2012 Reboot

Clearly, I have not been blogging much.
It turns out that writing essays feels like homework.
So I need to do this differently.

I woke up today and decided that it was time to reboot the blog.
Begin fresh.
I went to the blogger site and tried to redesign the layout.
But I couldn't remember how to change the formatting.
And I was afraid that if I messed with it,
It would disappear.
So instead,
I played around with Photoshop.
You know,
Turning my photograph into a cartoon
Or a mosaic.
In the end, I put cracks all over me
And posted the picture on Facebook.

I think I need to stop putting stuff on Facebook and start putting it here.


Speaking of rebooting,
If you are my friend on Facebook, you know all about our recent experience with boots.


Before Blue was wearing the boot, he was wearing this:


I was chatting with a mother in the hallway at the boys' school, and she said, "At least he didn't break his leg in the summer! It would be terrible not to be able to go swimming."

And I told her about this:


Blue was standing on a wall on the Fourth of July. And he fell off. Like Humpty Dumpty.

It was summer, and he could not go swimming.

In 2011, that kid was apparently trying to break his entire left side.
Piece by piece.

I actually wrote a blog post in November titled, "Why I Am Not Thankful." It was about how crazy it was that Blue broke his leg while standing still on ice skates. Because who breaks their leg while not moving?

And I was mad, because all my kid could do
Was sit on the couch and cry.
Or rage.

But when I wrote the blog post titled, "Why I Am Not Thankful," I realized that you all tend to like the funny stuff. And that post was not funny. And it occurred to me that it even sounded a little bratty.

So I turned off the blog and turned on Facebook.

While I was on Facebook, Blue started hollering.
He screamed, "This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me!"
I realized that he was right -- it was the very worst thing that had happened to him.

And for that, I was thankful.

We are all putting ourselves back together. It is a new year.

I have joined a boot camp.

It is a boot camp for out-of-shape mothers.

I need a swift kick.

It turns out that I am flabby and slow.



I might be flabbier and slower than any of the other mothers.

And yesterday, I injured myself.

But you know what?

I did not break my leg.
And my kid can now go swimming.
And tonight, I am not messing around on Facebook.

Instead, I am writing this blog.
Again.

Teenage Dream

In April, Blue and Green turned nine. Nine. I can't believe how old they are. Mostly, Michael and I are just glad that we no longer look like this:


But it's also a strange time. The boys seem to be sitting on a line that divides childhood and adolescence. At any given moment, they can be darling little cherubs OR they can be sullen, sulky, dissatisified mini-adolescents declaring that everything is disappointing. When I wake up in the morning, I'm never quite sure which kind of kids I'm going to get.

A few weeks ago, I sent some cute little boys off to school. The ones that returned brought home a full dose of swagger in their backpacks.

Blue walked in and said,

'Sup.

Then he picked up his ipod and popped in some headphones.

"Wait a minute." I said to him. "What kind of greeting is that? How was your day?"

"Boring," he said.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"What?" he answered. "I can't hear you over the music."


Sadly, I have to confess that the ipod was my idea. I was honestly just trying to deflect the continuous begging for a smart phone. Because, you know, their friend So-And-So has his very own iphone, and omigod, he can play the BEST games and download the BEST music and PLEASECANIHAVEONE?????? So I started thinking about how they could download audio books on an ipod, which, is somewhat educational, right? Surely an ipod would be both cool AND a wholesome recreational device.

Well, so far, the kids have not downloaded any audio books. Instead, it's all about music. Have I mentioned the music? Weren't we just listening to sweet songs about school buses and the occasional ode to Martin Luther King? Not anymore.

I certainly got an earful in the car the other day. I was driving along, trying to elicit more than one word answers from my kids, when they suddenly burst into song. Katy Perry's song. The one that goes like this: Let's go all the way tonight/No regrets/Just Love. Then there's a part about letting someone feel you in your skin tight jeans.

Ahem.

(For you oldsters out there, THIS is Katy Perry)

I have to say that I am all about free expression. I basically spent the whole of ninth grade writing about music and my rights to listen to whatever I wanted. At the time, we were learning the mechanics of the 500-word theme. My first opus was called, "The Walkman: Pro or Con?" In it, I had to write 5 paragraphs: an introduction, a paragraph in which I acknowledged a contrasting perspective, two supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion. I was definitively a fan of walkmen, but I did write a solid second paragraph in which I conceded that there might be times when using them could be dangerous. "Granted," I wrote, "wearing your walkman while riding your bike might make it hard to hear a car honking at you. This could result in damage to your ten speed or even injury."

(For you youngsters out there, THIS is a walkman)

I followed up with a second walkman-related essay called, "Don't Censor Music! (Keep Your Judgment Out of My Walkman)." This piece was in response to the Parental Music Resource Center's attempt to keep explicit music out of the hands of children. Remember? Tipper Gore was the head of it, and she propelled the whole movement to get ratings attached to music and videos. At the time I was outraged. Of course, now my own children are yodeling about underage sex while strapped into their booster seats. In response, I have developed a fantastic beginning for the second paragraph of that ninth grade paper: "Granted, some people are worried that their nine year-olds will sing a loud and off-key version of Katy Perry's 'Teenage Dream' at the Thanksgiving dinner table in front of their grandparents. This is a valid concern."

Mostly I am just happy that Blue and Green don't seem to understand what the song means. I know. I know. I could have used the skintight jeans episode as a teachable moment, but I was honestly too busy choking on my Diet Coke to handle it.

Some issues do indeed appear to need some clarification, however. For instance, a few months ago, the boys and I had this discussion:

Green: We learned a dirty word in school today.

Me: Oh?

Blue: It's the worst word.

Me: The worst word? What is it?

Green: It starts with the letter F.

Me: Tell me what it is.

Blue: It rhymes with "Coke."

Me: What?

Blue: You know...

Me: Foke?

Foke! The dirty word is Foke! That is fantastic! My kids learned the "dirtiest word," and they got it wrong.

But on the very same day, the boys were preparing their Easter baskets for the Easter Bunny. Michael and I are baffled about their ongoing belief that a rabbit breaks into the house in the middle of the night and brings them Easter gifts and chocolate. This year he brought an iTunes card so that they could download more Katy Perry. Now, technically, I suppose, a man in a red suit could slide down the chimney with a bag of iTunes cards. But a rabbit? Really?

Michael is worried that they are going to learn the truth about the bunny on the playground and be outraged at us for lying all these years. Frankly, I am not so sure that they will believe the person who spills the (jelly) beans on this one. I imagine the scene will unfold something like this:

Blue: Dude, I just heard from Linus and Sally that there's no Easter Bunny. They said that our parents fill the baskets.

Green: 'Sup wit dat? That can't be right.

Blue: Yeah, foke that.


I guess I have to get used to half-and-half: half little kid/half big kid; half believer/half skeptic; half delight/half ennui. (I might need a large glass of half gin/half tonic to get me through it). In the ever-so-deep words of Katy Perry: It's the lessons in our lives that make us wise/But young or old I'm told it's the same/Oh, these growing pains never go away, so I'll just keep on trying.

Integrity

The new academic quarter began last week, and I once again delighted the students with my Academic Honesty speech. I've written before about my problem with various cheater-pants. I have a list of favorites: the girl who blamed her cheating on an infection she got from her Brazilian wax; the girl who said that her ovaries made her do it; and, of course, there's the student who said that she had no idea that her essay came from the internet, because she had her DAD WRITE IT FOR HER.

In response, I have developed an Academy Award-worthy performance that starts with me moving in close and lowering my voice. The various Ashleys and Brianas lean forward in anticipation. I blink rapidly as if the topic fills me with emotion. I swallow loudly. And I tell the story of a student who had BIG DREAMS to MAKE A DIFFERENCE. She WORKED SO HARD, but then one quarter she got DESPERATE. She couldn't make it all work. She was overwhelmed. She made a bad decision. She copied her paper from the internet, and she GOT CAUGHT. And it was so sad -- all her dreams were dashed, and now she's a clerk in a widget factory, earning minimum wage.

OK, I confess that this story is not really true. There are no lost dreams. No widget factory. The girl with the wax issues and the other with the ovary problems probably have more exciting and lucrative careers than I do. So, essentially, I am lying in order to describe the evils of cheating, which is problematic in so many ways.

But, whatever. Ethics are overrated.

(Note to college students out there: Read this blog entry. If you're going to cheat, you should definitely improve your skills.)

After I gave my cheating speech, I had to come home and help my third graders with their homework. No longer does homework involve sorting leaves or estimating how long it takes for an ice-cube to melt. It increasingly requires me to be a calm and persistent nag. Our afternoons go like this:

Me (with fake enthusiasm): Time for story problems! Yay!

Kid (looking briefly at worksheets): I don't get it.

Me (irritated): You haven't even tried.

Kid: But I already know I don't get it.

Me (after reading the first problem): I don't either.

Here is a version of our daily struggles:

Priscilla, Keisha, and Juan are riding on a train going south at 75 miles an hour. Priscilla is wearing a yellow sweater. Keisha is wearing a blue sweater. If the train breaks down, and everyone has to get on a Greyhound bus going north at 35 miles an hour, what color sweater will Juan be wearing when they reach their destination?

If only it were warm enough that Juan didn't need a sweater. Damn it!

But let me tell you, the math was the least of my homework issues last week. Over the past few months, Blue has been preparing a report called, "The Book of Knowledge." Sounds impressive, doesn't it? In reality, not so much. Apparently, the students had to pick a country and write 10 paragraphs about its many fine qualities. Blue chose Austria, mostly because he already did a project on Austria this year and didn't want to do any extra learning.

Just before winter break, Blue brought home his "rough draft," claiming that he was done with the paper and just needed to type it up. I gave him a congratulatory smack on the back and stopped thinking about it.

The project was due last Friday. On Wednesday, I said, "Blue, isn't it time for you to finish up that report?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get it done," he said.

I rustled up his papers and took a look. One paragraph began like this: "Austria lies at the nexus of modernity and history."

Wait.

What?

I read the paragraph again. And again. And I thought about my kid's eight year old vocabulary. It slowly dawned on me -- Blue copied this report from a book. Word for word. He PLAGIARIZED it.

Fantastic.

And now I had to give my Academic Honesty speech to my child. "Blue," I said, "Do you want to have all your dreams dashed? Do you want to work in a widget factory, earning minimum wage?" He gave me a blank look, which is essentially the same look I get from his 20-year-old cheating counterparts.

The pisser was that Blue had to re-write the whole report. Plus, he kinda forgot to mention that he needed to illustrate each fabulous page. In one day. The whole thing reminded me of that time in college where I neglected to read Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov as assigned, but then tried to consume it all in one evening in preparation for the test (Additional note to college students: That particular strategy, it turns out, is not the best way to appreciate Russian literature).

So on Thursday morning, I sent Blue off to school and started obsessing about how we were going to accomplish this task. First, I re-read this article in the New York Times and mentally prepared a letter to the district about the evils of homework for children. Then I began to bite my nails. If I got Blue to sit down and start working at 4 pm, could he get through it? Was it too early to introduce him to the concept of an all-nighter? Would that be teaching him good study skills, or would it be child abuse?

Then it occurred to me -- I had the whole day free. I could quickly rewrite Blue's Austria report in his own words...er, my own words. I could turn "majestic" into "pretty." I could turn "goods and services" into "stuff." And who would know the difference?

ACK! What was happening to me? I stopped for a moment to contemplate this story problem:

If Blue copied his paper word-for-word from a book while riding on a train going south at 75 miles an hour, and then his mother re-wrote his paper to make it seem like his, would the paper be more original or even less original by the time Blue reached his destination?

In the end, I stepped away from the abyss. I handed Blue's report, and his integrity, over to him. He worked for 5 hours. He did the illustrations, designed a cover, and signed his name by 9 p.m. His brow was sweaty, and his fingers were cramped. He said, "I think I'm ready for college."

Actually, I believe he's right.

Voting

A student of mine recently wrote the following: "Democracy is important, because it lets us buy whatever we want."

I kind of hope that she gets lost on the way to her polling place. But the rest of you -- it's ELECTION DAY! Go cast your vote!

To recognize the importance of this right and responsibility, I have created a brief blog "ballot." You will notice four very crucial questions on the right-hand side of the website. Please consider your votes carefully and click on your desired positions. Our society depends on your participation.

UPDATE 5:15 p.m. It's a tight race for vanilla-flavored toothpaste and candy-as-veggies. Stay tuned for more!

UPDATE 6:25 p.m. Veggie purists take the lead! Toothpaste race too close to call.

UPDATE 9:45 p.m. Olivia Newton John is looking for supporters! Toothpaste race is still the one to watch.

UPDATE 10:05 p.m. The Mint Only! vote is breaking away.

UPDATE 9:30 a.m. The polls will be open until midnight tonight (just to keep the election fever going one more day). Get your friends to vote! Be a good American!

Being Sporty

Thursday, October 20, 1983

Well, the day has finally arrived. I am a teenager! I have survived through 13 long and oh-so-hard years....

This is what I wrote in my diary on my thirteenth birthday. I continued by discussing my plans to become a soap opera actress and offering a complaint about a bad grade in science class. And there was that guy that failed to notice me. What was the problem? My zits? (Yes.) My braces? (Yes.) Little did I imagine that I would be sitting here decades later, writing much the same thing:

Well, the day has finally arrived. I am middle aged!

I know that it's indelicate for a lady to admit her age, so let's just call me SPORTY. Everyone has been asking me if I feel differently now that I'm SPORTY, or if I'm depressed, or if it marks some big, cataclysmic shift in my life. Certainly, there was the SPORTY of my imagination. You guys remember -- we used to sit around, full of youthful ambition and smugness, and say, "I don't want to turn SPORTY and not have (fill in the blank: won a Pulitzer Prize, sailed around the world, figured out the way to achieve world peace...)." SPORTY was like a judgment day, a cosmic end-of-unit assessment. And, sadly, it turns out that I have not done any of those things. I have no Pulitzer, no sail boat, and I can't even broker peace in my own home.

But if I'm honest, SPORTY doesn't feel all that different than FLIRTY WHINE. I still have to get up and make the school lunches. I still need to badger (scream at) my kids about their homework every night. There is still a splotch of food ON MY CEILING that has no explanation. I frankly haven't had the time to contemplate what it means that my optometrist has warned me about "the changes that start to happen at your age."

Speaking of changes, I will cop to a big one. For the last 20 years, I have purchased my t-shirts in the juniors' department. They are SO MUCH CHEAPER than the grown-up kind. And it doesn't really bother me when Britnee, the salesgirl, comes over to tell me HOW TOTALLY CUTE a pair of denim-looking leggings would look on me -- BECAUSE I KNOW BETTER. Britnee, I wore leggings with STIRRUPS in ninth grade, and those old pictures don't lie. I looked like an eggplant (and actually, so do you!).

But the other day, I was in the dressing room in the juniors' department at Nordstrom, when I overheard a group of young women talking about tattoos.

Girl #1: (Squeal!)
Girl #2: Like, my mom is such a b**ch
Girl #3: OHMYGOD, what did she do?
Girl #2: She won't let me get a tat on my hip.
Girl #3: OHMYGOD, No way!
Girl #2: She said I shouldn't put Justin's name there in case we break up.
Girl #3: OHMYGOD, you'll never break up.
Girl #2: We are so in love.
Girl #1: (Squeal!)

So there I was in the adjacent stall, musing about why my legs always look so much worse in store dressing rooms than they do in my mirror at home, and I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from telling Girl #2 that she should absolutely, positively, NOT tattoo Justin's name on her body. It occurred to me that I am so like her mother, that I could BE her mother. And with that, I have no business trying on the same t-shirts as she does.

So, OK. Now that I am SPORTY, I will consider shopping in the adult section of the department store. I am also going to take my calcium supplements more faithfully. But really, turning SPORTY is all good. I am very, very lucky to have made it this far.

Helicopter

The last few weeks of summer seem like cruel and unusual punishment. The libraries in my city have gone on furlough. The lifeguards have gone back to college. When I search the internet for "things to do with kids," I get back the answer, "A whole lotta nothing."

Speaking of the library, I have this tendency to request things and then forget about them. Suddenly, a stack of 15 books comes in, and I have no idea why I wanted these particular ones. Last week, as I was gathering my books in anticipation of the aforementioned furlough, I noticed this one:


The premise of this book seems to be that the downfall of our society rests on the fact that we are hyper-scheduling children. The author suggests that I SHOULDN'T be trolling the internet for activities at all. Instead, I should kick back with a cocktail while the kids run wild with their imaginations. Furthermore, we should be banishing all electronics and plastics and let children devise their own playthings out of trash and earthen matter.

Great idea! I especially like the part about the cocktail. But my annoyance with this author began on page one, when he said, "Ambitious mothers force hours of homework on bewildered ten-year-olds, hanging the abstract fear of 'future employers' over their heads."

OK. I start to get irritated when the BAD MOTHER gets brought up so early in a text. And I snickered at the thought that it was ME and not the SYSTEM that was making my darlings do their math homework every evening. Of course, if I'm honest I have to admit to feeling a bit twitchy about the fact that YOU are having your kid practice those division facts over the summer. And I am feeling twitchy that my kid knows that 8 times 6 is 48, but when I ask him what 48 divided by 8 is, he looks at me like I'm speaking a different language. Is your kid going to be better prepared for third grade? Will your kid go to a better college? Will your kid win the Pulitzer Prize, while mine lives in my basement and plays video games all day? Crap.

One day last week, we started our day with this conversation:



The abrupt ending of this video clip was followed by me losing my mind. My tirade sounded something like this: "You are young, healthy boys! I just read a book that said that I am not supposed to be planning your summer. You are in charge of yourselves. Go run around! Go hunt something! Go build a structure out of sticks and trash! Go! Go! Go!"

Green sized me up and said, "Can we play the Wii instead?"

Seconds later, the grumpy bunch of us were piled in the car to go partake in the great outdoors. The boys were sullen and vocal about it. Imagine the whining. Close your eyes and visualize Green treating me to a speech about INJUSTICE. Imagine this speech lasting the entire 45 minute drive through traffic as we searched for some nature.

We ended up at the Arboretum. When we got out of the car, Green said, "What are we going to do here?" I sighed heavily. "Green," I responded. "Look at this wild-ness. There are adventures to be had! Be free!"

Green slumped his shoulders and said, "All I see are trees."

As it turns out, trees can be pretty fun. They are fun as long as you have the best seat in the biggest tree. If, however, your seat is inadequate or your tree is petite, you might start to whine a bit. You might call your mother over and say, "It's not fair that his tree is better than my tree." And if your mother is anything like I am, she might say something like, "I am not in charge of the trees." And you might respond, "HE ALWAYS GETS WHAT HE WANTS AND I NEVER GET ANYTHING MY LIFE IS TERRIBLE." And, if your mother is anything like I am, she will suddenly realize that she left the cocktail ingredients at home.

At one point, we found a tree that suited everyone. It was one of those huge, droopy trees with an underworld all its own. It had multiple good seats. It could be *gasp* shared! Blue and Green climbed up on a branch and started scootching down the length of it. And I started to worry, just a little bit. Very quietly, I wondered, "What if they get splinters in their butts?"


Now, if I looked up "butt splinters" in the index of that book, it would point me to a section called, "Butt Splinters Are Part of Adventure!" Or maybe it would point me to a section called, "Mothers Who Worry About Butt Splinters Are Raising Uncreative, Dependent Monsters!" But the truth is that this author probably never had to extract splinters from the butts of his screaming children. I'm pretty sure he left that task to his wife.

So I hovered a bit under that tree. Hover, hover, hover. Their hair was ruffling from the rotors of my metaphorical helicopter. I tried to distract them from my closeness with some chit-chat. "Boys," I said, "I think it looks like a castle under here. What do you think it looks like?"

Green looked up and around. "I think it looks like a boiler room," he said.

I exclaimed with delight! A boiler room! Now, THAT was creative. "Green," I asked, "when have you ever seen a boiler room?"

"I saw it on Club Penguin," he answered.

Dammit. Club Penguin is a video game! The book is right! Technology has seized my kids' imaginations, and now they're ruined.

We began to walk back to the car in defeat. Back to the Wii and the computer and playing "I Gotta Feeling" over and over and over again on the Ipod. As we walked, we noticed that all of the trees in the Arboretum were labeled with both their regular names and their species names. We passed a pine tree with this sign underneath that said, "Pine Tree: Pinus"

Say that out loud to yourself once. Pinus.

Pretend that you are an 8 year old boy, and say it three times quickly. Pinus, pinus, pinus.

Tears started running from my kids' eyes as they hooted, "PINUS!" at the top of their lungs. "PINUS!"

They ran and screeched. Whooped and jumped. Played.

And isn't that what summer is all about? Wide-open spaces, sunshine, and a dirty word?

No See, Long Time

Yikes! Did you hear that scream? So sorry. That harrowing noise came from Green. And no, he didn't lose a limb. He and his brother made a "solar cooker" out of a cardboard box and tin foil. They decided this afternoon that they were going to saute some crab apples, uncut, soaked in half a bottle of vegetable oil. To make apple pie.



Needless to say, the project didn't work.

AND HE'S NEVER GOING TO BE ABLE TO COOK ANYTHING AGAIN! EVER! HIS WHOLE LIFE IS RUINED! AND HIS HANDS ARE OILY! VERY OILY! HOW CAN HE USE HIS HANDS NOW! THIS IS A DISASTER!

The irony of this episode of outdoor screaming is that I had just finished a long overdue blog post in which I discussed how much my kids have matured. I think I will tuck that one away for later.

I don't have a solid explanation for why I stopped writing. I suppose it was a combination of things. First, there's Facebook. You guys expect juicy essays from me, but Facebook? It just wants a sentence or two. Or a funny picture, like this:


I can be quick and thoughtless there, but this blog usually requires a day's labor. Michael says that I like "microblogging." I think I might just gravitate toward "easy."

The other problem I've encountered in my writing involves Blue and Green. Those cute kindergarten cherubs who liked penguins and Curious George are now official "big kids." And with that, it seems like there are some privacy issues or some lines that shouldn't be crossed. Plus, the things that used to be kind of funny, like a story about an epic hissy fit at the beach over ice cream, might not seem as charming if it's about an eight year old (or two). I feel like we're renegotiating our relationships, and it's awkward to do that in public. Or maybe I just haven't found the right words.

But here we are at the end of summer, and I do want to come back to this place. To YOU. Back-to-school time. Turning-over-a-new-leaf time. Special thanks go out to Sarah, who has reminded me that blog writing can be fun.

So here's what's in store for the next few weeks. You will journey with me as I try to find things for the boys to do during these final days of summer. We already have a line-up of doomed projects (cue the screaming). I know that some of you are cherishing these dwindling moments of summertime togetherness with your children. I, on the other hand, think that this much togetherness is overrated.
(Note the fancy hats. These were part of project #4556 this summer. They are already falling apart. Blue warned me that the only thing that will repair his work and SAVE HIS LIFE FROM BEING A TRAGEDY is the purchase of a hot glue gun. I suspect that he also plans to use the gun on his brother.)

Santa Claus Addendum

Several of you have asked whatever happened with Green and Santa Claus. Well, imagine my delight when, just days after I made a fool of myself in front of Green’s teacher, Green decided to abandon reading Superfudge altogether. I don’t know if this was because he didn’t like the story, or if he got to the offending chapter and simply didn’t want to know. Either way, when he told me that he put the book back on the shelf, I was thrilled.

Of course, I have trouble containing myself when I am thrilled. Without missing a beat, I hurled myself right back into the classroom and screeched, “Green stopped reading Superfudge! It’s all going to be OK! I am so happeeeeeeeeee!”

The teacher looked startled and backed up a step. Then she said something like, “I’m certainly glad that’s over!”

The good news is that Santa was alive and well for our holiday celebration this year. But, still, a heavy coating of skepticism blanketed all of our activities. The boys were questioning, and it made me nervous.

The week before Winter Break, Green came home with some important news. “Mommy,” he said, “Santa Claus is not real.”

I gulped. “What do you mean?” I asked.

Green said, “I read a book in the library that said that the real Santa Claus lived in the 1700s.”

“The library!” I barked. “It sounds like the books there are inappropriate for children. Maybe we should boycott! Start a petition…”

He continued, “If Santa lived in the 1700s, then he’s dead.”

“OK,” I countered. “If Santa Claus is dead, then who’s the guy who flies around in the sleigh?”

“That,” Green said with assurance, “is an imposter.”

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Santa is dead, and there’s a faker riding around with flying reindeer delivering presents?”

“Exactly,” Green said.

So that’s the ticket! Someone was PRETENDING to be Santa, some burly guy dressed in a Santa suit knockoff, some guy who for the rest of the year was just a regular dude -- an accountant or a dentist or an airport screener-- with a crazy impulse to break into all the world’s houses over the course of a single night.

A few days later, Blue got on Santa’s lap and asked for a soft, green, stuffed dragon with a yellow stomach. It had to have all of those qualities. And, of course, there are many stuffed dragons in the world, but they are either green OR soft OR they have yellow stomachs. When I asked Blue if he was willing to be flexible, he said, “Santa can make it the way I want it, right? Didn’t you say he was MAGIC.”

Damn it.

Then, at about noon on Christmas Eve, Blue said, out of the blue (ha!), “I wonder if Santa will bring me an SD card for my camera.”

I snapped to attention and said, “Blue, I thought you wanted a dragon with a yellow stomach.”

“A SOFT, GREEN dragon with a yellow stomach,” he clarified. “But I also want an SD card.”

“But Blue,” I stammered, “You didn’t mention the SD card to Santa when you sat on his lap!”

He rolled his eyes. “Mommy, remember? Santa knows EVERYTHING. You did say that he knows EVERYTHING, right???”

I looked over at Michael, alarmed. He started to hum, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” I, on the other hand, was determined to get this right. “Uh, Michael, I whispered. What the hell is an SD card and where can I find one?”

Santa did his best. He brought a dragon that is soft and has a yellow stomach. He happens to be on the black side of green. Blackish green. Kinda like the deepest green in the forest in the middle of the night. But he also managed, on some pretty short notice, to bring an SD card for Blue’s camera, proving his ability to know everything, all the time.

I, of course, was reminded of a lesson my parents taught me many years ago. Lying is very hard. Lies beget more lies and considerable stress and panic. The truth will set us free. I think I’ll send an email to Santa, that fraud, and tell him that next year he should keep his day job.

New Year, New Things

2010. It’s so hard to believe. Michael and I have been musing about the last decade and how much has changed since Y2K. There have been a few new degrees. New jobs. A house. A couple of kids. A blog.

Sigh. This blog.

You may have noticed the yawping silence over the past few months. I don’t know how to explain it except by saying that I have been feeling massively uninspired. And when I’m uninspired, I rarely say to myself, “Self! I know what will get rid of this ennui: Writing a long, clever essay!” No, it’s more likely that I’ll zone out in front of Facebook with a diet coke and some BISON ON A STICK.



OH YES THIS IS REAL. Minnesota State Fair meets the Wild West?

Sadly, any future clever essay writing will require everyone in my family to stay healthy. The last couple of months have been filled with the Swine Flu, the Hog Flu, the Pork Rind Flu, and the Guinea Pig Flu. Just today, I was taking a shower, thinking to myself about how I was going to sit down and finally write a new blog entry, and the phone rang. I had a bad feeling, so I jumped out of the shower and answered it. Unsurprisingly, it was the school nurse, who told me that Green had just thrown up into a trash can.

Of course he did.

And, you know, my kids are not the kinds of kids that suffer quietly. They scream and wail and make sure that everyone in the house knows the extent of their pain. And when they are not screaming or wailing, they are tormenting each other.

Last month, under the influence of piggy virus #2, I decided that we needed to get a bit more festive, even if no one felt well. So I pulled out a CD that has Christmas music from all the traditional children’s TV programs (“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch…”), and it turns out that Blue has an intense dislike of the song, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” As if the swine flu wasn’t enough, I had the kid sitting in the middle of the room with his hands over his ears screeching, “Turn it off! I can’t take it! Please! This is killing me!”

That was all it took for feverish Green to seize the day. Every time Blue got busy doing something else, Green turned on “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” And then Blue screamed bloody murder. If Blue went into the bathroom, he would hear the song. If he went into his room to read, he would hear the song. After days and days of the music and the screaming, followed by more music and more screaming, I lost my mind. At one point, when the first notes of “Hark!“ came on, I marched out to the living room and shrieked, “Green! There will be no more Christmas music in this house! None! From now on we will only listen to Mommy’s mix tapes from the 80s!”

Oh yeah, baby. Next time you have a problem, threaten your kid with a little bit of Yaz. It totally works.

When we’re all healed, I think I need to reinvent this site a bit. I’m not sure exactly how I’m going to do that, or what shape those changes will take. You will have to stay tuned. Please stay tuned.

Censorship

If you have been reading this blog for a while, you know how much I enjoy a good holiday celebration. You know --- Harvestoween and Earth Day and Veterans’ Day. So it should come as no surprise that, in our family, we are busy getting ready for Banned Books Week (September 26-October 3).

I am completely serious – except there’s a twist. I am trying to ban a book. Or mutilate part of it. I have thought very hard about whether or not it would be possible to break into Green’s classroom and STEAL this book off the shelf. Or maybe get the School Board to end that crazy policy of having kids read during class. NO READING! NO READING!

You can wipe that shocked look off your face now. Let me explain. It all started this summer, when the boys and I snuggled up on the couch to read “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” together. The author, Judy Blume, was my favorite as a child. She single-handedly educated me about topics as diverse as menstruation, divorce, and scoliosis. You could always count on Judy to tell you the truth.

"Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" is not one that I remember very well, probably because I didn’t spend a lot of time with the books that featured boy characters. But, of course, in a strange twist of fate, all the people who now live in my house are boys. So I thought, “How about if we read this together and fill a few of these endless late-summer hours?”

And the kids loved it. They loved Pee-tah and his little brother, Fudge. I had to do a little explaining (70s gender roles, mugging (!), what a “doorman” is), but somehow, my kids really resonated with the main theme that a brother can be annoying and might eat your turtle.

Apparently, Judy Blume has turned this set of characters into a series, following the brothers as they age. I wanted to learn more about the second in the series, “Superfudge.” So I got online and was taken aback at all the WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! postings in the reader reviews.

So it kinda turns out that Judy Blume tells the truth about Santa Claus in this book.

Dammit with the truth-telling! I want my kids to be shielded from the truth! I want a cover-up! Come on, Judy! What were you thinking?!!!!

Anyway, I decided that we wouldn’t be reading that book. Instead, I bought the next one, thinking maybe the boys wouldn’t notice that we skipped over a whole segment of the characters’ lives.

I know that this will probably be the last year for Santa in our house anyway, just because the boys are getting to that age where logic starts to work (How likely is it that the same mother who somewhat obsessively checks to make sure the doors are locked would let a strange man come into the house in the middle of the night?). We already dodged a bullet last year when the kid who sat next to Blue revealed Santa’s identity. But this was the great part – Blue didn’t believe him! It turns out that this kid had cried wolf one too many times. There was the time that he told the teacher that his father died (not true), and the time that he told the class that he was getting his legs amputated (not true), and the time that he said that his mother liked to cook ponies for dinner (not true). So when he said to Blue, “There’s no such thing as Santa,” Blue just shrugged and said “Everyone knows you’re a big liar.”

Lucky for us, that kid is now attending another school. Second grade has started, and the students are back to their homework and their math assessments and their germ sharing. Yesterday, Green ran out of his classroom at the end of the day with a big smile on his face. “Mommy!” he exclaimed. “Guess what I’m reading at silent reading time?” “What?” I asked, delighted that he is so interested in literature.

He said, “I’m reading Superfudge!!!!!”

I felt my pulse begin to race. NO!!!! NOT SUPERFUDGE!!!!

And then I did what I should not have done. I marched into his classroom and accosted his teacher. I will add that it was really hot yesterday, and I was not at my best. The second grade is overrun with pungent little boys, so there was an odor to the school that made me queasy – like some of the kids had accidentally peed on the tops of their dirty sneakers. And I was sweaty, and red-faced, and trembly. The teacher took a step back when I shrieked, “You can’t let Green read Superfudge!!!! He’ll find out about Santa!!!!!”

In that moment, my name was scratched off the list of potential candidates for Room Mother.

She paused and said, “Umm… do you want me to hide it?”

And I honestly went home and wrestled with whether or not I should take her up on that offer.

Then I had this very profound flashback. I was 10 years old (and a very young 10. A Barbie-doll-loving kind of 10. A Snoopy-and-the-Gang kind of 10. Not the kind of 10 that dresses up like a hooker on Halloween). My mom took me to the B. Dalton Booksellers in the mall to find something to read, and I found a Judy Blume book that I had never read. It was "Forever," which most of you know concerns a teenager’s first sexual experience with a guy who names his penis “Ralph.” When we got home, my mom looked more closely at the book and decided that perhaps it wasn’t appropriate for me quite yet. So she took it. And hid it.

In response, I spent the next year looking for it, hunting and searching, searching and hunting, until I found a copy in my friend Lisa’s house and read it in her basement, all in one sitting. This made me wonder what would happen if the teacher really did hide Superfudge. Would Green spend the entire school year wandering around his classroom looking for that book? Up-ending book bins? Tearing through the math manipulatives? Opening all the science kits?

This morning I apologized to Green’s teacher. I said that perhaps I had overreacted. I told her that Green can read whatever he wants to read. Ideas should be free, even if they destroy our holiday traditions. No problem.

She continued to gaze at me warily. I can’t imagine why.

I guess I will watch and wait to see what happens when Green gets to that revelatory chapter in the book. I wonder if he will tell Blue at recess. I wonder if he will tell other kids. Of course, if any of you can think of a reasonable way for me to get rid of the book before that point, please let me know.

Just kidding. Sort of.