their mouths, too. To save food for later." I thought for a minute. "The female can have a baby once a year for about 12 years."
Lonny beamed over the table. "Listen to you. Seems that your mental workouts are working."
I smiled at his observation. I guess they were! Gentle gladness filled my heart. Not in a haughty, proud way, but with a quiet, accomplished sort of pleasure. Like when I ran my first mile.
"I think you're right," I said.
Lonny winked.
"And the capital of Delaware," I added, as I speared some more lettuce, "is Dover."
"I'll see if I can remember," Samuel said. Then he rattled off most of the states in the East, capitals and all, but Delaware he couldn't recall.
"C'mon, Mom," he said. "I know you know."
"Look it up," I said with a smile. "I'll hand you the map."
I offered Samuel a small U.S. map, brightly colored states protected with shiny laminate. It was best for Samuel to find his own capital, but the truth was, I couldn't recall the city if I tried. Even though we'd been studying the 50 states and their capitals for our home school geography, the capital of Delaware, and most of the others, escaped me.
It just wasn't there.
"Dover," Samuel said, smile wide and wonderful, his finger pressed against the map.
"Awesome," I said. But I was still troubled that I couldn't remember what I'd learned just the day before.
The Dover incident wasn't an isolated occurrence, and that bothered me. Maybe it was because my husband and I had five children and our home was filled with people coming and going, busyness, and constant stimulation. Maybe it was just a matter of too much going on. System overload. My brain couldn't collect all the information that rushed in. Some information was bound to spill out. Like state capitals.
I believed this for a while. It seemed feasible. Too much input. But then one afternoon, I got a phone call from the orthodontist's office. Apparently someone had forgotten my son Grant's checkup. We'd have to reschedule. But it would take three weeks.
"I feel terrible that Grant's appointment is so far out," I said to my husband, later that evening. "I can't believe I forgot to take him to get his braces checked."
"Everyone drops the ball once in a while," he said.
"Plus I couldn't remember the capital of Delaware."
"What? Shawnelle, Grant's teeth will be fine. It's all okay."
But in my heart, it wasn't. This constant inability to remember things was getting me down.
The next day, my sons and I gathered in our home school classroom. It was Friday, and many of our tests were saved for the end of the week. Samuel had a science test. I paged through his fourth grade test booklet, skimming the essay questions. We'd been studying forces and machines. But as I read through the questions, I was challenged. What was the definition for force? How does a block and tackle decrease the effort needed to do work?
Could I answer these questions, not in general, but according to the text, material I'd covered the week before?
I wasn't sure. But it seemed like a challenge. I copied Samuel's test page, and resolved to see what my brain had retained.
"What are you doing, Mom?" Samuel asked, when I pulled my chair next to his and slid a test in front of each of us.
"Taking your test," I said.
Then I sat down and scribbled like mad, taking the test, right next to my son.
The result furthered my conviction to remember more, to do better.
This gnawed at my brain, the next day, while I went for my morning run. My feet hit the pavement with a steady rhythm. Thud thud. Thud thud. Why was retaining information such a problem? Then an idea began to percolate in my mind. Though the result was frustrating, maybe I was on the right track, taking that science test. Maybe my brain needed to be stretched and exercised, just like my body. The brain is a muscle, too. Keeping my legs fit and strong was an ongoing challenge, especially since I'd hit the big four-O. It made good sense that the same would be true of my brain.
A mental workout was just what I needed. I sprinted the rest of the way home, excited to share my new plan.
The opportunities for cognitive exercise were endless. Possibilities lurked around every corner. When the kids and I went shopping, I'd spend a few minutes looking at the list, and then Samuel would quiz me as I drove to the store. On Bible club night, after the kids had nailed their memory verses, I'd recite the same verses, too. We memorized poetry during lunch. And then there were the science and history tests. I took every one. I wondered if my brain was becoming more fit with this exercise, just like the muscles in my legs and arms. Then one day the boys and I watched a nature show on television. My little sons were drawn in by the details of the koala. They were so excited. After the documentary, we found an article online.
When Lonny got home for dinner, the boys were a fount of information.
"Dad, koalas aren't bears at all," Samuel said, over his plate of spaghetti and sauce.
"Really? Please pass the salad," Lonny said. "Where do they live?"
"Australia," another little son piped.
"So why aren't they bears?"
I speared a green leaf with my fork. "English-speaking settlers in the 18th century thought that they were bears, because they resembled bears. But Samuel's right. They're not bears. They're marsupials." I munched my salad and recalled a few more cool facts. "And do you know, they eat only eucalyptus leaves, which are poisonous to anything other than the koala. They have a special digestive system that enables them to eat the plants."
"Really?" Lonny asked.
Our little boys nodded.
"Yeah," I said. "And they have special storage in their mouths, too. To save food for later." I thought for a minute. "The female can have a baby once a year for about 12 years."
Lonny beamed over the table. "Listen to you. Seems that your mental workouts are working."
I smiled at his observation. I guess they were! Gentle gladness filled my heart. Not in a haughty, proud way, but with a quiet, accomplished sort of pleasure. Like when I ran my first mile.
"I think you're right," I said.
Lonny winked.
"And the capital of Delaware," I added, as I speared some more lettuce, "is Dover."
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