Literature

I feel like I was a bit of a voyeur at the state fairs. Truth be told, I'm not really that comfortable with weird food or scary rides or kiddie rodeos. But September always brings a wacky event that is just my speed: the Friends of the Library Book Sale.

I really love reading. I always have. I was one of those kids who looked like she was doing the phonics worksheet on her desk, but she was really reading a novel on her lap. I think that reading, especially reading fiction, has made me a much more creative person. And these days, I'm pretty proud of my eclectic tastes -- I can enjoy the Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece, but I can also appreciate the finer points of a schlocky thriller.

People who read like I do make up a geeky bunch, and there's something pretty funny about bookish nerds competing to get their nail-bitten hands on the best used paperbacks the city can offer. Twice a year, the library system puts on these huge sales in an abandoned Navy hangar. There are thousands and thousands of books on every subject, and waiting for them are thousands and thousands of slightly furry people wearing wool socks and Birkenstocks.

Today's sale began at 9 a.m., and my mom and I arrived at 8:45. The line had already wrapped itself around the building. People came with empty suitcases and stacks of cartons and boxes that they could use to haul their treasures home.

It was cold outside, but the anticipation in the air warmed us all up. Despite the classical music being piped out of the building and the aroma of coffee from the nearby espresso stand, this was a line of tense people. Whose child would be the lucky new owner of that fresh copy of Walter the Farting Dog? Who would be the first to claim that first edition of the unauthorized biography of Anna Nicole Smith?

There was a lot at stake.

Apparently there's also a bit of a controversy about the book sale. I learned about this in the newspaper this morning. ON THE FRONT PAGE. I guess this is a big story! It turns out that online book dealers tend to snatch up all the books and pull them off to the side. Then they scan the barcodes to check the going price on the internet, leaving behind their piles of discards in the corner. In the meantime, the regular shoppers don't get a chance to see those books. Horrors! The efficient sale volunteers came up with a new rule to solve the problem: "You can still use [handheld scanners], but you can't take books off the table. They can scan only as they walk up and down a table. That's settled things down considerably."

Well, phew! I wouldn't want to see a brawl between a scanner-wielding capitalist and a bearded fellow holding a ceramic NPR mug.

I managed to avoid conflict as I gathered up 30 "gently loved" children's books for Blue and Green. I'm so pleased that the boys are avid readers, and I try to keep up with their interests. Books about reptiles are big this season, as are Magic School Bus science books, and the Magic Treehouse series. I also picked up a classic about slime. It begins, "Slime in my pocket, in my shoe. Is it custard? Is it glue?" How could I resist that?

These days, Blue and Green also like to browse through grown-up books, pulling out words that they recognize and inquiring endlessly about ones that they don't. Green is fond of "reading" the dictionary. He'll pick out a word and recite all the letters. "Mama," he'll say. "What does a-n-n-o-y-i-n-g spell?" Blue, on the other hand, has a few special grown-up books that he returns to again and again. We don't know why. Here's a favorite:

I'm so happy that they are little book lovers, but I'm a bit worried that school will strip the joy out of it for them. Already I'm concerned about that one homework assignment where they're supposed to fill out a checklist for each day that they read for twenty minutes. When I told them about this assignment, Green asked me, "Why do they say that reading is work?"

Why, indeed. For most of the people at the sale, reading was anything but work. There were the two frizzy mathematicians searching for gold in the science fiction aisle. There was the guy in the corduroy suit with his hefty stack of poetry. There was the way-too-cool pierced hipster with her bucket of literary theory. Nobody was working today, and I was loving the quirky wonderfulness of it all.

Everyone seems to have their own favorite sections of the sale, and I tend to stick to the kids' section and the literature section. But as I was waiting in line to check out, I became transfixed by the nearby Self Help table. I realized that I've missed out on so much by lingering in my usual zone. All this time, I could have been reading this:

Or, better yet, this:

I'll keep these two fine selections in mind as my classes start this week. On Monday, don't be surprised if you hear me holler, "Oh inner critic, let me give you a hug! I'm feeling stressed out today, but I'm LOVING IT!"

Curriculum

Over two weeks have passed since Blue and Green started kindergarten, and we're beginning to get into a bit of a rhythm. Of note is the fact that we've been on time every single day, even with the double breakfasting, the dressing, the lunch packing, the snack packing, the form signing (twice), the water bottle filling, the car loading, and the car unloading. I'm always a little sweaty by the time the bell rings, but the kids are as cheerful about a new school day as I am about a frozen margarita on a hot beach.

The hardest thing for me has been the fact that I don't really know what's going on for them during the day. In the afternoons, I ask for an update, and I usually get a gossipy story about kids who didn't follow the rules (pronounced woo-wuls). Most of these rules seem to concern having kids SHUT UP. Here are a few, in Blue and Green's words:

1) Don't shout out to another teacher who's with another class when you're in line because you need to be quiet because it will disturb other classes that have their windows open.

2) Don't talk during directions

3) No talking unless you raise your hand

4) If you need to talk, don't talk in a mean way

and

5) After lunch, try to get into two lines and don't talk until you get around the corner and if you do it well the principal will give a silent cheer.

I happen to know that there are a few other rules, because I received the school's six page "code of conduct" during the first week. In addition to SHUTTING UP, here are some of the other guidelines:

1) No pocket chains

2) Summer clothing should be reflective of an educational institution and not that of a beach party (this is a direct quote!)

3) Flush toilets

and

4) Wood chips stay on the ground at all times.

OK, so I get it. Rules are important. But what are they learning? What are they doing all day? It's hard to tell. One day earlier this week, I asked the boys what they did in class. They answered, "Today we played with dead birds!" Ummm.....what? Is this for an important unit on taxidermy? Guess what, boys? I have a new rule! Wash your hands after every lesson!

My gap in knowledge about the school day was concerning, so I was happy that our teacher held "curriculum night" on Thursday. At 5:45, 20 parental sets squeezed our big bottoms into teeny chairs and learned that our little geniuses would exit kindergarten 1) reading; 2) writing; and 3) certainly able to stand in line without talking. We learned about science ("preserved" birds = observing the natural world), math, and literature. We learned about field trips (school buses!), birthday parties, and art.

I was pleased. It seemed like a rich curriculum that both had a purpose and was reasonably creative. But there's one thing that still nags at me: homework. Yes, homework. For kindergartners. I don't know why I'm surprised. After all, my two five year olds need to be able to compete with five year olds in China and India, and God knows that those other kids have been up to speed on dead birds for years now. But, man. Homework? I guess that I have a Leave It To Beaver-esque notion of what childhood should be. You know, you come home from school, throw down your backpack, and go play kick-the-can with the neighborhood kids until dinner. Homework complicates that image.

Of course, if I'm honest about it, it's vexing that their homework is really my homework. And I could tell that other parents were agitating about this, too. After the curriculum night presentation was over, there was a line-up of nervous mommies in designer jeans waiting to talk to the teacher. And I could hear the questions:"OK, it says on the homework sheet that Junior needs to read more than two books for twenty minutes every night and then fill out this form. I'm reading chapter books with him, so can we read more than two chapters, or do we need to read several of those long books every night?" or "I've already taught Poopsie how to do long division. This homework is too easy for me....I mean, her. Can we adapt it to include some pre-calculus?" And in my case, I notice that I'm approaching their homework the way I used to approach my own, by putting it off until the last minute. That way, the work itself might not be interesting, but it becomes a huge! alarming! emergency! that can add a little drama into an otherwise dull afternoon.

For their part, Blue and Green love doing homework.



They think it's fabulous, no matter how mundane the task. "Okay guys," I said the other day. "It says here that you have to go count all the cans in the pantry." "There are twenty!" they hooted, after pulling out and examining all the cans of beans and vegetable soup. "Actually," I replied,"There are nineteen. I'm throwing this one away because it expired in 2004."

One of their favorite activities had to do with leaves. They were supposed to gather 10 leaves and then sort them by size and color. We put on our shoes and trekked to the park. I said, "This is homework, boys. You need to find 10 leaves." Off they went, while I rested on a bench. When they returned, this is what they had with them:



Overachievers, already.

Comparative Case

The lengths I go to for you people! Seriously. You don't understand what I did for you today. Since my inbox practically overflowed after my report on the Minnesota State Fair, I figured I could entertain you even further if I enlarged my knowledge of the whole state fair phenomenon. So this afternoon, in the pouring rain, I visited the Washington State Fair, aka "The Puyallup" (pronounced Pew-allup).

Did I mention the pouring rain? It was pouring. And 58 degrees. So I was a bit surprised at the fact that zillions of other people were also at the fair, wrapped in their slickers and hunching under umbrellas. At the Minnesota fair, there was something so summery about the way the curly fries blew greasy steam on their eaters' sunburned faces. But here, the rain and the cold and the hot chocolate were constant reminders that our state decided to put its fair in the autumn, after all the kids go to school. I just don't get that.

But anyway, how do I describe this experience? OK, remember the Minnesota fair? The butter sculptures? The crazy food on a stick? The gluttony? Well, throw a little west coast cool on top of the celebration. Instead of a corn costume, you can buy an earth-friendly bamboo shirt.

And this is certainly not the place to fill up on artery-clogging piles of junk food. This year, Washington State banned trans fats at the fair.

And if you're looking for food on a stick, all you're gonna get is fruit.

But still, Washington State is not all about love and peace and healthy living. We have a nasty side. You may have heard, but we really don't much like small children or sheep. Want some evidence? Check out the Mutton Bustin' Championships.

Here's what happens. If you're a parent of a kid who is six years old or younger, you can PAY MONEY to have him or her thrown off the back of an angry, running sheep. And, if your kid hangs onto the sheep for the longest amount of time, he or she will win A BELT BUCKLE. And then that winner gets to compete next weekend for A BIGGER BELT BUCKLE.

So imagine this. It's, as I mentioned, pouring rain. Mud is everywhere. Peeved sheep are at the ready. The damp crowd rises and sings the national anthem. And then, the first kindergartner is placed atop one of the beasts. The gate is opened, and the stopwatch starts:

He stays on for one second. Then another kid and another sheep are introduced:

Seventeen tiny children go through this, all heaved up on the animal's bare back by a willing parent. Some kid hangs on for three seconds and goes home with a new buckle. But, really, the sheep wins every time.

The host of this pint-sized rodeo event left us with a piece of wisdom. He said that there's nothing more unpleasant in this world than bare skin on wet wool. Hmm. I don't know, I think having a crazed sheep step on your face might be a bit worse than that.

Later, I asked Blue and Green to choose their favorite fair. Each gave his vote to Minnesota, and I think I have to agree. The Washington fair certainly has a good vibe going. But Minnesota? It takes the cake (on a stick).

Pain

Oh, have we struggled the last few days. There has been no working on my syllabus. No cleaning the garage. No spinning. And no sleeping. NO SLEEPING. Ever since the kids started kindergarten, I have been doing a lot of reminiscing about their babyhood, and the NO SLEEPING thing brought me right back to the nauseating desperation that takes over when one goes several days without rest.

It all started on Tuesday, when Green came home from school complaining about his ear. Whenever Green gets a cold, his ears clog up. I know this. But somehow, I sensed something was different. And in the middle of the night, the screaming began. This was wild, back-arching wailing. We tried Tylenol and Sudafed and the Hokey Pokey. Nothing helped.

Clearly, the kid wasn't going to school on Wednesday. And Wednesday brought with it escalating shrieking and crying. He started to plead with me, "Mama, I need your help." So we picked up Blue from school at 3 and went to visit our friendly pediatrician.

I'll admit it. I hate going to the pediatrician. The place is too hot, the rooms are too small, and I feel just a bit resentful that we have almost single-handedly put this doctor's kids through college. For years, we have shown up with a series of horrible symptoms and get sent home with the news that "it's just a virus." I call this the BUMMER FOR YOU (BFY) diagnosis, because when things get bad enough for me to drag the gaggle of us to the doctor's, I would like to receive a PLAN OF ACTION in return. But no, it's usually "drink liquids and get some rest."

Now, ear pain seems to be the most likely affliction to generate the BFY diagnosis. And I understand this. I do. If you take too many antibiotics, they become ineffective when you really need them. But on Wednesday, I would have cut off a few of my toes if it would have meant that there was something that could help my child. Still, after looking in the kid's ears, Dr. Busy looked up and smiled. She chirped, "Lucky for you, Green, you don't have to take any yucky medicine!"

I was sweaty from the heat and shaky from the exhaustion, and I could feel myself getting a bit screechy. "Are you sure it's not infected?" I asked incredulously. "Nope," she answered. "There's just a bit of fluid in there. You just need to wait a few days."

A FEW DAYS!!!?!?!?!?! Didn't she get it? Something was wrong, definitely more-than-average wrong. Green had been screaming bloody murder for 24 hours, and he wouldn't eat ice cream. No ice cream!! But see, there's a problem. My degree in mother's intuition is worth far less than her fancy medical education. What can I do? Tell her that she should trust me, the ear really is infected even if it doesn't look like it?

So we went home, with no antibiotics. I almost asked Dr. Busy for a prescription for grape-flavored Vicodin, but I figured that Green already had his folder flagged with a note that read: "Mother is a freak." In some venues, jokes about narcotics are simply not appreciated.

Wednesday night was like a scene out of hell. Green cried and cried and cried. He slept for maybe an hour, if you pieced all his five minute dozes together. By morning, his little eyes had fallen deep into their sockets. When the doctor's office opened, I called Dr. Busy and left a shrill message. An hour later, a nurse called us back. "Hi," she said. "This is Emily from Busy Pediatrics! Dr. Busy wants you to try warm compresses on Green's ear and have him take regular doses of Ibuprofin." Wow! Thanks so much. I never would have thought of over-the-counter pain medication!

By yesterday evening, Green was pleading, "Can't you do something?" It was time for a trip to Urgent Care, which is a fancy term for a nighttime doctor's appointment at the cost of an emergency room visit. Isn't it crazy to spend hundreds of dollars to have someone look in a kid's ears? It is, truly. But guess what? I was right. Green is the proud owner of a raging infection and a shiny new collection of amoxicillin bottles.

The big thing that we learned through this process (besides the fact that I know my kid) is that Green (and presumably Blue, too) has a geographic tongue. What's that, you ask? It's basically a funny tongue that has marks on it, but what's interesting is its rarity. It affects only .06% of all Americans. So, Blue and Green are identical twins (1 in every 1,000 deliveries world wide) that are mirror image (23% of identical twins) with unlikely tongues. I love these boys, but they sure are weird.

Clutter

Now that the boys are launched into their new school year, I am left to evaluate my summer goals. Did I mention that I had goals? I bet you didn't think I was the goal-making type, but actually, I came up with three goals for the season. Goal number one was starting this blog. Check! Number two was turning something from my dissertation into a publishable article. Since this was unpleasant, I reassigned it to the fall. That leaves me with goal number three: cleaning the garage. To me, it is still summer (temperatures in the 80s, no obligations), so I think I need to get this done.

The thing is, the garage is the only storage place in our house. And let's just say that we haven't been very good at throwing things out over the last, oh, 10 years or so. When we moved from our apartment to the house, the boys were 14 months old and we couldn't be bothered with organizing. So we just shoved stuff into boxes, marked them "miscellaneous junk," and put them in the garage. Soon it became difficult to walk through the garage, so when something needed to go in there, we just heaved it onto the monstrous pile. Now it looks like one of those messes that gets a person flown to the Oprah show to have a heart-to-heart with Dr. Robin about hoarding.

I'm not a hoarder (really), but I am a collector. And this whole garage cleaning problem brings up some questions for me. When can the memory of a person/time/event stand on its own, without an object attached? Surprisingly, I'm pretty good at making this distinction with the kids' stuff. Those of you with children know that the amount of art work that a single individual can produce is staggering. At first, you might save every little scribble, but after a while the sheer volume of it becomes unbearable. You learn to say, "Oh, sweetie, ANOTHER abstract rendering of a circus. How lovely!" And then you chuck it. Now I just keep the most special things -- like the family portrait that Green produced last year, the one that had the caption, "Mommy is a better pitcher than Daddy."

It's a totally different story when it comes to stuff from my own childhood. When I was a kid, I collected wacky pack stickers, buttons, and Madame Alexander dolls. I clipped newspaper articles from the day MTV debuted and from the day the Challenger exploded. Did you ever write me a letter where you told me all about your first love? Well, I kept it (oooh, I smell some blackmail potential...). I saved stuff, lots of stuff. Here's an example. When I was 15, I had a crush on a boy, and I wrote about him all the time in my journal (oh yeah! Did I mention the journals? I have enough to fill a whole trunk). Here's a short excerpt:

I can’t tell if he likes me, and that bothers me a lot. I mean, he walks around with me, he talks to me, he says hi to me in the halls. But it seems to me that he does that to a lot of people…The best b’day present I could get would be if I got some miniature sign on Monday that he likes me!

Then Monday came, and I followed up with this:

I may have got my sign. I can’t really tell... I ate lunch with X today. Afterwards, he walked me to my locker. I opened it and was getting my books out, and he threw a candy bar in! I was thrilled beyond believable belief.

And here's the thing: I taped the candy bar wrapper into the journal. Because the object was so important to the event, I had to save it.

When I read this 22 years later, it looks like I have a piece of garbage in my diary. But back then, the wrapper held the promise of the moment, that a boy I liked might actually like me back. (So what do you think happened after this? It's a choose-your-ending romance story! Did this boy a) follow-up with a bouquet of roses; b) ask me to the Christmas dance; or c) ignore me? Take a guess.)

I like to reconnect with all these things, because I'm a historian at heart. I love archives, where you can go through folders and actually touch and feel old documents. Without those old papers, there's no history. Details get lost. People get lost. But at some point, the boxes get too full, the piles get too big, and decisions have to be made. What goes, and what stays?

Blue and Green have complicated the issue, because they, too, are collectors. They gravitate toward earthen things: sticks, twigs, rocks. Last weekend, we went to the beach, and the boys brought their buckets for gathering shells. At the end of the afternoon, Green brought over his bucket to show me his findings. Inside, there weren't rocks or shells. Instead, he had picked up countless pieces of the dead crabs that had washed up on the shore. And he wanted to bring them home. "No way," I said. "But mama," he whined, "It's for my collection!" "No," I said, holding firm. Candy wrappers from crushes, I get that. But dead crustacean parts? Forget it. Not in my garage.

The First Days

Thanks to those of you who expressed your support on Wednesday. I'm happy to report that I did recover from my initial angst, thanks in part to a successful retail therapy excursion. Blue and Green love kindergarten so far, especially recess (three times a day!), the perpetual ringing of the bell (two before school, each recess, lunch, after school), and, of course, the locker. It is a bit hard to figure out exactly what's going on, since the news I get is partial. When I asked them what they learned yesterday, they answered, "We learned how to draw straight and squiggly lines." Huh. Well, that will sure make their doodling better! Gotta love my tax dollars at work.

Once I recovered from Wednesday's danish binge, it occurred to me that I have a rather unique opportunity here. My classes don't start until the first week of October, so that leaves me with three weeks with TIME TO MYSELF. SIX HOURS A DAY. Can I say that any louder? SIX HOURS A DAY!!!! TO MYSELF!!

I began my stint as a lady-of-leisure by returning to the gym after a rather lengthy hiatus. This return had less to do with my danish habit as it did with my need to catch up on reading material. My sister-in-law is recovering from surgery, so I thought I'd use this space today to entertain her (and you!) with all the knowledge I gained on the elliptical machine this morning.

#1) Fitness magazine says, "You must be a priority...Be your own high-stepping, baton-twirling majorette." Hmm. OK, but I don't have a majorette costume.

#2) Fitness also claims that leggings, leg warmers, and LEOTARDS are back in style! Oh boy! Maybe I can get a majorette costume after all.

#3) If leotards aren't your thing, US magazine offers some useful advice for any woman of a certain age. "In your twenties," they write, "you can wear a skirt with fishnets and red satin heels, but in your thirties, you have to choose just one." Oh no! Just one? I'll leave it to you, my loyal audience, to make that choice for me. What should I wear to the PTA picnic tomorrow -- fishnets or the red heels?

#4) I know that many of you are in your forties and beyond. US says this about you: "Go for clean, classic styles with bold accents like a splash of leopard." Alright, it's time to pack away that leopard bodysuit you love so much. Didn't you hear them? They said a SPLASH of leopard, not an entire carcass.

#5) For those of you who have daughters, this one's for you. Actress Evan Rachel Wood recently told reporters, "I'm sorry if I have blonde hair and blue eyes and my boyfriend looks like a vampire. What do you want me to do about it?"

Kindergarten

My neighbor gave me this picture. I think she thought it could be a model for what my time today should be like. But, alas, there are a few differences between my life and this woman's life. First, there's her neat living room. Where are all the toys? The dust bunnies in the corner? The milk stains on the coffee table? Was she really able to get her house clean during those long, late-summer days when the kids were wrestling and throwing plastic food at each other? And of course, there's also her face. Doesn't she look serene? I, by contrast, am pale and blotchy from the epic crying fit I had in the car after the parents were ushered out of the classroom this morning.

The boys have left for kindergarten. Kindergarten. KINDERGARTEN. How did that happen? I remember when they were 2 months old and colicky. At five o'clock every night, they would commence screaming in an inconsolable, window-shattering way, and the only thing in the world that could stop it was driving over 55 mph. So Michael and I, on 3 or 4 hours of sleep, would put them in the car and drive to the mountains and back. The stress of the rush-hour drive was nothing in comparison to the sweet joy of silence. But when we returned, just as we were slowing down on the exit ramp, the screaming would begin again. It was as if they were saying, "You're not going to get any quiet for FIVE WHOLE YEARS."

And here we are. It's so quiet in the house I can barely stand it. I guess I should feel some measure of success, because we've come a long way in the last few weeks. Green, in particular, was concerned about the whole big-kid school concept. When I told him last week that we were going to his kindergarten orientation on Thursday at 1 pm, he said, "I think I'm busy at that time." And I said, "Clear your calendar, kid. The real world's knocking."

Lucky for us, Green found something to get really excited about: lockers. Ever since Green was a toddler, he has loved doors. Sliding doors could entertain him for hours. But lockers! That's new! We did a little video of each of the kids, where I asked them a series of questions like "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and "What's your favorite food?" When I asked Green what he was most looking forward to about kindergarten, he didn't mention learning to read, or art class, or recess. He said he was most looking forward to having that locker. "Why?" I asked. And he answered, "Because I get to open it."

Well, alright. Whatever works for you.

So they're off with their lockers, and I'm left trying to figure out what's making me so sad about this whole thing. Part of it is that my nest is empty. Michael said this morning, "But your nest will fill back up again at 3:00." That's certainly true. But the thing is, when they're not in my nest, I can't protect all of those fragile things about them: their enthusiasm, their silliness, their creativity, their joy. I have to let them protect themselves. And how can they do that when they can't even eat applesauce without spilling it down their fronts?

I know I'm not the only person going through this. After the post-drop off crying jag, Michael took me to the coffee shop to buy me a cream cheese danish. I find that it takes about 700 calories or so to soak up all those tears. While I was waiting, I must have looked pretty pathetic. A woman came up to me and asked, "Did you just take someone to kindergarten?" "Yes," I answered, and she smiled as if to say, "It's going to be OK." And I know it will. But for now, I have four hours to go before they come home. And I'm holding my breath.

Summer's Last Gasp

To celebrate the end of summer, Blue and Green created a lemonade stand. This was no small project. First of all, we had to overcome their lofty expectations about what was involved in such an enterprise. For example, we were not going to build a series of traps to catch any bad guys that stopped for refreshments. And we were not going to offer a series of nine drink choices. We were not going to give away prizes to our customers, and we were not going to charge $6,000 per glass.

It was going to be a lemonade stand. The old-fashioned kind. With just lemonade. For a quarter.

But, still, this was their project, and they demanded some control.

They created some lemonade stand head gear:

And created some work for the lemonade stand art gallery:

They put on their lemonade stand outfits and brought their cash registers:

And they made $19 dollars for their efforts. Green says he plans on buying "some expensive toys" with the profits.