The Race

Blue and Green's teacher has created an elaborate incentive plan that rewards good behavior while simultaneously preparing the next generation to participate in the market economy. For every positive act, each child is presented with a fake dollar bill (a dutiful dollar), which they can then spend at the "store." When they learned about this plan, the boys were thrilled, thinking that the teacher was going to take them on a wild spree at ToysRUs. In reality, the "store" is just a paper bag filled with pencils and stickers, but its allure is still enough to get my kids to toe the line happily each and every day.

On Wednesday, the mother of one of the boys' classmates asked me, "Did you hear about the counterfeit dutiful dollars?" I hadn't. She lowered her voice and told me the sordid tale. Apparently, some child brought in a homemade stash of pretend money and quietly stowed it in his pencil box along with his other, honestly-earned dutiful dollars. When it came to light that this kid was suddenly much richer than his peers, his scheme was revealed.

But see, there's more. Rumor has it that the counterfeit dollars were made by scanning a genuine dutiful dollar into a computer and then copying it. The question naturally emerges about whether it's possible for a five year old to do this by himself. And if it's not possible, does that mean that a parent was an accomplice?

Now, I'm pretty suspicious about the whole story. Information that weaves its way home through the mouth of a kindergartener is usually part fiction, part wish, and part maniacal, exhausting, run-on blathering. But what's interesting about this case is its calculating, competitive nature. Whether or not the story is completely true, it's not totally inconceivable that a parent would lie, cheat, or steal to get his or her child to the head of the class.

Parents are everywhere in this school, all day, all the time. One thing we noticed -- and loved -- when we visited the school for the first time is that there are always parents cheerfully helping the teachers. I joined these ranks recently, giving up one of my precious hours each week to offer my expertise in the classroom. Every Thursday afternoon, I do things like help the kids finger paint the trunks of coconut trees or glue sea shells to the tops of shoe boxes. But really, I'm watching. I'm watching how my kids play with others. I'm watching how well they write words. I'm watching to see if the numbers they put on their worksheets look like actual numbers. And, if I'm honest, I'm watching to see how they compare to other kids.

I think it's natural to think that your own kid is a genius. I mean, come on -- you knew him when he couldn't even raise his head off the mattress. Now look! He can count to 110! He can write the words "stay out of my room" with just a little assistance! Sure, he might have a few annoying habits, like needing to rip the toilet paper precisely on the perforation line, but otherwise this kid emerged from his amoeba-like form and turned into a real phenom.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned from my stint as mommy volunteer feeling a bit dispirited. I was in the midst of a rather hectic craft project with seven kids, trying to get them to make patterns out of sequins. It is very difficult to get that many kids to focus on a project like this. In their eyes, it would be much more fun to organize the sequins haphazardly. There's more splash! More pizazz! But no, this is school, and they're supposed to be learning. One boy had a red, blue, red, blue thing going, when he suddenly inserted a yellow. "Why did you put a yellow there?" I asked him. "Because it's pretty," he answered. "But, honey," I said, "remember that you're supposed to be organizing these sequins into a pattern." "Why?" he asked, looking at me with an unflinching gaze. Why? Why? I had no idea. I wanted to say, "Because I need to get a good grade in volunteering."

Anyway, I was in the middle of this chaos, when Blue and Green's teacher came up to me. "I'd like to talk to you about the boys' writing," she said. I smiled at her. My kids are fabulous writers! So creative! So inspired! But the teacher frowned. She said, "They have very immature grips."

Oh.

Now this isn't completely surprising. They do come from a long line of folks who have poor penmenship. But, still. She's saying my kids are immature? Why didn't their preschool teachers alert me to this problem? Why wasn't I working with them all summer to get them better acquainted with correct pencil form? How will they get ahead? How will they ever pass the test to get into the Smarty-Pants Program? How will they get into college? Ack!

It's in the air, this pressure to excel. Yesterday, I approached a group of mommies standing at the edge of the playground after school. They were whispering and pointing at a kindergarten boy who was sitting and reading a book. "Is Fred reading a chapter book all by himself?" one of them exclaimed. Another nibbled on her fingernails and said, "I just don't know what to do about Daphne. She would rather play with her ponies than do the worksheets I give her. How will she ever learn to read like Fred over there?" Everyone clucked sympathetically. One woman cleared her throat and said, "I hear there are more kids who are qualified for the Smarty-Pants Program than there are spaces available. I wonder if there's a way to help my son Shaggy become better prepared."

I wanted to squinch my eyes closed and cover my ears like the boys do when they don't want to hear what I'm saying. My kids are five years old. There are leaves to jump in, pumpkins to carve, jungle gyms to climb, castles to build. I want to give them this time. Doesn't the window for childhood joy seem pretty narrow? But I also know that the race has started, whether I like it or not.

Ready, set, go?

Ramblings About Growing and Building and the Ph.D

The fall season is definitely here. The leaves are turning, the air is cold, and giant pumpkins are sitting in the parking lot of every grocery store, waiting like pound puppies for a good home.

Do you remember how I said that we’re participating in a pumpkin growing contest with the neighbors? Well, things are not going well. First off, my pumpkin plant decided to escape. One night we heard faint screams coming from the yard. If you listened closely, you could hear a voice wailing, “Let me out of here!!!!!! She’s killing me!!!!” And then the next day, I noticed that my pumpkin plant had grown itself out through our fence and was heading away in search of a more suitable family.

There are only a few weeks until Halloween, and the plant's two pumpkins are pretty puny. I don’t even think you can officially call them pumpkins yet. Is there such a thing as a fetal pumpkin? And the sad thing is that someone has taken a hearty bite out of the side of one of them.



It’s not all that surprising, considering I have never actually nurtured a plant successfully. I don’t have that je ne sais quoi, that green thumb, that whatever it is that makes some people able to cultivate a nice yard. I’m not even sure that it’s fair to call our yard a yard; it’s more like a plastic toy-filled jungle.

But anyway, I like to think that the reason why I’m not good at plants is because I’m showering all my love and attention on my kids. You know, all the bushes in the front of the house might be dead, but look at these robust, flourishing children! Woo!

Apparently, Blue and Green think differently. The other day, when the sun had not even come up yet, I felt a small tap on my arm. “Mama?” Green said. “Huh?” I garbled, not yet awake enough to communicate. “Where are the hammer and nails?”

I almost said, “They’re in the top drawer under the microwave,” but something nagged at me. Why would a five year old be asking for the tools? “Green,” I asked, “why in the world would you need a hammer and nails?” “Because,” he answered, “today Blue and I are going to build a house just for us where we can make up all the rules.”

Well, there you have it. The pumpkins left me, and the kids are moving out.



In the meantime, however, the boys are cluttering my world with all sorts of building projects. One hot activity is creating a "nurse's office" out of their bedroom. To make this work, they gathered all of their plastic medical equipment and drafted some architectural sketches:



And now they are in debate about one crucial element. Who's going to be the nurse? Neither one wants this job. While they were working out the details of the project, I overheard this conversation:

Green: Mama can be the nurse, because she's a doctor.
Blue: No, wait, she's not really a doctor.
Green: She used to be a doctor, but now she's a teacher.
Blue: I think we need to find someone else's Mommy to be the nurse.

I'm glad to see that my confusion about my career does not belong to me alone. The Ph.D is such a vague thing. On the one hand, it's a badge that represents lots of hard work. But on the other hand, I get to wander through life being "not a real doctor." The boys asked me to tell them about what we do in my classes. I could see on their faces that they were expecting me to talk about the kinds of things they do all day: drawing apples, counting, finger painting. "Well," I answered, "in my class we talk about ideas and issues." They both blinked. "Mama," Blue said, "that doesn't sound like very much fun."

Blue actually has a sense of what he wants to be when he grows up. This boy is not going to hang around for 10 years trying to earn a degree that no one understands. He has decided that he's going to be a "plan maker." And he's already practicing. Sometimes, at the end of the afternoon, I stand in the school hallway and spy on the boys. More often than not, Blue is perched on a chair that towers above all the little kids building castles and forts with the wooden blocks. When I ask him why he's just sitting there, he tells me that he is "hard at work being in charge."

Smart kid. This one's gonna make me proud.

Literature

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

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

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

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

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

There was a lot at stake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, better yet, this:

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

Curriculum

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

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

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

2) Don't talk during directions

3) No talking unless you raise your hand

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

and

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

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

1) No pocket chains

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

3) Flush toilets

and

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

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

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

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

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

For their part, Blue and Green love doing homework.



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

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



Overachievers, already.

Comparative Case

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clutter

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

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

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

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

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

Then Monday came, and I followed up with this:

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

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

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

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

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

The First Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kindergarten

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

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

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

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

Well, alright. Whatever works for you.

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

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

Summer's Last Gasp

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

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

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

They created some lemonade stand head gear:

And created some work for the lemonade stand art gallery:

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

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

The Midwest, Part 2

Michael's parents have an apartment on the top floor of a building that overlooks the Mississippi River. One night, Michael's dad said that if he stands at the window, he can see almost all of the places that have mattered to him over the course of his life. And he wasn't kidding. This is a family that is deeply tied, over generations, to a community.

Sometimes it seems like everyone knows everyone, and this six-degrees-of-separation quality cracks me up. Here's a version of a typical conversation when we visit Michael's family:

Family member: Do you know Peggy O'Flaherty?
Michael: No, but her brother Seamus was in my class.
Family member: Oh! Seamus married Maureen Flynn, and did you know that Maureen's aunt, Maeve, went to college with me?
Michael: I know Maeve. Her cousin, Patrick, and I were altar boys together.

But it's not just about knowing the neighbors. Tradition is at the heart of this culture. Some of those traditions are pretty funny, most notably the annual trip to the Minnesota State Fair. You should have heard Michael's dad wax poetic about his teenage years at the fair. Michael has his memories, too. So far be it from us to deny Blue and Green a chance to participate in this family custom.

When I was growing up in Michigan, I don't remember the state fair being any big deal. I think I went once, ate some junk food, rode some rides. But it wasn't a BIG THING that made me feel connected to my fellow state residents or turned into a ongoing family story. For Michael, though, it's different. When he talks about the fair, his eyes get this faraway look, as if he can taste a bucket of mini doughnuts in his memory.

Before we went, my friend, Sarah, gave me some advice: 1) Bring lots of money; 2) Bring lots of patience; and 3) Bring closed-toe shoes. "Closed-toe shoes?" I asked. "Yes," she answered. "For walking in the barns." I must have looked blankly, because she elaborated. "Poop," she said. "Poop is everywhere."

Well, isn't that fabulous? That's the kind of thing that keeps a person going back year after year. In the end, I did wear appropriate footwear, but we didn't even make it to the barns. We got stuck in the vast snack area. Streets and streets and streets full of food. And there were people dressed up as food! We were just minding our own business, and a guy walked by dressed as a giant ear of corn. Okey Dokey. I suppose it's difficult to pass up the opportunity to wear a good costume.

It was in this food extravaganza that I came to really understand the fair. Here is a place where the uncool becomes cool, where gluttony is celebrated rather than scorned, where you don't have to feel shame about your extra roomy rainbow stretch pants.



And of course, at the fair, even little men get to carry big sticks. Every imaginable food option seemed to be on a stick. It was a joke, but then again, not really a joke. You could get waffles on a stick:



Or spaghetti on a stick:



Or, if you're feeling hip and urban, you can order Puff Daddy on a stick:



Actually, what amuses me about the picture above is the small print in the lower left hand corner. It says, "Sausages made by special women." I love that! How do you get to be a special woman? Sign me up!

But what I enjoyed most about the food section wasn't for sale. Deep in the Dairy Barn, just past the House of Cheese, was a special revolving, glass-encased show room. Inside was the likeness of Princess Kay of the Milky Way. "Who?" you might be asking. "Is it another Barbie?" Nope. Princess Kay is the winner of a special Minnesota pageant. Every year, young maidens from across the state compete to become county dairy princesses. The lucky local winners then vie to become Princess Kay. They are judged on their communication skills, their personality and enthusiasm, and their knowledge of the dairy industry. Moo!

Don't get me wrong -- this is serious business. The St. Paul Pioneer Press claims that Princess Kay has "the equivalent of Queen Elizabeth's role as the physical embodiment of the British Empire." Well, then. If she's so important, why not carve a sculpture of her head out of a 90 pound block of butter?



And you know what's funny? Guess what Princess Kay gets as a reward for all her efforts? Do you think it's money? Scholarships? A new car? Nope. At the end of the fair, she gets to take the butter sculpture home (and presumably, she can butter her toast with that all year long).

When we arrived back at our house after our week in the Midwest, I sat down with Blue and asked him what his favorite part of the trip was. When he answered, he didn't mention the baseball game we went to, or our visit to the science museum. Instead, he said, "I liked the guy in the corn suit." Huh. Maybe on some deep, subconscious level, Blue is already part of the larger tradition. He might be a west coast boy, but Minnesota appears to be in his blood.

The Midwest, Part 1

Do you remember hearing about the heat wave that burned the Midwest this summer? You know, temperatures near 100 with humidity that could drown you? I certainly did, and I used that knowledge to guide my packing for our journey to see Michael's family. I brought the usual summer supplies: sunscreen, bathing suits, sandals, tank tops. But my challenge in that climate is always my hair. I may be a modern girl, but my thick, coarse hair is from the Old World, meant to be covered up by a babushka (Plus, ever since the kids were born, it's gone all curly on me. Has this happened to anyone else?). So I thought ahead, adding my flat iron and a range of straightening potions to our jumble of luggage so that I wouldn't scare all the farm animals.

And so we arrived. There was pouring rain. The temperature was 59 degrees.

This was bad news on a number of levels. The most pressing problem was that we were spending the first part of our trip at "the cabin" in rural Wisconsin, with seven other kids, six other adults, some dogs, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree. Now, I think it's pretty funny that they call their lake property a cabin, because that's not what it is. Cabins are made of logs and have no running water. Michael's family owns a big house on a lake, with several bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, 2 televisions, and an air hockey table. (Oddly, I remember that the Michiganders that I grew up with called their large vacation homes "cottages." What's up with that?).

But still, that's an awful lot of people sitting inside watching the flood coverage on TV. Fortunately, efforts were underway to build the world's most delicious vegan Barbie cake. When time came to parcel out slices of Barbie's sugary skirt, the kids argued about who was going to lick the frosting off the now-naked doll. Party games have certainly become more exciting since I was young!

I explained to the family that hanging out in the house sure was fun, but that I had blog fans to entertain. I needed to experience some of the culture of this part of the country, to get a feel for the people and their interests. Michael's father wrinkled his brow and scratched his head, and Michael's sisters looked perplexed. But this is not a group that says no to a challenge. We put on some warm coats and headed out into the rain in search of something Wisconsin-y.

And here's where we ended up:

Now this is my kind of place. We don't really have an equivalent in our city. Sure, we have something that's called a flea market, but it's really a place where hip artists can sell their eco-friendly jewelry. At the Pea-Pickin flea market, you can buy old gas cans:

Or license plates:

Or plastic bull heads:

I asked one of the vendors how he came to sell these types of things. He said that he simply knows people. He scours garage sales and rummage sales and can always find stuff that people will purchase. And lucky for him, I'm not just an anthropologist; I'm also a shopper. Here's what I bought:

For 50 cents, I am now the proud owner of this 1980s vintage choose-your-own-ending teen romance novel (Don't confuse it with its sequel, "Boys! Boys! Boys!"). Here's the book jacket description:

Find your own boyfriends, your own adventures, your own romance -- it's up to you! Every few pages you can make new romance happen -- go back to the beginning and follow the directions until you find just the romance you want. You can spend a romantic year in Venice or move to the breathtaking Colorado mountains! Either way, you'll meet more boys than you've ever dreamed of! Will you go on a moonlight gondola ride with Marzio, a gorgeous Italian artist...climb a sky-high mountain with fun-loving Russell...or explore ancient Italian castles with dark, handsome Dario? No matter what you decide, that special boy is waiting for you. And you can always start a new story...until you find your own true love!

I haven't read it yet, but I think I'd go with Marzio. This book brings back memories of that Intro to Women's Studies class I took in college, where I wrote a research paper comparing teen romance novels to adult romance novels. Seriously. I even got an A minus (Thanks for all that tuition money, Mom and Dad!).

Anyway, the flea market filled my soul, but it didn't fill my stomach. So I asked, "Where does one go to combine wholesome recreation with good local food?" The answer: the bowling alley. The big gaggle of us (minus the dogs) headed out for a competitive game of bumper bowling and some hot plates of cheese curds:

In general, cheese curds baffle me. Who wants to eat something that's called a curd? But you know what, they really hit the spot when you embarrass yourself in front of a large crowd of people. Here's what happened. I was losing, and I thought that a lighter bowling ball might help improve my score. I decided to try out a kids' ball, which is about half the weight of the lightest adult ball. Smiling at my own genius, I put my thumb and fingers in. Then I got into position, whipped my arm back, and....spun around in a violent circle. The ball would not come off my fingers. It was completely stuck. I inspired a whole lot of laughing, and I suppose it was only fair that I could entertain Wisconsin after Wisconsin had given so much to me. But still, bring on those curds, man. I had some pride to mop up.

The next day, we headed back to the city to prepare ourselves for a trip to the Minnesota State Fair. I know you're on the edge of your seat to hear about that, but you'll have to come back next time. Part 2 is on its way.

Journey

We're heading off to Minnesota later this week, so you'll notice a little pause in my blogging. But I've decided to start a recurring feature called "Field Notes from the Midwest." Those of you who think that Minnesota is "back east" will learn a lot about the distinctive local culture of the middle part of the country. And those of you who, like me, grew up in the Midwest but set roots elsewhere can re-experience the joys of bugs, humidity, hot dish, and games of "duck, duck, grey duck." And for those of you who live in the Midwest now, I'll try to include some funny stories that feature my inlaws (But only the ones who admit that they don't read this. That's the rule -- if you don't read the blog, you might show up in it). So please come back -- I'll have something posted by Monday August 27.

Bad Saturday

I'm afraid I don't have any clever little stories for you today. I had hoped that we would have been able to do one of our family hikes yesterday, which would have generated some hearty outdoor anecdotes. But, no. The universe conspired against us.

First off, the kids woke up possessed by the devil. I don't know why. It all began when Michael tried to do some work on the computer instead of giving the kids his undivided 6 a.m. attention. Blue and Green are perfectly content to play by themselves, unless the supervising adult tries to get something done. Then they join forces to destroy the adult: hitting each other, jumping on the couch, farting loudly. It wasn't long before Michael put down his computer and was dragged into a game of ZINGO, which is bingo with pictures (Did I ever tell you the story about the time when Green sang the bingo song in the grocery store? You know, the one that goes "B-I-N-G-O, and Bingo was his name-O." Well, anyway, Green had the tune down, but not Bingo's name. At the top of his lungs, he bellowed, "B-I-M-B-O, B-I-M-B-O, B-I-M-B-O, and Bimbo was its name-O." I was very proud.)

Back to the Zingo board game. Michael was sleepily doing his job, trying to lose every time, when WHAM! He miscalculated and won a game. Green erupted in that special way that he has, weeping hysterically. Michael commenced his sportsmanship speech, the one that goes something like, "It's not important whether you win or lose. It's about having fun!" Yeah, right. Green is smarter than that. Winning is totally important, and losing sucks.

But the screaming. God. It was enough to drive me to get a cocktail before the sun came up. We needed to get out of the house, and fast. But there was still a problem -- we hadn't fully settled on what the day's activity was going to be. Should we go to the mountains? If so, which hike -- the waterfall or the water slide? Those of you who have been around us know how loooong it takes us to make decisions. The process goes something like this:

Me: So which hike should we do?
Michael: I don't know. What do you think?
Me: Well, there are pros and cons to each one. If the boys refuse to go in the water, the water slide will be a bust. But the waterfall one is awfully close to the freeway, so it might not be as pretty.
Michael: Will you do me a favor and just pick one?
Me: All week long I have to think up activities and make plans. I just don't think I can do it today.
Michael: OK, let's do the water slide one.
Me: I don't think that's a good choice.

Since both hikes were in the same general direction, we decided to decide later. First, we needed to get ready to go, a process that included 2 showers, the boys' second breakfasts, getting the kids dressed (and the ongoing butts-on-pillows battle), and packing the backpack. Michael took the first shower, and I immediately had to give Green a time-out for smacking Blue (who had taunted him with an under-the-breath chant : "Mean, naughty Green won't get dessert at lunch! Mean, naughty Green gets NO TREATS!"). The time-out is supposed to involve 5 minutes of deep reflection about the error of one's ways, but usually it involves cataclysmic screaming that will someday generate a visit from Child Protective Services. Strangely, this time Green was quiet in his room. "Good for me," I thought. "I am a downright effective disciplinarian." But when I smugly went to get him after the time was up, I was in for a rather rude surprise: Green had disassembled the entire curtain/shade apparatus. Needless to say, I was the one who did the cataclysmic screaming this time.

Somehow, we all managed to get through the showering and second breakfasts. Afterwards, I presented Michael with another issue: where to find the required parking passes that you need to buy if you want to use one of the Forest Service trails. No information was available on the internet, and you can't buy single use passes online. Michael came up with the idea that we should stop by a ranger station to find out how to get one (remember how he loves a pretty ranger?).While we were figuring out how far the detour to the ranger station would be, Green came into the room with a smile on his face. "There's a problem with the toilet," he said. "What kind of problem?" Michael asked. "Well," Green answered, "everything that's supposed to be in the toilet is on the floor."

Oy. An overflow. Too much toilet paper stuffed into the bowl. What a mess.

I have to admit that I was beginning to lose my cool about the day's activities. As I was gathering up spare clothes for the boys (assuming we were to go to the water slide), Michael sat down to tell them about our plan. "Today we're going to do something really fun!" He said. "We're going on a hike where we get to play in the water!" Green said, "I'm not going. I don't like hiking." Michael resumed his pep talk. "It'll be fun!" he chirped. "You can bring your buckets!" "I'm not going," Green said.

At this point, I chucked the whole pile of clothes I was carrying across the living room. "I'm not going either!" I shrieked. I ran back to the bedroom and slammed the door. I heard Blue ask, "Why is Mama throwing things? We're not supposed to throw things in the house."

Soon thereafter, we were on our way to the beach. Who can argue with the beach? The boys can dig, the adults can read, the sun can shine and warm all of our hearts. But guess what? As we were about a mile away from our house, we could see big, dark clouds rolling in. No joke. But there was no turning back. We had finally decided what to do. We packed the bag. We gathered the toys. We were on our way. We were going to ENJOY OURSELVES, DAMMIT!

It didn't rain, but it sure was cloudy. I put on my jacket, and covered myself with a beach towel. "Go dig a hole," I told the boys. They wandered over to the water, half-heartedly tapped the sand with their shovels, and came back. "There's nothing fun here," Green said. "When can we go get ice cream?" I made a face like I was going to start throwing things again, so Michael came up with a new rule: No busy = No ice cream. The boys were required to be busy for one hour, and for the sake of a sugary treat, they obliged.

One hour. I had a book. Michael had a nap. Blue and Green had some busy.

And then we ate.

Aging

When Michael and I were out to dinner the other night, our waiter was this strapping young guy named Andrew. He was "taking time off" from college to, you know, figure stuff out. All that deep reflection was taking place while he hiked and kayaked his way around the Olympic Peninsula. By day, he was a figure-outer, and by night, he earned a little money to buy some great fleece outerwear.

When Andrew was safely out of ear shot, I leaned over to Michael and asked, "Do you remember that time in college when we stayed up all night to watch the sunrise?" Michael looked at me romantically and said, "Of course I do." "Well, guess what?" I said. "Andrew wasn't even born then."

That put a bit of a damper onto Michael's enjoyment of his seafood caesar salad. Getting older can be a beast. One day, you're at a party, talking about all the latest bands and the best clubs, and the next? You're at a potluck, sharing insights about the best kind of sod for your backyard with some guy in too-tight Dockers.

Some of the problems related to getting older are conceptual. You still feel like you should get carded at the grocery store, but then the 16-year-old checker says that you remind him of his mom. One time recently, I was driving our teenage babysitter home, and I asked her about her SAT's. She mumbled something about getting ready for them, and I launched into my own SAT tale, as if my important life experience in 1987 would be relevant to her. As I went on, blah, blah, blah, I could sense her eyes rolling. She was probably thinking to herself, "Did they even have No. 2 pencils back then?"

Of course, the rest of the problems related to getting older are literal. And physical. After a couple of kids, a couple of plates of nachos, and a couple of nights on the couch watching Weeds, suddenly things you expected to be high up are now down low. Ladies, you know what I mean. A doctor recently mentioned that I have a "half-moon shaped navel." Huh? I went home and checked out my stomach. Sure enough, the belly button that was once as perfectly round as...well...a button now looked like a frown. It's not fat, exactly. It's just sinking.

I've belonged to a gym for a while now. I love this gym, because most of its members are schlumpy. People wear their big old sweats, no makeup, and some even bring their oxygen tanks. I learned a few years ago that the payoff for going to the gym is that I get to read a lot of trashy magazines. 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer, and I get to find out if Britney really is a bad mom. Usually, gyms are places where people try to reclaim lost youth, but my gym seems to be filled with people just trying to get through the day. Need a break from your kids? Take them to the child care place, and sit with your head down in the locker room for a few minutes. Need to get away from the humdrum of your assisted living facility? Walk on the treadmill while watching Murder She Wrote reruns on the attached TV.

This summer, I've taken up a new exercise hobby: spinning. I'm strangely addicted to this activity, because it makes me feel like a brute (of course, it also makes me want to go home and eat a tub of ice cream, which sort of defeats the purpose. Oh well). But, see, my gym is a cheap gym. Just $15 a month. So unlike fancy pants-y, expensive gyms, there's no big screen that entertains you with scenery as you ride your stationary bike at high speeds. Instead, you have to use your imagination while the instructor screams out, "Now we're going up Ravenna Boulevard! It's a big hill! Do you feel it?" Once we get to the top of the fake hill, she yells, "Are you effervescing yet? You should be effervescing by now." I think she's talking about sweating, which I usually do very effectively. And I wonder, if I effervesce a lot, will my belly button return to form?

Regardless of what happens to my stomach, my goal is to age gracefully. One of our friends, Shawn, is a master at aging well. His trick seems to be to reinvent himself. Sometimes, he's a professor. Sometimes, he's a famous novelist. Sometimes, he's a screenwriter. What's neat is that he does all this while masquerading at being a normal guy. If you saw him on the street, you might think he's just a regular dad with a gas grill and a van. He might seem to be a tired working fellow who falls asleep at 9:00 pm in front of the golf update on ESPN. But, no, look again. Doesn't he look kind of familiar? Yes! He does! You've seen him somewhere before...Was it on your Wells Fargo banking brochure? Yes! Yes! That's because Shawn, our scholarly famous friend, has chosen yet another career direction, this one designed to make him feel sexy and youthful no matter what the calendar says. He is...A MALE MODEL!!!

Now, I tried to get the actual photos to post here. But it seems like Getty Images is not so keen on parting with its stock footage just to entertain the masses. If you're interested, do a search for "Asian Real Estate" or "Mature Couple." These keywords bring up my favorites, especially the one where he is hauling what seems to be a very heavy carpet on his back. Who says that academics can't be macho, too?

(Shawn, I just checked the official America's Next Top Model website. There's a casting call for season 10 in our very own city on August 14. To be eligible, you have to be under 28 years old. That's how old you're turning this year, right? Lie a little. Tyra will never know. Happy birthday on Saturday, and many more).

Time Away

I love my kids. I really do. But I have to say -- 24 hours without them is heaven on earth. Blue and Green had their very first overnight with my parents this weekend, and Michael and I took off for the sunset (see above).

I was a bit nervous about leaving the kids, because I feared an epic scene at the departure. Green, in particular, has a few issues with independence. Well, to be frank, Green has a few issues in general. For instance, he has a bunch of random, unhelpful rules that he follows (e.g. he won't eat peanut butter on sunny days). And he has taken my inclination for the dramatic to a whole new level. Most of the time I compare him to a teenage girl (without the good parts, like having someone to shop with), because he gets irrationally upset over dumb things. When he can't find a pair of socks that is lighter in color than his brother's, he'll scream something like, "I'll never wear socks again! Never!" And then he'll throw himself down onto the bed and sob. Or if his shovel breaks at the beach, and I give him the spare purple shovel, he'll holler,"MAMA! I can't dig mud pits with anything that's purple! I'll never use purple! And I won't come to the beach with you ANYMORE!" What can I say? It's not easy being Green.

Anyway, in preparation for our getaway, I used an old trick I learned from Bill Clinton. If you don't say what IS is, then it's not a problem. Right? So last week I started saying stuff like, "We're going to Grandy and Grandpa's house this weekend, and guess what? Daddy and I are going hiking on Saturday. And then we'll see you on Sunday morning." I just kind of left out the part where we LEAVE THEM BEHIND. This seemed to work! HA! But really, it was my mom who saved the day. On Saturday morning, she started talking about all the presents she was going to give them once Michael and I left. After an hour or so of this, Blue said to me, "Mama, will you disappear now?" So much for grief about being separated from us.

Michael and I took off for Olympic National Park. Our plan was to go out to a groovy hike along the coast. But there were two problems. First was that it would have taken 4 hours of driving. And second was that those four hours of driving would have prevented us from finishing the hike before the tide came in and washed us out to sea. This was very disappointing to me, and I commenced whining. So we stopped at the ranger station, where Michael sized up trails with his favorite ranger. He loves this ranger, and I don't know why (Is it her tight, brown, polyester government pants? Or that sexy Smoky the Bear hat?). It seems like we talk to her every time we go hiking, and she always sends us to a steep trail that doesn't leave the trees. This time was no exception. It did end up at a little lake, and that was nice, but it wasn't a crystal clear alpine lake with huge snow-capped spires on top of it! I threw myself down on the ground and wailed, "I'm NEVER going to ask for help from that ranger again! NEVER!" (No, I didn't really do this. It's a joke. Ha.).

But then we went to Lake Crescent, where we stayed the night. And there were rowboats! Rowboats! This was terrific, because I love boating, and also because there are lots of ghost stories about this lake. Apparently, there are missing people buried in its depths. AND, if you drown in the lake, your body will supposedly turn into soap! Soap! (Think I'm kidding? Go read "The Lady of the Lake: Tale of the Corpse Turned to Soap Keeps Lake Crescent Bubbling with Intrigue," Seattle Post-Intelligencer, October 30, 1990). Anyway, Michael and I went rowboating (well, he rowed, and I took lots of close-ups of his head), and it was fabulous. We didn't see ghosts or corpses, however.

What's really neat about getting away from the kids is that our sense of time changes. I knew that we had been living on their schedule for years, but it's not until we had distance from it that I realized how little time has been our own. Even when we go out, there's still the tick, tick, tick of the babysitter's watch. And the mornings -- we live them in five and ten minute increments. Here's an example of our typical morning:

6 am: Kids wake up.

6:15: 2 bowls of Cheerios are consumed by each child.

6:20-7:30: Kids bug each other and whine at parents.

7:30: Arthur comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I make sandwiches for lunch box (cheese if sunny, peanut butter if cloudy).

8:00: Curious George comes on PBS. Kids stare vacantly. I shower.

8:30: Kids eat second breakfast. I start screeching, "Put your yogurt cups in the trash! Put your spoons in the sink!"
8:35: Kids start getting dressed. I yell, "Don't put your naked butt on your brother's pillow!"

8:45: I yell at kids to put dirty underpants in the hamper.

8:47: Kids pack lunches in lunch boxes, leaving underpants on the floor.

8:50: I wrestle kids to the ground to get sunscreen on them.

8:53: I scream again about underpants.

8:55: Kids fight over whose lunchbox gets to sit in which position by the door. I scream, "We're going to be late for school!! Go! Go! Go!"

9:00: Drive to school, which starts RIGHT NOW.

9:03: Return to house to get forgotten lunch boxes.

Day after day, these same things happen, and the clock starts to become an oppressive tool. But this weekend -- no clock, no lunch boxes, no hamper. That was the biggest anniversary gift of all.

When we returned to my parents' house, the kids didn't even look up from what they were doing. My mom said there wasn't any crying, screaming, fighting, or dirty butts on pillows. There were also meals made up of brownies, lots of new toys, and constant attention. When we got into the car, Blue and Green waved goodbye cheerfully and were appropriately thankful. But once the car turned the corner, Green started to cry. "What's the matter?" I asked. His crying escalated. "What is it?" I repeated. He wailed, "I'm NEVER going home. NEVER! There's nothing fun there!" Sigh. It was time to watch the clock again. All I can say is that I'm counting the hours until we can drop them off again.

Eleven

Does anyone remember this? It was one of the classier moments of our wedding. I recall that the professional photographer was up too close, trying to capture the romance of the cake-cutting. And I thought to myself, "Why do we need a picture of this? This is not particularly exciting." Then it occurred to me that my mother smushed cake on my dad's face at their reception, so hmmm.....I smeared a little on Michael, just to keep the tradition alive.

What's interesting about this photo is that it came two seconds too late. If it had been couple of beats earlier, you would have been able to see the RAGE in Michael's eyes. And if it had been just one second earlier, you would have seen him crush a huge piece of cake onto my face, and then more of it down into the front of my expensive silk dress.

So here's the thing about wedding dresses from the 1990s. They weren't those light sheath things that women are wearing these days. Dresses in the 1990s were heavy. Plus, the ladies at bridal shops impressed upon vulnerable brides the need for "appropriate foundational garments," so in the end it was like wearing two whole outfits on the big day.

When Michael did his cake trick, he managed to wedge the cake underneath the fancy foundational garment, making it impossible for me to get it out without stripping off the whole ensemble in the hotel bathroom. So I didn't. The rest of the evening, I had to feel the squish, squish of buttercream every time I moved. The first dance? Squish! Throwing the bouquet? Squish! The Big Exit down the stairs to the getaway car? Squish!

Ah, love. I don't think our wedding was the first time that Michael realized that I can be really annoying, and I've certainly taken annoying to new levels since then. Who controls the clicker in our house? Me! That has meant that Michael has watched a lot of Celebrity Fit Club this summer (Come on, Marcia Brady was on it! That's hilarious!). Who won't go see any movies with violence, gore, or death-by-serious-illness storylines? Me! That's a lot of WhenHarryMetSally-esque films for the poor man. Who gets crazy cravings around 11 pm? Me! Our household conversation goes like this:

Me: I want french fries.
Michael: Now?
Me: I can't stop thinking about them.
Michael: (sigh) Do you want me to go get you some?
Me: No. It would be really bad of me to eat french fries this late.
Me: But I'm really hungry.
Michael: I'll go get you some.
Me: No! I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm just sharing my feelings with you.
Me: But I'm afraid I won't be able to sleep.
Michael: I'm going to get some.
Me: Can you find an organic kind?

But really, we've had so many good times, too. There was that week on the Redneck Riviera, when no one else was there. It was like we owned our own little piece of Alabama -- eating out at Bubba's and then drinking gin and tonics on our white sandy beach! Or how about that backroads trip across Spain, where we went looking for ruins (and skulls! So many skulls! We found one building that was made out of 1,245 of them). And then there was the day that we found out about Blue and Green, when we shared that combination of exhilaration and panic (Michael got pulled over leaving the doctor's office, and he showed the ultrasound pictures to the cop! No ticket that day.).

So Michael, we've known each other a long time. I remember when you wanted to be like the guy in the Strawberry Statement, and I remember when you grew your hair long so you could wear a ponytail. Today, even though you like to play fantasy baseball just a little too much, I still think you're the coolest cat around. Happy eleventh anniversary (tomorrow)!