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.