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.

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.

Bad Mother

The kids are in the other room playing Wii, which allows me some time to write this neglected blog. I know that there are some of you out there, probably right this minute, who are updating your Facebook page with the words, “I am loving these last summer weeks with my sweet, well-behaved, beautiful children!” And you make me feel just a little bit guilty when I pay the 8th grader across the street to come play Sorry! with my boys for an hour while I sit in the driveway and reclaim my sanity.

I remember those images I had of what it would be like to have a child. It usually had to do with cute clothes and pretty nurseries and Christmas morning and warm cookies just out of the oven. The thing is – when I was paging through that imaginary scrapbook all those years ago, I forgot to turn to Chapter 7. If I had, I would have seen the title, “At the End of the Summer, There Will Be 14 Hours to Fill Each Day and Nothing To Do Except Let Your Kids Play on the Wii, and If You Do That You Will Prove To the World That You Are a BAD MOTHER.”

Sensing my unease, Blue just wandered into the kitchen and said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. Playing the Wii isn’t Screen Time, it’s exercise!!”

I totally believe those experts that warn us on a monthly basis that screen time will rot the brains of the next generation. And I’ve been lucky that my boys haven’t been the kinds of little kids that sit in front of the TV all day long. But I have also, on occasion (ahem), been willing to trade a few of their IQ points for a break from the endless crafts or just a bit of peace and quiet. And I have a sneaking suspicion that those screen time experts have never had the problem of needing their children to sit, in one place, without fighting or climbing or escaping, in order to grab a quick shower.

But these are just excuses, aren’t they? Yes, my kids have spent too much time playing video games this past week. And I will also confess to our habit of going to the library to play video games on the computers. Hey, don’t roll your eyes. I made them check out a book each time, too. And there was the walking back and forth to the car. That was good for them!

Here’s the real bummer of the situation. The excessive screen time in our family comes AFTER a full work day of wholesome and educational childhood entertainment. Take, for example, our schedule from one day this week:

6:33 a.m.: Wake up! Breakfast! Time to make a robot out of recyclables!

7:15 a.m.: Fight with brother because his robot is bigger than your robot. Screaming. Lose allowance.

7:30 a.m.: Make stuffed animals out of felt. Add inappropriate anatomical parts.

8:30 a.m.: Fight with brother. Screaming. Lose more allowance.

8:45 a.m.: Build Lego vehicle with strange weapons.

8:46 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos, even though mother doesn’t really understand Legos and gets frustrated with the diagrams.

8:47 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos.

8:48 a.m.: Can’t find a piece! Oh no! Screaming.

8:49 a.m.: Ask mother to help find piece ("Can you ask me nicely? I don’t respond to whining! Yes, you really are whining.").

8:50 a.m.-10:00 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos.

10:01 a.m.: Lego vehicle falls apart. Screaming.

10:02 a.m.: Time for more crafts! NO FAIR! He has better materials than I do!

10:03 a.m.: Fight with brother. Screaming. Lose more allowance.

10:04 a.m. -10:59 a.m.: Build life-sized tent out of paper. Your tent doesn’t stand up, but your brother’s does. More screaming.

11:00 a.m.: Eat lunch. Complain about selection. Beg for junk food.

11:45 a.m.: Go to pool. This is the far away pool, because the close-by pool is too boring.

12:15 – 1:30 p.m.: Swim happily. Mother rests, except to smile and nod every 30 seconds when you say, “Look at me! Did you see that?”

2:30 p.m.: Arrive home. Ask, “What are we going to do now?”

At this point, we have been busy with crafts and building and screaming and fighting and swimming for eight full hours. So we all engage in some review of first grade math:

Blue and Green are awake for 14 hours every day. They have been on the go for 8 hours already. How many more hours does the mother have to fill? If there are 3 more days in the week, how long before the mother goes crazy?

So I did what any BAD MOTHER would do, and I let the boys play their Wii. For just a little while. A few minutes, er….maybe an hour. Hours. Hell, I don’t know. Let’s just mention that we still had time for a science experiment before bedtime. And a game of cards (NO FAIR! He got better cards that I did! Screaming. Lose more allowance.).

8:31 p.m.: Kids asleep. Mother drinks.

Why Things Don't Get Done

First of all, I’d like to extend a hearty welcome to all the new readers from Facebook! It’s a first step to making this thing a bit more public, taking the pressure of the dedicated core of readers that I’ve been forcing to come here over the past few years.

My intention was to bring the blog out of the closet and then fill your week with a bunch of new entries. But I was stymied by two problems. The first problem was that Blue and Green did not have camp this week. So my days began like this:

6:33 a.m.

Green: Mommy, I’m bored

Me: Hrrhmh?

Green: There’s nothing to do at our house.

Me: i…need…coffee…before...i…can…talk…to…you

Green: Can we go snorkeling now?

Me: Hrrhmh?

Green: Where’s my bathing suit?

Me (growling): Honey, the sun isn’t up yet.

Blue: We could go build a giant helium-powered light apparatus that shoots bad guys and let’s us see underwater in the dark! Mommy, do we have a chainsaw?

Green: IT’S NOT FAIR. HE’S GETS TO BUILD THE GIANT HELIUM-POWERED LIGHT APPARATUS BEFORE I DO!!!!

Blue: (punches Green in stomach)

Green: My arm is broken! He hit me, and my arm is broken!

Me: I think he punched you in the stomach.

Green: You always take his side!


Needless to say, my lovely children didn’t help me get a lot of writing done this week. My other big challenge involved preparing for our upcoming family reunion vacation. It’s not the actual packing that’s the issue. I haven’t even begun that process. I don’t know if this happens to you (or if it’s my own particular brand of crazy), but in the days before any trip, I become obsessed with attending to obscure household details.

This time, it was the bathroom grout. Was it always that color? Shouldn’t it be white? I can’t explain why dirty grout would be a problem in an empty house, while it never bothers me when we’re actually in town. And so there I was, on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and bleach, and a myriad other bizarre cleaning tasks were already forming an unsteady pyramid in my mind. That shower curtain is looking a little funky – should I replace it? The rug in the boys’ bedroom is beginning to smell a little bit too much like boys – should I get carpet cleaner? Old Cliff Huxtable-esque sweaters are thrown in a haphazard heap on the closet floor – take to Goodwill? Stuff from my dissertation is still shoved in a cardboard box under my desk – is it time to organize.? Has the food in the emergency kit expired? Do we even have an emergency kit? Ack!!!

The Unnecessary Things to Do list was growing ever larger, and I was growing ever more anxious. And, still on my hands and knees, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been asked to referee a fight in a while. I hadn’t been asked to read a book or do a craft project or feed anyone junk food. I peered out of the bathroom and saw nothing. I strained to listen. There was quiet followed by the words “fuel” and “exploding” and “hee hee hee.” It suddenly became clear to me that my grout might be clean, but my unattended children were busy in the kitchen building a bomb.

I am in awe of creative people, especially when they say how they get their work done. You know, the author who writes her novel on the bus while commuting to work, or the painter who paints at 4 a.m. before the day starts. But after this week, I’m pretty sure that these people don’t have children or grout. I may not have entertained you very well this week, bloggers, but I did manage to save the neighborhood from 7-year-old terrorists. And I deserve something for that.

(Next time you come over to my house, check out the baseboards! Shiny!)

Unstuck

I have mentioned before how hard Blue and Green’s first years were. You know – the ENDLESS NONSTOP SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING.


But perhaps I haven't told you as much about the tiny problem of the NO SLEEPING. And I have to say – all this time later, my body has still not quite recovered from all those YEARS of deprivation.

You are probably thinking to yourself, “Everybody has a tough time early on.” But let me tell you, this was different. I managed to get the two screaming babies that didn’t nap, that didn’t sleep at night. I was the mom at the playground swinging her kids at dawn. Michael was the dad going to the all night Starbucks drive-through. And our days were spent begging, pleading, bouncing, rocking, praying for 30 minutes of rest.

I remember going to the pediatrician's office, with a screaming butterball in each arm, and imploring the nurse to help us. I don’t know what I was thinking – this is the earthiest, no-antibiotic-prescribing doctor's office you could imagine -- but somehow I thought she’d pat me on the arm and give me a bottle of tranquilizers for the kids (or for me?). Instead, she smiled at me and said, “Have you tried the Baby Whisperer?”

I almost exploded. Of course we tried the whispering. We tried the crying-it-out and the crying-it-in. We tried having them sleep with us, in the car seat, on the couch. We tried songs and books and routines and the aforementioned begging. Nothing. No sleep.

And then, one evening, after TWO AND A HALF YEARS OF THIS, they fell asleep on the living room floor. And slept most of the night. And then the next day they took at nap at 9 and then another at 2. On the living room floor. So Michael and I lay down next to them and thanked our lucky stars for this gift.


Every night thereafter, those kids slept on the living room floor. And we didn’t mess with it, because HALLELUJAH they were sleeping. It didn’t matter that we no longer had access to the central space in the house. It didn’t matter that these were rather unorthodox arrangements. All that mattered was sleep.

Never fear, the kids now sleep in their own beds, usually all night long. But the consequences of that sleepless era are many. The most important consequence was the restriction that the lack-of-sleep placed on our sense of what was possible. And once they began to sleep like normal kids, we didn’t want to tinker with success. Naptime was sacred. Bedtime was inflexible. Frankly, we became inflexible.

I mention this now, because this has been the summer of big changes in our family. Maybe it’s the distance from those early years. Maybe it’s the boys’ increasing independence. But suddenly I have this drive to do all of the things we’ve been putting off in favor of rest.

First on my list was to take the boys camping. With such abundant natural beauty in our region, it’s a shame that we hadn’t taken them camping earlier. But, please – if there is ever the opportunity for a crappy night’s sleep, it’s while parked on the ground in a stuffy tent after a meal of burned marshmallows. This year, however, we had a new attitude: if they don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, they will make it up the next. Or perhaps more importantly, if WE don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, WE will make it up the next.

This is not to say that Michael and I did not go through our usual decision-making process before heading out to the wilderness. The conversation went something like this:

Michael: Do you think this is a good idea?

Me: It could be. But it could also ruin our lives.

Michael: What do you think is the worst thing that could happen?

Me: Well, it could rain, and the four of us would be jammed into the tent with nothing to do. And the boys would begin picking on each other, and we would start to scream at them and take away all of their allowance. And we WOULDN’T SLEEP AT ALL. Then we would go for weeks where everyone is crabby because they didn’t sleep on that one weekend. And then we would get swine flu, or bird flu, or bug flu, or whatever flu you get from not getting any sleep in the great outdoors.

Michael: Hmm. Anything besides that?

Since I couldn’t come up with any other dire predictions, we packed the car and headed out to experience our first camping adventure with the boys. We arrived, found our spot, unpacked our stuff, and held our breath. We fully anticipated Green to growl about not having access to his Wii. We fully anticipated Blue to turn to us with a bored expression and say, “What now?”

But you know what?

They loved it.

They loved the zippers on the tent. They loved the little paths that crisscrossed near our campsite. They loved the sticks and the stumps and the bugs and the bumps in the night. There was a small child somewhere in the campground that kept screaming, “I WANNA GO HOME! I WANNA GO HOME!” all night long. And the good news is….that child did not belong to us.

Tent:


Stump:


Spigot:


Gin:


The morning we were set to leave, we took a stroll along the beach at very low tide. It was the perfect family day – sun was shining, sand dollars and sea stars were littered everywhere, and we were all fairly rested. I was thinking to myself, “I think this trip has been a success. I can’t believe we accomplished this so easily.”


And then I fell into quicksand.

Yep. Quicksand.

I had never actually contemplated quicksand as a real phenomenon before. Isn’t it an Indiana Jones-ish idea? Something from cartoons? But no, there I was, sinking. It couldn’t be that I survived camping with my children just to die a slow, muddy death in Puget Sound. Could it?

Unfortunately, we were all a bit too alarmed by this event to think to snap a photo. But I looked something like this:

(photo from half-fast.org)

No, just kidding. Only my legs were submerged. But here’s the rub: if you are stuck in quicksand, and you manage to get one leg free, the only option you have is to put it back down in that very same quicksand as you attempt to free your other leg. And that sort of starts the process all over again.

Here’s the other bad thing that I discovered: if you get stuck in quicksand, no one can come over and help you, because they, too, will get stuck. So if, while you are sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, your child comes running at you to show you the pieces of dead crab that he found (yuck), you have to scream bloody murder, “Don’t you dare come anywhere near me or you will be sucked into the center of the earth!” And you have to sound calm while you are screaming, so as not to worry him that YOU are being sucked into the center of the earth (even though you are).

It occurred to me that one of my biggest problems with the quicksand was that the muck had suctioned in my shoes. Perhaps, I figured, if I could free my feet from my shoes, I could extract myself from this dilemma. But then it dawned on me that I only had that one pair of shoes with me on the trip. As I wrestled with the problem of spending the rest of the day shoeless, Michael hollered at me to reach my arm down into the mud and free my feet. “Do it!” he shouted. “Stop thinking about it.”

“First of all, “ I said to him, “I never stop thinking. Some people even pay me to think. I am a thinker. Second, if I reach my arm into the mud, I’ll get all disgusting.”

He said, “You are already disgusting. You’ve been camping.”

That was a good point. It was also good that I am somewhat limber, because reaching arm-deep into quicksand while staying upright is quite a feat. But I did it, and I even managed to get the shoe out and toss it up the bank. Then I jogged on one leg a bit, trying to prevent further sinkage, while I freed the other foot.

Phew.

So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t get so blinded by your own success that you fail to notice the steaming pile of quicksand at your feet? Always pack an extra set of shoes, because you never know when yours will be swallowed up by nature? Do your yoga so that you can be prepared to balance on one muddy hand?

All of those things are true. But I got to thinking that maybe it’s simpler than that: whatever problem we have, we probably will not sink all the way down. We will get out eventually.

(Note to pediatrician: Even though we no longer have sleep problems, I’d still like a tranquilizer or two for those rough days. Like when Green calls Blue a buttburger, and Blue hits him in the face with a Wii remote. That kind of thing.)

The Talk

I should have known it was coming when Green brought home this book from the school library:

The boys have been tiptoe-ing around the question of babies. Recently, I overheard a conversation between them and a friend. It went something like this:

Blue: Jax, do you know how babies are born?

Jax: (slyly) I do.

Green: How?

Jax: The mommy squats down, and the baby squirts out her butt.

Together: Hee Hee Hee

Blue: I’m pretty sure that it squirts out her belly button. Remember, the baby is in the mommy’s stomach?

Jax: Yes, but a stomach is connected to the butt. That is how you poop.

Blue and Green: Ahhhhhh! Now we get it!

At that moment, I was a coward. I did not want to have that discussion, not then. I needed a cocktail first. I needed Michael to be home. I needed to hire a professional to take care of it. I cleared my throat and said, “Boys! Why don’t you all go outside and pretend to shoot things!”

“Yay!” they hooted and ran to the yard with their make-believe guns. I rested my head on the table, feeling like I had dodged a bullet.

A few days later, I was not as lucky. It was a sunny spring day, and we were all headed to the beach. In typical fashion, it was a heroic endeavor to get us all fed, dressed, and sunscreened. About 2/3 of the way through the process, I came into the living room to find the boys hunched over a large children’s encyclopedia.

I leaned over their shoulders and peered at the page. At the top, in neon letters, were the words “Human Reproduction.”

I almost dropped the large load I was carrying. The theme music to Friday the 13th filled my ears:



“Look!” Blue shrieked. “It’s a picture of a baby hatching!”

Hatching?!

I glanced up at Michael, who was half-way through smearing sunscreen on his own face. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I knew what he was saying: Now. We need to tell them now.

These days, the dominant philosophy about sex education is to demystify the topic early and often. The idea is that early parental intervention can protect against misinformation (see above) and crazy, inaccurate hypotheses (see above), and also open lines of communication. Of course, this kind of forward-thinking openness doesn't always produce the desired result. One afternoon, my friend, ECM, and her kindergartner were cooking together. She asked him, “Do you know how babies are made?” His head snapped back in surprise. ECM began to share the details. He suddenly put his hands over his ears and screamed, “I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t wanna hear it!”

I don’t blame him. Anyway, Michael and I decided that we would let our boys’ own curiosity guide the timing of the discussion, and here we were.

I cleared my throat. “Uh…boys? Babies don’t hatch from eggs.”

Green looked up suspiciously. He pointed to a picture of a fetus in the book. “Here’s a picture of a baby with a huge penis. It’s in an egg.”

I paused, then said, “That baby is in an amniotic sac. And that’s not a penis. That’s the cord that brings food to the baby while he’s in his mommy’s belly.”

Green said, “It sure looks like a penis. A giant monster penis!”

There were a couple of silent moments as we all reflected on the idea of a giant monster penis. Then Blue asked, “So how does the baby get in there?”

The Friday the 13th music played again:




Michael and I gazed at each other, waiting to see which one of us was going to take the bait. Usually, our problems fall into jurisdictions. If a birthday party is coming up, I’m the one who is responsible for the journey to Toys R Us. If there is a flying millipede with fangs whizzing through the living room, Michael has to deal with it. But this? This? We stared at each other for 10 seconds, then 20.

Blue repeated the question. “How do babies get in the mommy’s belly?”

Michael shifted, stammered, then dove in. “Well," he said, with a scientific tone. “See…there’s a sperm and an egg, and when they meet, a baby begins to grow.”

Blue was not satisfied. “Where does the sperm come from?” he asked.

Michael looked at me, eyes wide, pleading with me to take over. “From the daddy," I mumbled.

“What? I can’t hear you.” Green said.

“FROM THE DADDY. SPERM COMES FROM THE DADDY,” I wheezed.

“I don’t get it!” Green whined, growing exasperated.

Michael coughed. And coughed again. And then he clarified.

Green’s mouth hung open, his eyes like saucers. “You’re joking,” he challenged.

Michael shook his head and said, “I’m not joking.”

Then Green’s eyes got squinty. He said, “I don’t believe you.”

Blue jumped in. “ I know!” he exclaimed. “Green, you need to ask your teacher. She’ll know the truth.”

It just so happens that Green’s teacher is 7 months pregnant. I would not put it past my child to run into the classroom and say, “Mrs. Worksheet, my daddy says that he knows how that baby got in your belly!”

“ACK!” I shrieked. “No! No! Let’s keep this discussion in our family!” I paused, trying to compose myself. “Uh…do you have any questions?”

Blue said, “I do. I have a question.”

I braced myself. “What is it?”

“Can we go to the beach now?”

Seven

Blue and Green turned 7 a few weeks ago. I always get a little misty-eyed when I think about them getting bigger, and 7 seems so…old. But, truthfully, the event itself made me weary. When I woke up that day, I came into the kitchen and said, “Look at the birthday boys!!” Green looked at me and said in a snotty voice, “So where’s my birthday breakfast?”

Birthday breakfast?!

“What do you mean, Green?” I asked. He furrowed his brow. “Every year I’m supposed to get a special breakfast on my special day.” I growled, “Really? I didn’t get that memo.” I tossed a can of frosting onto the table in front of him. “Spread this on your Cheerios,” I said, reaching for my coffee. “Knock yourself out.”

I don’t know about you, but I remember my birthday being A DAY. With maybe a piece of cake and a song. Blue and Green expect their birthday to be an endless PARADE OF LOVE AND SUGAR. They had a party at a crazy bouncy place with 24 of their sweaty friends (Madagascar 2 cake, with two airplanes on it!!). Then there was their class party (brownies + frosting + marshmallows and candy on top!). Later, there was the celebration with their little league team (rice crispie treats!). And apparently we were supposed to take them out to dinner as well (at the Spaghetti House, where you can by Ragu covered noodles for $10 a plate. The boys say it’s SO MUCH BETTER than the kind we have at home.).

To me, Blue and Green’s 7th birthday turned out to be more of a soul-sucking drain of resources than a rite of passage. But I have to admit that something has changed in the last year. There has been a quiet shift from cute little cherubs to… boys. As they were heading out the door to school that morning, I said, “Wow. You guys are really growing up.” Blue looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, DUH.”

Duh, indeed, but I am still shocked at all the differences. Lately, I have witnessed an increasing nonchalance about their old favorites, trucks and buses. Curious George has joined preschool favorites Dora and Diego in the Land of Forgotten Characters. They ask me to stop when I sing the song about Port-a-potties that they made up last summer. “Mommy,” Green said, “That song is hurting my ears.” “What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “You WROTE that song!” “I know,” Green answered, “but that is a kindergarten song. And we’re first graders.”

Ah, yes. Of course. First grade. The year is almost over, and I haven’t really said a thing about it, have I? I will preface my comments with the important detail that my kids like first grade. They claim that it’s way better than kindergarten. But I can’t believe that this is true. Kindergarten was newness and finger paint and potato-decorating. Kindergarten had songs and Choice Time and taxidermy.

First grade has work.

Lots of work.

To the credit of the teachers and this curriculum, my kids are certainly excelling. Last year, they were counting to 100. This year, they’re doing multiplication. Last year, it was the A-B-Cs. This year, they are in “book clubs.” But, as thrilled as I am that they are plunging ahead into the world of knowledge, I have to admit to some ambivalence. Can’t you have multiplication AND finger paint? Chapter books AND Choice Time?

I am still a weekly classroom volunteer, but I am definitely less enthusiastic. Remember volunteering last year? My job was to help kids make peacocks out of paint and to construct Irish Derby Hats out of newspaper. This year, my job has been to work with the kid who can’t focus on his math, the one who is slipping behind as his peers hurtle forward to algebra. This is what my typical volunteering experience has been like this year:

Me: Hello, Jasper! Mrs. Taskmaster wants me to help you with your double-digit addition. Then we can get to work on those fractions!

Jasper: What?

Me: Math, Jasper. Let’s do 42 + 37 + 63 + 50 + 17. Quick! In your head! Then tell me what 1/3 of the sum is.

Jasper: Who are you?

Me: I’m Blue’s mom.

Jasper: Do you even know how to do that problem?

Me: I can’t do it in my head unless I have another cup of coffee. I could, however, solve the problem with a paper and pencil. But you are not allowed to do math the way I learned it. You are supposed to intuit it.

Jasper: So you are saying that you can’t do it, aren’t you? Don’t you have a PhD?

Me: Umm….yes, but my PhD is not in math.

Jasper: I think you are a big fraud.

Jasper is right. The way that I learned how to add and subtract and multiply and divide got recycled long ago. And the way that I learned how to spell? By memorizing? Forget it. My kids are “feeling the sounds” or something like that. I wasn’t very good at the kindergarten crafts, but I find that I am even less competent at first grade academics.

To better illustrate how much things have changed, I want to compare Blue’s Mothers’ Day gift to me last year with the one that he created this year. Last year, Blue spent an afternoon at school decorating a flower pot for me. It had hearts all over it and the painted words, “I love you.” The teacher gave each child a droopy flower to plant, and Voila! I had a lovely hand-made memento of my child’s affection (Actually, the teacher did not consider what would happen to this gift when it was toted home in a backpack. What I really received was a sack full of dirt and an empty pot).

This year, Blue gave me a bubble diagram for Mother’s Day. Awww, honey, how romantic! The kids have been working on these kinds of diagrams all year. I am not sure why. I have a feeling that bubble diagrams are going to be covered on the Big State Standardized Test, and Mothers' Day is just another opportunity to practice, practice, practice.

As you can see, Blue laid out several of my most pleasing attributes:

1) I have a great sense of humor (That’s true, though I hate to break it to him that my laughter at his knock-knock jokes is not genuine.).

2) I am a nice person (unless you ask me to make you a special birthday breakfast before I have my morning coffee).

3) I give him things that he wants (though it seems to me that just last week he was screaming, “You never give me anything I want!!!”).

4) I am a good cook (No one has ever said this to me before. I guess I have perfected my Noodles With Butter dish. ).

5) I am playful (This is true, unless I am doing Facebook. Then I tend to say things like, “Go off and find something to do!! Why do we have a house full of toys if you’re not going to use them?!”).

6. I use my computer a lot (Oh no! I guess I am spending too much time on Facebook. Sorry, kids.)

Sigh. As I write this, I am tucking the bubble diagram into my scrapbook ( Just kidding. I don’t have a scrapbook – I have a “memory pile” next to my desk.). I am also doing long division problems in my head, so that I can be ready for second grade volunteering. After all those years where the days went by so slowly, I suddenly feel the increasing speed of the boys’ childhoods. I think that if I could have picked out my perfect Mothers' Day present, it would have been to hold life still for just a moment -- just one moment, before it wriggled out of my hands and dashed on.

The Gutter

Warning: The contents of this entry may be objectionable to some readers. If you are opposed to references to bodily functions, smells, or noises, you should turn back now. If you are squeamish about underpants, especially random dirty underpants, be advised that there is DANGER AHEAD.

I have learned many things about parenthood. I have learned how to deal with a child's ear pain (Motrin, not Tylenol. Scotch for me). I have learned that, to a six year old, a sprinkle of basil on pizza counts as a vegetable (and will not be tolerated). I have learned that identical objects are not identical -- your brother's will always be better than yours, and IT'S NOT FAIR. But I have to say that the one thing that has surprised me over the past year or two is the total smearing of our lives with POTTY TALK.

About six months ago, my boys became enamored with the Captain Underpants series of books. You know these books, the ones with titles like “The Madcap Adventures of Professor Poopypants.” I realized then that all it takes to make a buck in this world is to tap into the timeless joy that can be found in the idea of poop. Dav Pilkey, the author of the series, simply types a few potty words on each page, draws some rough sketches of a school principal in his BVDS, and zillions of little boys across the country are happy to lay down $4.99 a pop for the pleasure of this kind of “literature.” Better yet, there’s a CD of Captain Underpants potty talk songs (sung by a Japanese synth band) that your child can purchase and play on continuous repeat (Who can resist a song called, “Oops I farted, Oops I burped”).

I do know that there are certain families that forbid potty talk, or forbid it at certain times of the day, or in certain places. One family we know has a rule that you can only use potty talk in the bathroom. Of course, all this means is that their kids each go stand in a separate bathroom and holler their potty words across the house.

Personally, I am rather beleaguered by all the forbidding I have to do. Daily, I have to forbid hitting, punching, kicking, saying mean things, biting, and hiding your brother’s toothbrush in or around the toilet. And just today I learned that I apparently need to forbid digging large holes in the middle of the lawn. I am tired of screaming, “No! No! No!” all day. And that means, at our house, the potty talk will continue to flow in a steady stream.

Occasionally, we can use the potty fixation to our advantage. A few weeks ago, Michael and I took Blue and Green on a little winter hike. Michael was trying to explain the complex ecosystem to the boys, pointing out the presence of an enormous nurse log that was hosting the growth of a new tree. “See that dead tree on its side," Michael began. “You can see its root structure.” Green asked, “Mommy, when are we going home?” Michael persisted, “Isn’t this cool, guys? This tree died and a whole new tree is growing on top of its trunk.” Blue said, “I’m tired. Is it time for ice cream yet?”

Finally, I piped in. “Boys,” I said, “Go check out that tree’s butt!” And off they ran to play in the forest.

We do try to help the boys decide which situations are not ripe for this kind of material. They already know that school is not the ideal place to discuss potty-related topics (though let me tell you, I have learned some things about elementary school boys’ bathrooms that a prim mother doesn’t need to know). We have also asked the boys to refrain from excessive potty talk when we have guests in the house. This rule is generally effective, but occasionally some special circumstances arise. Take, for instance, my in-laws’ visit last December. We were all happily sitting around the kitchen table, talking about mild and wholesome things, when the phone rang. It was our neighbor, calling with hysteria about some “suspicious characters” in the neighborhood.

I should probably back up and mention where we live. It’s a little 1950s neighborhood that is filled with the “original owners.” That means, in polite terms, that the social scene around here is pretty sedate. Nothing really happens, but still, this one neighbor is on the lookout. Don’t even think about stumbling drunk along our street! By all means, clean up after your dog! And if dandelions take over your lawn, watch out! This lady will call 911.

So, anyway, we were all sitting around in the kitchen when our neighbor sounded her alarm: A car! Parked outside our house! Strange people! Doing strange things! I peeked outside, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar grey beater. Parked. Empty. No strange people. “Thanks,” we told the vigilant neighbor. “We will stand guard.” But, of course, we went back to whatever we were doing, and when we looked outside again, the car was gone.

The next day, when the kids and I were heading out of the house to go to school, Blue stopped abruptly and squealed with delight.

“What is it????” I asked, startled.

“UNDERPANTS!!!!!” He shrieked at top volume. “Mommy! Look! There’s a pair of stinky, smelly underpants in the road!”

And he was right. In the precise spot where the strange vehicle was parked the day before lay a striped pair of Victoria’s Secret panties. For me, this presented a set of perplexing problems: What was I going to do with a pair of someone else’s panties just steps from my front door? Was there a way to dispose of them without actually touching them? And, most importantly, how was I going to tell my mother-in-law not to trip on the USED bloomers decorating our property? For Green, this was a delightful twist to an otherwise ordinary morning. “Mommy,” he said. “This is shaping up to be a really good day!”

By now you are probably wondering why I am sharing this piece of news with you. Well, let me tell you, dear readers, YOU are going to participate in the Saga of the Traveling Underpants. Each month, we will go together out into the street. Will the panties still be there? Will someone move them? Or will they decompose? Maybe this is a question for environmental science: What happens to synthetic fabric made by children in Bangladesh if you expose it to the elements over time?

We have already learned that a Weather Event will not carry the underpants down the street in a flow of ice and water. We have also learned that the passage of various garbage and recycling trucks does not propel the panties away from our house and toward someone else’s. And, finally, we have noticed that few people actually mention the presence of the underpants when they come to visit us. Does this mean they don’t notice that they just plopped their kicky leather boots on top of someone’s unmentionables? Or does it mean that they think that the underpants are MINE?

Here it is - the first installment (covered in a little snow):

Lunar New Year

Each year at school the boys have a Chinese New Year assembly. They get very excited about this event, because they get to watch some fancy dancing and acquire fortune cookies and little red bags of chocolate coins (most likely made in New Jersey). At our house we also celebrate the Lunar New Year, but with a slightly different purpose (and less dancing. No Billy Idol in this case.). We use the New Year as an opportunity to modify annoying behavior.

For instance, we declared 2006 as the Year of the Pot. (Not the Michael Phelps kind of pot -- come on!). At that point, our enormous almost-four-year-olds were refusing to go to the toilet, and I was in that "Will my kids be in diapers in college?" stage of worry. And, if I'm truthful, I was getting kind of embarrassed about taking them out in public. What was I supposed to do -- heave my four foot, 55 pound preschoolers up on a changing table? So the Year of the Pot involved a lot of rather hefty bribes and a little bit of lying to make the kids think they came up with the idea. The result: everyone in this family will be wearing underpants at college.

But, of course, those of you who are parents know that many endeavors are more complicated than they first seem. For our kids, the 2006 project required an extra step. As a result, 2007 became the Year of the Wipe. I will not elaborate on this process here but will offer the confession that the results of the 2007 activities continue to be less impressive than they should be.

2008 was the Year of the Pronoun. I'm pretty sure I've talked about our pronoun issues before, but I will offer a recap. Blue and Green look alike. They have the same interests, and they stick to each other like glue. This has always been confusing to people. And then, when they were little, they had the added quirk of ignoring the basic rules of grammar. When talking about themselves, they would use the second person. If Blue was hungry, he would say, "You are hungry!" If Green was upset, he would say, "You are not happy!" Needless to say, this was a problem for anyone who did not know the code.

Before the Year of the Pronoun, we tried a number of pronoun incentive plans, most notably the Pronoun Sticker Chart. For every correct pronoun, a kid could get a sticker. This worked for something like two minutes. I remember standing in the kitchen with a big book of stickers from Target, armed with patience and a chirpy attitude. "Who can give me an 'I' sentence?" I asked. "I can!" Blue shouted, and was rewarded with a sticker. "Me, too!" said Green. "I want another one," Blue said, laughing. "Me, too!" said Green. Stickers were flying onto the chart. Woo! What fun! Then Green turned to me with a frown and said, "You're done."

One day, for reasons unclear, the boys switched from using the second person to the third person. So if Green said, "Green hates vegetables," he was talking about himself. It seemed like a step in the right direction, but yet -- still a confusing mess. The Year of the Pronoun promised to be a busy one. Oh yes -- I was going to send those kids to college with clean underwear AND the ability to communicate with others.

And you know what -- it worked! The boys started using "I" and "me" correctly and with ease. Though if I'm honest, I'll admit that I probably had nothing to do with it.

That brings me to 2009. Green does indeed hate vegetables, and Blue will happily hate anything that Green hates. And what began as a toddlery distaste for variety is now just poor nutrition. And, you know, I'm unemployed and have lots of time to worry about ending up on a TLC reality show called BAD MOTHERS AND THE KIDS THAT THEY MESSED UP.

Last weekend, my parents took us to a nearby Chinese restaurant. The boys ordered their usual dish of (beige) noodles with (beige) tofu and (white) rice with NO VEGETABLES. Each time we go to this restaurant we have to somehow translate, "Please do not put onions or basil or any sort of green fleck that might be confused with a vegetable on the noodles, or an epic hissy fit will ensue." And it occurred to me at that moment, 2009 is going to be the Year of the Vegetable.

Yesterday I began the hard work of selling vegetables as tasty treats. I pulled out the cookbook my Great Aunt Martha gave me as a wedding gift, the kind of cookbook that has a whole section on cooking vegetables with marshmallows. And I found this carrot recipe that managed to take the vegetable OUT of the carrot (Boil the crap out of it, coat it in brown sugar and butter). I presented this dish to the boys with the following preface: "Boys! Try this yummy piece of orange candy covered in fat!"

As it turns out, you can put lipstick on a carrot, but it's still a carrot.

Don't worry -- I'm not afraid. 2009 has just begun. It's the year of HOPE! and CHANGE! Right? With any luck, we can transform these kids' beige palates, one marshmallowy bite at a time. YES WE CAN!!!

The True Meaning of Halloween

(6:30 p.m. A dark and stormy night)

Me: Time to trick-or-treat! Hooray!

Green: I think I only want to go around the block this year.

Me: WHAT?!

Green: I want to go around the block and then go home and hand out candy.

Me: What's the matter with you? Are you sick?!

Green: Mommy, this the season of giving! And I want to give!

Me: No, Green, you’re thinking about Christmas. This is the season of getting, of taking. It’s the season of GREED!

Green: I want to go home.

Me: (heavy sigh). Blue, would you like to score tons of candy with me while your brother goes home and practices being generous?

Blue: Yes!

Me: I think you must be the kid who’s related to me. That other one, I don’t know where he came from.

(A half hour later)

Blue (getting whiny): Mommy, you need to help me carry this bucket of candy. It’s overflowing, and it’s too heavy for me.

Me: Blue, you should never complain about being too rich, too successful, or too full of candy. You were very good at getting all those ladies to pour their entire bowls of goodies into this bucket. Remember that one house where you got something like 20 Starbursts!?

Blue: It’s just too heavy. I’m done trick-or-treating. I want to go home and give out candy with Green.

Me (shrieking): Spreading the wealth!? Are you crazy? What are you, a Socialist?

Blue: Mommy, I think you might need a time out.

Politics, First Grade Style

(Driving home from school)

Green: Mommy, did you know that Obama is just like Martin Luther King?

Me: Uh....What?

Green: He loves Martin Luther King! (Green then bursts into a rendition of the Martin Luther King song he learned in kindergarten: Martin Luther King/You make my spirit sing/You mean so much to me/'Cause you taught us how to be free...)

Blue: Well, there's one thing that's a problem about Barack Obama. He likes chili, and I can't vote for anyone who likes chili.

Green: But the other guy likes Ronald McDonald. Mommy says that McDonalds food isn't good for us.**

Me: McCain has been talking about Ronald McDonald? The clown?

Green: It's true! He likes Ronald McDonald, and he enjoys fishing like Grandpa.

Me: Boys, I have no idea what you're talking about.

Green: We discussed politics in school today. That's how we're going to become good citizens.

Blue: That's right. If you're going to vote, Mommy, you'd better learn about the issues.

**Aha! It's Ronald REAGAN! Not Ronald McDonald!

The Search For Order

(Bye, Summer!)

Blogging is like exercising. Some months I’m totally on the ball, spinning several times a week, walking the hills around my neighborhood, generally making an effort. Other months, I feel pretty good if I carry a load of laundry from one end of the house to the other (phew! Hard work! I think I need a snack!). So look what happened: I decided to focus my attention on maybe learning a bit about the new subject I’m teaching this fall (gulp) and had a brief blogging hiatus. Then a week turned into two, into three. I admit that I’m a flabby writer now, and I need to recommit.

Another obstacle to blogging has been that my kids are driving me crazy. I thought I could just hunker down and wait out this spell of annoying behavior. All you parents out there know how that goes. You wring and wring and wring your hands about the (fill in the blank: waking up at night; fear of the bathtub; biting; burping; not napping; napping too much; eating too much; eating too little; unwillingness to do the age-appropriate thing you want them to do….), and then, one day, it’s suddenly not a problem anymore. The reasons for the change are as unclear as the reasons for the problem in the first place.

The issues in question are what I would classify as sibling stuff. And I don’t have a sibling. I never had to fight over the front seat. I never had to share my toys. I never had to take turns. I never had to hear my mother say, “I can’t help you build a waterproof movie projector out of toothpicks right now because I’m busy helping your brother make a walkie-talkie out of bubble gum wrappers and rubber bands.”

So part of my difficulty dealing with sibling stuff is that I don’t know exactly how it feels to constantly have to WAIT to get what I want. And I certainly don’t know how it feels to watch Curious George while my clone of a brother kicks me in the head with his tremendously smelly feet.

But still, we’ve had more than our fair share of smacking and hitting and whining and screaming and floods in the bathroom and general badness. Last week, after one particularly horrendous battle over getting dressed for school, I called Michael at the office and bellowed, “WE NEED TO HAVE A FAMILY MEETING!!!!”

And he said, “I’m actually in a work meeting right now. Can I call you back?”

And then I shrieked, “NO! DON’T YOU THINK THAT THE FACT THAT I WANT TO SKEWER YOUR OFFSPRING WITH THEIR TOY LIGHTSABERS SUGGESTS THAT THERE’S AN EMERGENCY WE NEED TO TAKE CARE OF?”

That night, Michael and I sat down to make a new behavior incentive plan. Here’s how it went:

Me: We need to break the day down into sections and tie rewards to specific behaviors!

Michael: We need four sections. Let’s list the jobs tied with each section and their associated behaviors.

Me: OK, Morning. Job #1: Eat cereal without gargling or spitting.

Michael: But isn't "eating cereal" the job, while gargling and spitting are behaviors?

Me: Whatever. But do you think we need to turn “no gargling” into a positive? Like, the associated behavior is “using table manners?”

Michael: Terrific. Now let’s turn to getting dressed.

Me: Job #1: Change into clean underpants. Associated Behavior: No throwing brother’s dirty underpants behind the dresser. Behavior translated into a positive: Treat brother’s underpants as you would treat your own.

This went on for some time. My eyes began to droop. “Uh, Michael?” I asked. “Do you think that the fact that we just wrote a 300 page behavior manual, complete with footnotes and appendices, means that this new plan isn’t going to work?”

Michael paused. He said, “I think we need to have the kids brainstorm the rules.”

So, like CEOs who are trying to be hip, we sat the kids down to come up with all the rules that we already decided to implement. Michael became the group facilitator. Right away, Green said, “I think we need to make a change to the system. I think we need to get a toy every week for our good behavior.”

Michael said diplomatically, “Thanks for that suggestion, Green. But let’s focus on what you think our house rules should be.”

Blue said, “Daddy, did you know that emperor penguins can weigh up to 88 pounds?”

Michael said, “That’s wonderful, Blue. But let’s see if we can think about what kinds of things will help us get along in the mornings.”

Green said, “I think that getting a toy every week will help me get along!”

I sighed and said, “Why don’t you tell me about your class rules.”

Green sat up straight. He said, “Respect others and property.”

“Terrific!” I exclaimed. “What might respecting others mean at home?”

He thought a minute, then said, “Uh, not throwing toys at Blue’s face?”

“Marvelous!” I crowed. “And Blue, what might respecting property mean at home?”

Blue giggled. “I know!” he said. “Not putting Green’s penguin in the toilet!”

Slowly but surely, we came up with a list of things the boys will do and how they will act on a daily basis. I know that some of it will work, and some of it won’t. But it already feels like our normal household vibe is back. “You did a great job, boys!” I said. “Now maybe it won’t be so hard for Mommy to live in this house with you!”

Green replied, “I always come up with good rules, Mommy. You wanna know why?”

“Why?” I asked.

And then he said (and I kid you not), “I make good rules because I am The Decider.”

Vacation Recap

Just in case you were wondering, I did bring the laptop with me on vacation. BUT I never turned it on, not even once. It sat unattended in my suitcase, making me just a bit (well, actually a lot) paranoid that some wicked sunbather was going to break into our hotel room and steal it.

We had a nice time, despite a wee windstorm and the occasional six-year-old attitude problem. Notably, Green decided, after years of flagrant nudity, that he was suddenly and unrelentingly modest. "Uh, Green," I said. "Could you wait to take this developmentally-appropriate step until the whole family is not crammed into a single tiny space?" "NO!!!!" he bellowed. "I need my privacy!!" Not to be outdone, Blue also decided that I was never to set eyes on his cute little butt again. "But Blue," I argued, "just yesterday you were playing the naked somersault game!" (Come to think of it, I could do without any more naked somersaults). He looked at me as if to say, "That was then, this is now." The result of this new declaration was that the two of them spent a considerable amount of the vacation arguing about who was going to change his clothes in the postage stamp-sized bathroom.

The other thing that I learned on this trip is that it is unwise for me EVER to express my opinion or to make a suggestion. Apparently, adolescence has arrived early, because both kids are dead set on rejecting all of my good ideas. Here's an example:

(Vacation Morning Number One)

Me: Boys! Let's go to the beach!
Green: No, I want to go to the pool.
Blue: Me, too!
Me: But look -- the beach is sandy! You can dig!
Green: Digging is dumb.
Me: When did digging become dumb? Yesterday you made a point of bringing your buckets and shovels.
Blue: It wasn't dumb yesterday, but it's dumb today.

(Vacation Morning Number Two)

Me: Look, boys! There are waves at the beach! Let's go jump in them!
Green: No, I want to go to the pool.
Blue: Me, too.
Me: But there are no waves in the pool...
Green: Waves are dumb.
Blue: What a bad idea, Mommy.

(Vacation Morning Number Three. One hour before checkout).

Random Playmate: I'm going to the beach!
Green: Let's go to the beach!
Blue: Yes, the beach!
Green: This is so amazing! There's sand!
Blue: We can jump off the dock into the waves!
Me: Guys, you have five more minutes, and then we have to go pack up and leave.
Green: No fair! We didn't get to spend any time at the beach!
Blue: Why didn't you tell us there was sand at the beach! Why didn't you tell us about the waves?
Me: I did, but....
Green: I never get to do what I want!
Blue: I never want to go home!

(Wild, epic screaming ensues)

Next year, I'm going to try a different approach. This is what I envision:

Me: Boys, you may not go to the beach.
Green: Why? There's sand on the beach!
Blue: We could dig!
Me: Beaches are violent and dangerous and inappropriate.
Green: Mommy, you have to let us go to the beach!
Blue: Pleeease!
Me: OK. Just this once.
Green: You are the nicest Mommy ever.

Brilliant, don't you think?

John Edwards

Last Friday afternoon, the boys and I were hanging out at the Baskin Robbins. Blue was in a bit of a funk. He had spent a fair amount of time choosing his flavor, taking free samples here and there and acting totally oblivious to the line of 45 people behind him. In the end, he chose Cherries Jubilee (because that’s what Green picked, and Blue didn’t want to be left out). The trouble was that Blue doesn’t much like cherries or whatever constitutes Jubilee. So he had to sit there picking out the flecks of cherry and dark chocolate and miscellaneous other stuff that made up the bulk of his treat.

Anyway, Blue was half way through his ice cream excavation when a senior citizen in a tennis outfit came running in the store. “Did you hear about John Edwards?” she shrieked to a cluster of ladies sitting by the door. “HE HAD AN AFFAIR!!!!”

Green had barely spat out, “Mama, what’s an affair?” when the woman continued,“He’s a skunk! Did you hear me?! A skunk!”

We all know that skunks are smelly, and stinkiness is a topic my boys enjoy. “Hee Hee Hee,” Green giggled. “She said skunk! P.U.!” And with that turn of fortune, I dodged the problem of having to explain to my six-year-olds why Democrats have trouble keeping their pants up.

Of course, upon learning about the Edwards indiscretion, my first thought was, “Aha! Now I can blog about politics! That’s what my readers said they wanted, after all.” And so I went home and readied myself for the flood of who/what/why/what position/what kind of cigar media coverage I assumed would follow.

But the flood never came. I didn’t even receive a call from my father-in-law, whose outrage over the Monica Lewinsky escapade has yet to diminish. I did a quick search today, and the Edwards story fell well below the news that Cindy McCain sprained her wrist from shaking hands. (And in fact, there would be no story at all if Elizabeth Edwards’ family members would stop talking to People Magazine. I guess they figure that the National Enquirer shouldn’t be the only tabloid to benefit from Elizabeth’s humiliation).

So what do you make of this? Have we drawn a line between scandal and Real News? Are we more interested in thinking about Michael Phelps in his swimsuit than another slimy politician in his birthday suit? Are we more cynical, or are we smarter?

Weigh in, bloggers.

Nature, Finally

Well, wasn't that poll fun? Thanks to all of you for participating. I am somewhat surprised by the breakaway success of the "coverage of weird events" category. I never knew that's what turned you on. Get ready for an upcoming entry about our city's basset hound festival, in which more than 300 costumed bassets march down a parade route. You asked for it!

I am also somewhat surprised by your lack of interest in underpants. This must mean that there aren't many six year old boys among my readers. Or maybe you guys are just embarrassed to admit how much you liked last month's story about the thong injury.

Since we've been talking about anniversaries, I have to mention that a whole year has gone by since I first posted about how much we want our kids to love the great outdoors. I was on a kick last summer, reading about the importance of connecting children with nature, blah, blah, blah. We had this big ambition to get the boys hiking, so I set about finding kid-friendly hikes that were close to home and had big payoffs. But there was always some big obstacle -- Green's tantrums, rain, the problem of where to get and how to get a trail parking pass, the issue of timing the hike correctly so that the kids wouldn't fall asleep in the car on the way home (5 minute nap at 3 p.m. equaled no bedtime until 11 p.m.).

12 full months later, we got ourselves a parking pass. We landed ourselves some sunshine. Green woke up on the right side of the bed. Everyone was well-rested. And we went to the mountains. Oh yes we did.

This is not to say that getting there was easy. The boys insisted on controlling the music, which meant a solid hour of the song "My Toothbrush Marches Up and Down" (to the tune of "The Ants Go Marching One By One") on continuous repeat. But we made it to the trailhead, found a parking place, examined the outhouse in great detail, and set out for our 1 mile hike up to the "natural water slide." And while there was a fair amount of "are we there yet?" moaning, the kids actually handled the ascent pretty well. The payoff was indeed delightful, especially if you enjoy swimming in glacial runoff (uh, Sparky, this water is COLD).

To Michael, a lifelong hiker, no journey is complete without a trip to Dairy Queen at the end. I suggested that eating a 1400 calorie sundae after the hike might negate the exercise component of the experience. He outlined several reasons why eating ice cream after a hike actually improves children's love of the environment and makes them want to hike more, which in turn keeps them active. It didn't make any sense, but I agreed that we could stop at a DQ if we came upon one.

But we didn't find one. We passed sign after sign advertising various trashy fast food places, but there was no Dairy Queen anywhere. And then something unusual happened: Michael started to whine. It's as if his inner first grader emerged and couldn't handle a ride home without the obligatory Peanutbuster Parfait.

"Oh, come on," I said. "Let's just stop somewhere else and get a regular ice cream cone." "It's not the same," Michael pouted. Finally, we pulled into the driveway of a diner, one whose sign proclaimed, "Nothing in this establishment is good for you." That seemed a promising enough advertisement to me.

Right away, I noticed that we were not the only ones in search of a frozen delicacy that day. In the parking lot, alongside our dusty Subaru, loitered a sizable posse of Bikers for Christ (Their leather jackets read, "We Ride the Lord"). Apparently they couldn't find a Dairy Queen, either. I watched a big smile emerge on Blue's face. He exclaimed, "I want one of those!" I was worried that he meant one of numerous colorful Jesus tattoos that decorated the members' entire bodies, but he was clearly admiring the the long line of giant motorcycles. "Blue," I said, "you can get yourself a motorcycle when you are 18, but I will never allow you to wear a t-shirt that says, "Hey beautiful, show me your tats!"

The boys ordered some sort of marshmallow milkshake and Michael had a caramel one. Those choices seemed a little yuppie to me, given our company. But we polished them off and returned to the city drenched with nature, sugar, and good vibes.

And it's all about good vibes, isn't it? I think the drawback of the Get Your Kids Into Nature literature is that it turns something that is fun into a grim responsibility. Because, really, what's better than a day of swimming followed by a picnic with 200 reformed thugs?

(Michael inserts that it would have been better if the thuggy picnic was at a Dairy Queen. Crybaby.)

Art

The lazy days of summer are definitely here. I'm certainly feeling lazy, especially about blogging. Sorry about the lapse. And thanks to all of you who emailed to complain --- it's always heartening to know that people are still paying attention.

Blue and Green are busy at day camp this summer. The camp is located on "daddy's campus," and they attend assorted "classes" in university buildings. Their group of smelly six-year-olds makes stuffed space aliens in a room right next door to a calculus class. The exciting news this week was that one camper threw up right outside the door of a class that was taking a midterm. The kids apparently shrieked, "PUKE!" at the top of their lungs until the real professor of the real college students came out and yelled at them.

Much of what they do each day involves complicated projects that require "recyclables." They have made a "space machine." They have made star scopes. They have made pillows and booklets and tambourines. All of these things have been carefully constructed out of garbage. In fact, one afternoon the boys came running out of their last class with their backpacks bulging. Inside were cereal boxes and butter tubs and empty yogurt containers. "Ummm, boys?" I said. "Why do you have a bunch of trash in your backpacks?" Green said, "No, mama, that's not trash. That's ART." "But Green," I responded, "You haven't done anything to this to make it art." He rolled his eyes. "Mama, it's art in my imagination."

The upshot is that I have a whole bunch of someone else's breakfast containers in my house. Maybe this is the future of recycling. Instead of placing your crap in the recycling bin, you just find a small child and fill his backpack with it. Then he takes the stuff home to his mother, who sighs deeply and redirects it to her child's school for their art supply closet. The garbage will soon go home with a different child, in the form of a different project. Thus, the trash goes from family to family to family without generating any waste or pollution.

I'm not sure what came over me the other day. I was noting how excited the boys have been about their various pieces of trash artworks, so I put us all in the car and drove us 30 minutes away to a "salvage studio." At this place, you pay $6.75 per child to make "art" with the store's vast collection of trash materials. I don't know what I was thinking --- maybe that the kids would make a small keepsake of some kind? Instead, they each made a factory. A FACTORY. These pieces of trash sculptures are enormous. And it occurred to me, I just PAID MONEY to bring home someone else's refuse. That cash could have bought us a bag of organic cherries or an itty bitty amount of gas! Instead, there is a huge pile of debris fine art in my living room, and I am under strict orders not to move, jostle, disconnect, or do away with it.

Next year, Blue and Green will be going to an art-free camp. No more creativity for those two.

Memo

From: The School District
To: Parents of Kindergarteners

Dear Parents:

This memo is to inform you that we have scheduled a field trip at the beach for your children on June 6. We have made sure that this trip coincides with "S is for Summer!" day in the kindergarten curriculum, and we have attached an important handout about the importance of sunscreen.

We are aware that this year is a La Nina year in our city. We know that record grey, record cold, and general crapitude is predicted for the upcoming weeks. But we truly doubt that the region's bad weather would impact this wonderful excursion. If it does, we will change the curriculum theme to "S is for Shittiness."

We have also made sure to schedule our trip at a far-away beach. Despite the steep gas prices, we want to ensure that your child has a powerful memory of a long ride in a steamy, gas-guzzling bus. To further enhance their experience, we have chosen a site that has no bathroom facilities. After all, if you bring 85 six-year-olds on a four hour trip, the likelihood that someone will need to pee is small, right?

If, on the day of your trip, you are startled by the predictions of snow in the mountains and several inches of rain in the lowlands, be advised that we will not cancel or change these plans for any reason. We owe it to the environment to send your small children out into the low tides to handle, fling, and strangle the wildlife.


Sincerely,

The Powers That Be

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.