The Unknown

The other day Green came into the kitchen with a piece of information to share. "Mama," he said. "Did you know that another word for a lockdown is a reverse evacuation?"

I did not know that.

But I did know that he and his fellow six-year-olds spent the week preparing for danger. There was the usual earthquake drill, the regular fire drill, the What-To-Do-If-a-Bear-Wanders-Onto-Your-Playground drill. But there was also something different. This time they were practicing what they would do under siege.

The drill began by simulating a lockdown in the classroom (door gets locked; shades get drawn; kids huddle under windows). Then they learned what to do if the lockdown happened while they were in the library (huddle in the computer lab, as far away from the windows as possible). And finally they learned what to do if the lockdown happened while they were in the bathroom (pull up pants fast).

At the beginning of the year, we had to send an "emergency kit" to school. The bag needed to include a snack, a toy, a photograph of the family, and a note. I remember being paralyzed by the task. What kind of note? What kind of emergency were we talking about? The bear on the playground or the apocalypse? Should I say, "Don't worry, honey, you'll still get home in time to watch Curious George!" or "It's been kind of a bad day for mommy. I've been vaporized. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy the stale granola bar I have provided for you."

Every generation has its thing. My parents had Duck-and-Cover. I spent my adolescence listening to Sting sing about how he hoped the Russians loved their children, too. But the boys will have to live with a cultural anxiety that's less specific. Is the lockdown about a terrorist? A sociopath with a gun? Another child? A stressed out mother who didn't get her morning cup of coffee? Who is it? So far, this ambiguity has not troubled the kids. But I, with a wee tendency toward anxiety, am unsettled.

Yesterday afternoon, I brought up the drills again. "Hey guys," I said. "Remember those things you did this week for reverse evacuation?"

They nodded.

"Why did you do them?" I asked.

They shrugged and returned to their game of Penguins in Love.

"Guys!" I continued. "What kind of danger is so big that you would need to close the shades and lock the door?"

Blue answered, "We'd have to go into lockdown if we had an invasion of Purple People Eaters."

Wild Minnesotan football players on the loose! I didn't think to add that one to my worry list.

America Got it Right This Time, Dawg

I am about to reveal something very personal. You all know I work at a university. I read big, dense books filled with complicated words. I enjoy a murky coffee shop filled with intellectual-types who spend their days in angst-filled contemplation. But I also have a dirty little secret: I love American Idol. I started watching the show when some of my students told me that the voting component of the program involved "doing democracy." Really? Huh. Well, yeah, that's true if you believe that democracy is aggressively sponsored by Coca-Cola and involves choosing which pretty kid sang the best off-key version of a Celine Dion song. But still, even though I am beyond the target demographic of this show by a couple of decades, I am an ardent fan.

Deep thinker by day. Crappy reality TV show watcher by night.

Why, you ask?

Well, first off, it's terribly philosophical. I love hearing Paula Abdul say things like, "You are more than just you. You are in a zone, which is truly yourself, showing America that you are authentically about your own heart."

Second, there's something fascinating about the explicit manufacturing of mediocrity. It's a show concerned with creating a shiny, middle-class, middle-brow "product" who will sell middling music. It's like McDonalds french fries, bad for you in every way, but somehow irresistable. And if you tuned into that corny finale, you know what I mean. George Michael was there! And Bryan Adams! And ZZ Top! Not only did the show generate mediocrity, it managed to showcase mediocrity from 20 years ago. It doesn't get any better than that.

And the third reason I watch American Idol? Well, frankly, reality shows are fun. Don't tell me you don't watch at least one of these, even if it's Antiques Roadshow. You can kick back after a long day of wrestling with budgets or teaching uninspired students or scraping macaroni and cheese off the ceiling and ponder what Kristi Lee was thinking when she tried to turn " 8 Days a Week" into a country show tune.

So it is without shame that I (and Michael, though he'd never admit it) watched the season ending "boxing match" between the two Davids on Tuesday, and then the two hour (!) finale yesterday. In case you haven't tuned in, the final contestants were a sniffly teenager who said "Gosh!" a lot and a twenty-something, stubbly guy who called himself a "word nerd." And I, with considerable enthusiasm, was rooting for the word nerd.

So here's my confession: Not only did I watch this show every week, but....I VOTED on Tuesday! Oh yes I did. 31 times. I guess I wanted to know what it felt like to "do democracy" like millions of 13 year olds across the country. Just imagine how great it would be if you could vote maniacally for Obama on your cellphone, hitting re-dial with rapid fire.

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this. After all, most of you come to this site to get the latest update on penguin fornication. I'm outing myself about watching, no -- participating, in the American Idol machine, because I finally feel comfortable with this side of my personality. I embrace it (And while I'm at it, I may as well acknowledge that I enjoyed "Rock of Love," too).

Speaking of embracing, several months ago I received a question from a reader. She asked, "How has being a mother changed you?" It was a complicated question, and I didn't give it a thorough answer. I remember when the boys were tiny, and I kept expecting to wake up from parenthood and be magically returned to my former life (and sleep). There was such as shift between life before and life after kids. So it was interesting last weekend, when the four of us went up to Vancouver for a little vacation. Vancouver is one of those places that I so strongly remember from my life "before." Michael and I loved going up there and just hanging out, as if we really lived there. It was, and is, such a vibrant, thriving, exciting city. But now we have the kids, and we needed to see the place with new eyes. So we exchanged hanging out in cool neighborhoods for hanging out at the aquarium. Finding a fun, funky place for dinner succumbed to finding any place that was willing to serve noodles with butter as a main course.

And I will tell you this: I loved it. I loved it even though I never went shopping. I loved it even though we never went to a bookstore (which I ALWAYS do, no matter where I am). I loved it even though we ate dinner at a terribly uncool pizza place and had lunch at a Canadian version of Applebees. We did mediocre, middle-brow, middling touristy things. And it was wildly fun, and the boys whooped with joy at the hotel elevator and the swimming pool and the kiddie train at the park. So really, the answer to the question from so many months ago is that I am just more comfortable at accepting happiness when it comes, however it comes. And for me, let me tell you, that is a big change.

(Cue up the sappy American Idol power ballad)

Don't Worry. Next week I'll put away the cheese and pull out my usual dose of sarcasm. Or maybe I'll just do a review of the recent season of Celebrity Fit Club.

No Joke

For the remaining month of school, the boys need to bring something into class each day. Friday is Joke Day, and each child is responsible for sharing a chuckle with his/her peers.

Green has already identified his joke. Here it is:

Question: Why did the penguins cross the street?

Answer: Because they needed to find a place to mate.

Oh no!

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no.

I said, "Green, I don't think that's the kind of joke that is appropriate for school."

"Why not?" he asked.

Why not, indeed. What was I supposed to say to that? No sex jokes in kindergarten?! Ack. I ended up saying something like, "That joke won't be good for school, because not everyone is interested in penguins in the same way you are."

I don't think it was my best parenting moment.

Contradictions

Guess what, dear readers! I have a holiday to talk about! And no, it’s not Teacher Appreciation Day or Take Your Grownup to Lunch Day. There’s a very important holiday that the boys recently celebrated in school, one that required nearly two weeks of preparation: Earth Day.

The good news, of course, is that the kids learned how important it is to be a steward of the environment. They learned about all the garbage that imperils the ocean ecosystem. They learned a catchy tune in music class about recycling. And they even informed their father about the pollution he was creating as he started up the gas-powered lawnmower.

The bad news is that they used nearly 30 reams of paper to do their Earth Day craft projects.

This contradiction is just one of many the boys have experienced in kindergarten. And, of course, I am wildly entertained by these contradictions. For instance, their recent character education lesson on “compassion” coincided so perfectly with the creation of a new “No Kissing” rule. Apparently it’s important to be kind to others, but not so kind that your slobbery little lips cross paths with your neighbor’s cheek.

So you can imagine my amusement as the Earth Day festivities ended on Tuesday and were replaced by a large unit on lumber on Wednesday. No joke. The teacher sent home a note asking us to take our child to visit a sawmill (!) “to see lots of wood in various stages from tree to finished product.”

One thing I have noticed over the years is the curious corporate sponsorship of “environmental science” curriculum packages. For example, last quarter one of my students brought in a curriculum package his district uses as part of their middle school “environmental learning” unit. The set of materials, called Caretakers All, is sponsored by the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association. What I love about this curriculum (besides the fact that I learned all about the scary things made out of cows: shaving cream, lipstick, capsules for medicine…) is that it offers some particularly baffling activities. Here’s one of my favorites:

Have students complete this sentence to show their awareness.

I’m glad the farmer is a good caretaker of animals because…..

(Sample good answer: I like hamburgers!)

Huh.

Anyway, I now know more than I ever expected to know about lumber, because I agreed to be a chaperone on the boys’ field trip to the Center for Wooden Boats. I can’t really explain how I got myself involved in this, but it had something to do with two matching freckly-faced kids and some serious begging. The result was a long ride on a school bus and then another journey in a wooden umiak (basically a tippy native Alaskan rowboat) with 22 of my favorite snot-nosed kids.

When I agreed to participate on this trip, I first had to sign a form stating that I would not, under any conditions, sell drugs to the children. This was a foil in my plan. See, I had this idea that I could sell each of the kids a double-dose of Benadryl and then go for a wild joyride on the bus.

But instead, I had two jobs. The first involved holding a small boy who was deathly afraid that our boat was going to be swallowed by a shark. The tour guide/boat captain/lumber educator tried to reassure him that the water was so polluted that it contained no living creatures, but the kid was inconsolable.

My second job was to help the young people build some small wooden boats with hammers, hand drills, and assorted other tools. I will admit that comforting little kids is something that I do somewhat naturally. But carpentry? Uh, this is a bit out of my skill set. Besides, I’m not so sure that giving kindergarteners unlimited use of woodworking implements is such a great idea. After all, the “No Whacking Your Classmate With a Hammer” rule was never officially stated, not even during Compassion Week.

It all turned out OK. No one jumped off the dock on my watch. No one got eaten by a shark. And no one got hammered (not even me, though I did make a joke about how good it would be for the chaperones to get some free cocktails. This joke was not well-received).

I will not, however, be going on any further field trips. Nope. No way. The power of cute freckly faces only worked this time. Manipulate me once, shame on you. Manipulate me twice, shame on me…

(Addendum: I am scheduled to chaperone the class trip to the beach on June 5.)

Birds Gone Wild

The flowers are blooming, the birds are chirping, and the bees are buzzing. Spring is definitely here. And with spring comes new life. This has brought about an interesting development in our world: the penguins are mating.

Yes. Mating. (!)

But they’re not mating with each other. They have their sights set on a pair of armadillos wearing cowboy hats. So far, the armadillos don’t appear to be interested, but I am slightly worried that we will soon have a house full of pengui-dillos.

The conversations about mating are always uncomfortable for me. I mean, it’s science, right? I shouldn’t be editing out the sections about reproduction in the boys’ vast library of penguin literature. But I’m nowhere near ready to have the “Where do penguins come from?” conversation that seems to be looming on the horizon.

The other day, I had a rather upsetting encounter with Blue. I was sitting in the kitchen, peacefully eating my bowl of bran flakes, when Blue and his penguin came into the room. He announced, “Mama got laid last night.”

(gasp!)

The cereal shot out of my mouth, and I started to choke. Blue patted me gently on the back as I tried to recover.

“Ummm…WHAT????” I wheezed.

“Mama got laid by my penguin!” he answered.

(the penguin?)

“What do you mean, honey?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

“The penguin laid an egg, and now you’re going to be the baby!” he said, proudly.

(AHA! GOT IT! Phew!)

“That’s terrific,” I said. “Now go and play while I clean up the mess caused by my brain exploding.”