The Unknown

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

I did not know that.

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

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

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

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

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

They nodded.

"Why did you do them?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

America Got it Right This Time, Dawg

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

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

Why, you ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Cue up the sappy American Idol power ballad)

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

No Joke

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

Green has already identified his joke. Here it is:

Question: Why did the penguins cross the street?

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

Oh no!

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

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

"Why not?" he asked.

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

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

Contradictions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have students complete this sentence to show their awareness.

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

(Sample good answer: I like hamburgers!)

Huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birds Gone Wild

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

Yes. Mating. (!)

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

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

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

(gasp!)

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

“Ummm…WHAT????” I wheezed.

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

(the penguin?)

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

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

(AHA! GOT IT! Phew!)

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

Meet the Peckers

Reunions

When we were in California, I was lucky enough to go out to dinner with Pete, a fellow blogger and friend from high school. I hadn’t seen Pete since graduation way back in 19--, and I told him that hanging out with him constituted the only high school reunion I would be going to this year.

It happens to be one of those BIG reunion years for me. It’s not the first one, where everyone has transformed into cool, up-and-coming hipsters. It’s not the next one, where people come to brag about their new houses and cute little families and lucrative careers. The reunion in question is the one after that, where people try hard not to admit that they’ve morphed into the very parents they rebelled against all those decades ago.

I am not going to my reunion for many reasons, one of which is that my high school never threw a fun party. And true to form, there will be an alumni golf game and a luncheon, but no wild reunion bash. I can’t even begin to tell you how disappointing that is to me. If I’m forced to have a long conversation with John Q. Popular about what a sellout he is, I would prefer that there be a keg, some loud music, and dim lighting.

Another big reason why I’m not going to my reunion is that I haven’t been invited. Come to think of it, I haven’t been invited to any of the reunions. It’s kind of like I’ve been washed off the canvas of my adolescence. Apparently I was voted “Most Likely To Be Disowned By This Institution” at the end of my senior year. But honestly, that’s OK. Since I don’t have to spend time buying a new little black dress, I have a few extra minutes to contemplate the very idea of reunions and why they matter (or don’t).

I’ve always been a fan of reunion movies and books. Revenge is a big theme --- you know, where the ugly guy/girl comes back beautiful/rich/famous. And while I’d love to think that some of the under-appreciated members of my high school class are now fabulous and successful, that’s not the thing that truly interests me. I’m fascinated by the choices people make, even the small choices. Who stayed close to home (or who still lives in his parents’ basement?)? Who traveled far? Why did they leave? Who chose an interesting career? Whose career chose them? Did life turn out like they expected?

Over dinner, Pete claimed that I wouldn’t be very impressed by the stories I would hear at the reunion. I’d see lots of people doing regular things in regular ways. “But come on,” I told him. “Remember the group of boys who took a lot of steroids and spread chicken blood around the school our senior year? Aren’t you curious about what happened to them?”(This is true. It made the front page of the newspaper, in part because of the Boys Gone Wild nature of the stunt, and in part because the offenders got caught. Apparently there’s only one place to buy a live chicken in Detroit, and the chicken dealer identified the culprits). Pete figured that those boys probably stopped doing steroids long ago and are now medium-sized guys who work in a bank.

I suppose it would be disappointing to return to my childhood home only to find a beige and predictable group of people who hadn’t been transformed. But the more I think about it, my curiosity about the reunion has less to do with other people’s stories and more to do with my own. Did my life turn out like I expected? What did I expect, anyway?

I remember being at a graduation party when someone turned on Alphaville’s synth-pop ditty, “Forever Young.” A hush fell over the crowd as the singer crooned, “Forever young/I wanna be forever young…” It seemed so deep, that moment, sitting around with people we’d probably never see again, waving goodbye not just to friends but to childhood itself. And now, what strikes me even more than our incredibly bad taste in music is that feeling of being poised, of being ready to create something new. That’s the thing that gets lost in the churn of everyday living.

Last fall, Blue and Green attended a “preschool reunion,” which involved getting together with all the kids they hadn’t seen since, well, 4 months earlier. I will admit to you that I was excited about this event. How had the kids changed? Did little Skipper stop biting? Did Ken learn to wipe his nose? And Barbie, did she start to like math? The potential for transformation was there. But really, all the kids had more-or-less forgotten about each other as they began their new lives as kindergarteners. When the reunion ended, I asked the boys if it had been fun to revisit the long-ago days of preschool. “No,” Blue answered. “We are way beyond that.”

I, too, am way beyond those Alphaville days. But there’s a piece of me that would love to feel those clichés again, even for just a moment.

Six!

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was five, I was just alive.

But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever.
So I think I'll be six now forever and ever.

(By A.A. Milne)

(Happy Birthday, B&G!)

(Holy Crap! They're six!)

Publishing

I know that many of you are trying to get published. I feel so lucky to know so many writers -- writers whose books line my shelves, and writers who are just plugging away after work or during preschool hours or in the middle of the night. The writing part is hard enough, but the publishing part is always a mystery and a problem.

Yesterday I went on my spring pilgrimage to the book sale. Remember that I wrote about this sale in the fall --- the enormous crowds, the battles between literature lovers and online sellers, the nutty zeal. This time I paid attention to the sheer volume of books on the tables, and that made me hopeful! Come on, if these guys can get their work out there, SO CAN YOU!











And finally, my personal favorite:

Photos

I know, I know. I promised to update from the road, and I didn't. And I don't have anything but pictures to share with you today. But never fear -- the kids are back in school, and I'm getting back in my groove. I'll post something about penguins or holidays later in the week.

Cold Water + Kindergarteners = Crazy Fun

Theme Parks + Kindergarteners = Crazier Fun

Family + Kindergarteners = Craziest Fun

Spring Fever.

I've been rather overwhelmed this week. Somehow, everything is happening all at once, and I'm not dealing with it very well. First, there was Michael's birthday. I barely remember what we did -- except that it involved me getting the boys OUT OF THE HOUSE so that Michael could lie around on the couch in peace. I've noticed that our respective birthday aspirations have grown much less ambitious over the years. It used to be that we would plan ADVENTURES and PARTIES and give BIG GIFTS. Now we say, "Honey, can you take the kids away so that I can have a nap? That's all I need today."

Second, there was the end of the teaching quarter and its accompanying stack of student papers. Unfortunately, while forcing myself to read at a steady pace without drifting off into a numb and bored sleep, I had a violent encounter with a box of thin mint girl scout cookies (Guess who won?).

Third, T-ball season started. You'll be glad to know that Blue and Green are now proud members of a team called the "Peckers." No, I'm kidding. Their team really is called the "Penguins," though. Green's winning suggestion for a team name beat out the "Fire Breathing Dragons" and the "Snakes."

Fourth, there's Easter, which is strangely situated in mid-March this year. It was challenging to squeeze the egg-dying in, because we're still busy getting over the leprechauns and the pots of gold from St. Patrick's Day. The boys each made three "leprechaun traps" at school last week, and we're waiting patiently for some evidence of the mischievous little green guys. I didn't tell the kids, but I think a trap dismembered one of the Easter Bunny's back feet. There was a bloody pile of toes and fur by the front door this morning.

It's been exhausting. Good thing we're going on a trip! Yes, this week Michael, the boys, and I (along with the stuffed peckers) are taking off for California, where we plan to swim in frigid water and pretend like we're real penguins in Antarctica. I will try to update from the road.

Today I will leave you with the winner of the Winter Quarter 2008 Absurd Sentence Written by an Undergraduate Award:

"One plus one may always be two, but there is more than one way to come up with that answer."

Huh.

I don't even know what to say about that one.

The March of the Penguins

It has been a busy week. Who knew that the kindergarten preparation for St. Patrick's Day would be so intense? Last Friday, I had to measure each child's head for an Irish "derby hat" made out of newspaper. My instructions were to cover the children's heads and faces with newspaper and then wrap their heads tightly with masking tape. Does this count as torture?

The kids also decorated potatoes in fancy clothing and brought them home as "pets." Apparently they also measured them and weighed them as part of a math activity. We are now the proud owners of one potato in a yellow scarf whose name is "Toilet." Fabulous.

Speaking of pets, we've managed to avoid taking home any of the real animals that have infiltrated the kindergarten curriculum these past few weeks. There were the goldfish and the snails and the worms. Much of the discussion surrounding these animals concerned poop (Does a worm poop out of both ends? What does snail poop look like? When a fish poops in the water, does the poop sink or float?). Yesterday, when they were drawing and writing "D" words, one kid proudly announced that his "D" word was going to be "dung." And he went on to produce a very life-like representation.

The other animal unit that the boys studied was "Penguins! Penguins! Everywhere!" (FYI, penguin poop is called "guano."). For some reason, Blue and Green have become obsessed with the waddly little creatures. Penguin artwork covers our walls. Penguin books cover our bookshelves. The other day, I noticed Green peering down the front of his pants. "What are you doing?" I asked him. "I'm looking for my brood pouch," he answered. When I tried to clarify the difference between boys and birds, he told me, "I would rather be a bird."

The biggest result of this fixation on penguins is that both kids have attached rather deeply to a couple of mangy stuffed penguins. I think it's part of some sort of separation thing. The consequence of this attachment is that I have been abruptly demoted from "Very Important Person" to "The Lady Who Makes My Sandwiches and Washes My Clothes." It used to be that when I picked the boys up from school, I would say to each one, "Oh, sweetie, I missed you so much today!" And they would respond, "We missed you, too, Mama!" Last week, I said to Blue, "Oh, sweetie, I missed you so much today!" And he said, "Do you know who I missed?" and ran over to hug his annoying little toy.

It takes a little bit of effort for me not to mention to them the THREE MONTHS I spent on bedrest while pregnant, or the THREE MONTHS I spent listening to them scream through colic, or all the ear infections and croup and toilet training and general handwringing. But it's good that they're becoming more independent, right? It's so wrong of me to have homicidal feelings toward some greying and matted toys that Michael bought for $2.99 in the grocery store floral section.

Of course, there's one little detail that I've left out of this story. They each refer to their penguins as their "peckers." The first time I heard them use this term, I was eating a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. "Mama!" Blue shouted from the other room. "Have you seen my pecker?"

My head snapped back in surprise. "Uh...what?" I asked.

"I can't find my pecker! Where is that tiny little pecker?"

"Ummmm...." I stammered.

"Oh, pecker, where are you?" Blue continued.

I waited, not sure how to handle this issue.

Blue screeched in delight. "Mama, I found it!" he said. "I found my soft pecker! Would you like to come give my pecker a kiss?"

They may be done with me. I'm old news. But I do think that they have a bit more to learn about the world before they leave for good. "How about if we give your penguin a new name?" I asked Blue the other day. He shook his head and said, "It's my pecker, and I can do what I want with it."

Enough said. I think I'll let their father deal with this one.

Email Excuses

Dear Professor:

I apologize that I could not come to class but
I had a migraine
Lymphnoids en-flamed
My flight was delayed
I had the flu
The longest cold on record
I thought I had mono because I could barely get out of bed
My grandmother’s dead
Again
This weekend was nothing short of a disaster
My sister, she’s very ill
My uncle’s not well
This was not in my plan
Please understand
I’ve had ovarian problems, staph infection, strep throat
Do you want a doctor’s note?
I have been up for 36 hours straight
The reason I’m late is that I just found out I’m pregnant!
I know you don’t want to hear my sob story

The More Things Change

The other night, in the midst of a deep sleep, I heard a whisper from above. “Mama,” the voice said. “Mama, wake up!” I opened one eye, and there was Blue, peering down at me with an intense gaze. “Mama, I can’t sleep,” he said.

“Huh,” I muttered.

“MAMA,” he said more firmly, with a hint of impending whine. “Did you hear me? I can’t sleep!”

Because I was so tired, I let him into our bed. That is always a mistake. Two seconds later, he was breathing heavily, his enormous head taking up the better part of my pillow. And I was the one who could no longer sleep.

I gathered some blankets and headed to the couch, already feeling the mounting anxiety about being tired and grumpy the next day. Once my brain engages, it’s hard to turn it off. And my thoughts often turn to all the things I haven’t done, and all the potential horrible events that could possibly happen, and how I wish that I had said X instead of Y to that guy in history class back in high school.

I tried to steady myself, to focus on something neutral. I decided to think about record albums. You see, my dad brought me a big bag of my old records that had been taking up space in his basement for the past 20 years. Strangely, the bag did not include any of the good ones I purchased back in the day; instead, it contained ones like this:




This Shaun Cassidy album is the first album I ever sought out myself. I wanted a Shaun Cassidy album because everyone else had one. In particular, Maureen O’Reilly, who was just a tad cooler than I was, told me that I had to get one. She had a poster of him that came with her Dynamite magazine, and she put it on her wall just high enough that she could tip her head back and kiss the image of his lips.

So I was pretty pleased with myself for acquiring this album, because it meant that I was entering the outer reaches of cool. But, to my dismay, this did not turn out to be the album that featured his hit cover of Da Do Ron Ron. It wasn’t cool after all, and neither was I.

When my dad brought in the bag of albums, Blue and Green asked, “What are those?” They had never seen a record and had no idea what the purpose of such a thing would be, especially since we don’t own a record player. To them, a record is just a black frisbee in a funny case.

This got me thinking about all the antique objects that linger on in my memory and in my language. I say “printer ribbon” instead of “cartridge.” I talk about leaving a message “on your machine” instead of on voicemail. I say “turn the channel” as if there’s still a knob on the TV that you have to twist.

Michael, too, has his retro moments. Right now, he has a message on his cellphone that cracks me up every time I hear it. He says, “I wasn’t able to make it to the phone, so please leave a message after the beep.” What, were you so busy playing Strat-O-Matic on the orange shag carpet that you couldn’t sprint to the kitchen to answer the wall-mounted phone? No, dude, you just have to reach down into your jeans pocket, so why is it so hard to “make it to the phone?”

The other day Polaroid announced that it was no longer going to manufacture its signature film. In a world where everything is already instant, who still needs to wait three minutes for their Polaroid picture to emerge from the photographic darkness? Apparently there was a mad rush on Polaroid film when this announcement was made. Lots of kooky folks were clamoring to extend the life of their now useless toy.

You all know that my garage is full to the brim with similar dinosaurs. There are car seats from 6 years ago --- obsolete! There’s my typewriter from college – obsolete! There’s a Sharp Wizard from the 1990s – obsolete! And there’s this:



This was the “stereo” that I brought with me to my freshman year of college. It was very cutting edge – a dual cassette player that could easily whip out mix tapes to suit my adolescent moods. My roommate and I agreed that we would share things – I could use her tiny refrigerator, and she could use my stereo. Of course, what that meant was that I had to hear her Erasure tape played on a continuous loop for an entire year. Over and over and over.

But you know, my freshman experience would have been so different if she and I had been plugged separately into our respective iPods. I would have experienced my academics differently if I could have emailed my professors my papers instead saving my drafts on enormous old floppy disks, taking the disks to the computer lab to print, and then running at breakneck speed to the departmental office by 5 pm to get them in on time. There were things – like going to the travel agent to buy plane tickets or waiting desperately by the dorm mailboxes for REAL LETTERS from faraway friends – that gave texture and shape to my life.

It’s so easy, now that I have kids, to talk about “the olden days.” You know, how I had to walk to school barefoot in the snow without any music to listen to because my Walkman was broken. The boys have already learned how to roll their eyes at those stories. Blue asked me the other day to tell him the year I was born. Then he said that if I were a ferry boat, I would be out of service. That’s me, out in the garage with the typewriter and the Polaroid camera. Obsolete!

On Spaghetti

Many of you know that I do not like chain letters. In fact, I have often responded to mass-email writers imploring them to remove me from any distribution list that includes the message, "If you do not send this email on to 100 of your friends, evil things will befall you and everyone you love." You know, seriously, I feel like I have had my fair share of badness these past few years, and I don't want even a hint of that kind of energy around me.

But, come to think of it, I don't really like the happy chains either. Recently, a mommy at the boys' school asked me if I wanted to participate in her Amish Friendship Bread chain, which, apparently, involves creating a bread mix and passing it on and on and on to make a friendship "circle." Call me Scrooge, but I didn't want the pressure. I asked her if refusing her Friendship Bread would mean that I couldn't be her friend. She just shrugged.

So I winced when Krystal, my niece, mentioned me on her blog this morning. Apparently she has "tagged" me to participate in some sort of blogging recipe chain thing. My first response was, "Oh no, my blog fans will NOT like this. I only write about serious matters, like politics and...holidays."

But then I got to thinking about how Krystal is pregnant, and pregnancy brings with it a whole host of indignities. There's the back pain and the hip pain. There's the sudden, maddening hunger that seems to come around only when you're impossibly stuck in traffic. There's also the urgent need to pee, again somewhat correlated with being stuck in traffic. And, of course, there are the tears. One minute you're sitting calmly on the couch eating a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's, and the next minute you find yourself crying uncontrollably at a commercial for laundry detergent.

So I said to myself, "How hard would it be to participate in this recipe chain? It would bring Krystal joy, and joy is good." And there's also the sheer humor of the fact that she tagged ME to distribute recipes. Ummm.....Step 1: Buy a Trader Joe's frozen pizza. Step 2: Take it out of the packaging. Step 3: Heat in oven.

It's really no secret that I am not domestically inclined. How many of you have had dinner at our house and have thought to yourselves, "This meal tastes remarkably like takeout from the deli section at Whole Foods." Ahem. Well. What can I say? I may not be very adept at cooking, but I am GREAT at making selections at the grocery store. Bon appetit.

Because I am such a giving person, I am going to enter the chain JUST THIS ONCE. Per the instructions, I will leave you with two different recipes for one thing I CAN make myself: spaghetti. Only the best for you guys.

Recipe #1: Fancy Grownup Spaghetti

OK, what you're going to like about this one is that it's a MARTHA STEWART recipe. You might be wondering what in the world I, of all people, am doing anywhere near a Martha Stewart idea. I actually discovered this recipe while reading Martha's magazine on the elliptical machine at the gym one day when all the copies of People and US were taken. I have modified it slightly to make it more suitable for the average person (e.g. you do not need to make your own noodles or grow the olives yourself).

You'll need:

1 and 1/2 tablespoons olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1/2 cup black olives (Gaeta or nicoise), sliced into small pieces
1/2 cup Italian-style green olives, sliced into small pieces
3 tablespoons capers
1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
1 can (28 oz) diced tomatoes
1 sprig fresh basil
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano
spaghetti
freshly grated Parmesan cheese

1) cook your noodles

2) Heat oil and garlic in a large saucepan about 30 seconds

3) Add olives, capers, red pepper flakes, and tomatoes. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 15 minutes. Add basil and oregano. Cook for 10 more minutes

4) Toss spaghetti with sauce. Add cheese on top.

Recipe #2: Spaghetti that you can call PASTA

The key to this spaghetti recipe is that you NEVER use spaghetti. What makes it different than the spaghetti that we eat the other 6 days of the week is that it takes CAVATAPPI noodles. This adds an air of sophistication to the meal that is unmistakable.

You'll need:

fresh spinach
1 package cavatappi pasta
olive oil
1 can cannellini beans, rinsed
2 garlic cloves
lots of shredded Asiago cheese

1) Cook your noodles

2) Heat oil and garlic. Add spinach. Wait until the spinach gets all droopy. Add the beans and heat them up.

3) Combine everything with the noodles. Dump lots of Asiago cheese on top.

4) If you separate some of the noodles out, you can give your kids just the noodles with the cheese on top. That way, there won't be a hint of "healthy" anywhere near it. And it can be differentiated from the macaroni and cheese they ate at lunch, because it's CAVATAPPI. Remember?

Now, I am going to assume that there are at least 3 of you out there reading this thing. And if I get the gist of what Krystal is saying, I'm supposed to persuade you to somehow add a couple of recipes to the chain. So, if you want to, post a recipe or two in the comments section. And if you don't want to, well, that's OK, too (but you might find yourself with a big lump of Amish Friendship Bread on your front porch tomorrow. Consider yourself warned).

Caucus Video Issues

I know that those of you with PCs are not able to see the whole video (about 9 seconds gets cut off at the end for unknown reasons). I have spent most of my day trying to figure out why this is happening, but I still don't know how to fix the problem. If you can't tell which candidate I chose in the end, you have a few choices:

1) Go buy a Mac.

2) Drag the video cursor beyond the point at which the video stops. You will then be able to see the last 2 frames of the video.

3) Email me, and I'll just tell you what happened.

The Caucus

Doing My Part

Alright, Democrats. You didn’t make things easy for me with your votes on Super Tuesday. I was looking to you to make a clear choice in your states’ Democratic primaries so that some of the pressure would be off of me on Mediocre Saturday, when I will be participating in the Washington State caucus.

Usually, by this stage in the political game, there is already a front-runner, and my vote is nothing but symbolic. But this year, I feel like I really have a say. The only problem is that I don’t know what that say will be.

I am undecided. Really undecided. This is a new feeling for me. Part of the issue is that the two candidates on the buffet menu are both moderate Democrats who, more or less, propose similar ideas. But I also think that I’m struggling with something bigger, some larger question about what matters to me.

It occurred to me that, for the first time, I am no longer a “younger voter.” And I guess the issue is whether I am still able to feel like a younger voter and whether I want to. In the past, if a candidate said that he was going to have us all stand together on the top of a mountain and hold hands and find common ground across division, I would have followed him up the hill like he was the pied piper. But now, I hear the calls for UNITY! And CHANGE! and HOPE! and I think to myself, change doesn’t happen just by wishing it so.

Or does it?

Obama gives me the opportunity, if I’m willing to take it, to reconnect with a type of idealism that has been slippery and elusive. He is not the first to promise a new set of civic relationships, a new way of solving problems, a new world order of sorts that has capital J Justice at its core. He is not the first, but he delivers his message in a way that sounds so authentic, so real, so almost-there possible. I miss that feeling, and I am hungry for it. But I am also wary, because I know that we, as a country, have a crappy track record of translating good vibes into meaningful action.

It would feel right to jump on the sails of Obama idealism, but Hillary Clinton represents a different kind of idealism for me. I’ll be honest. It’s exciting to me that we could possibly have a left-leaning, competent, persuasive female president, even if we have to spend the next four years analyzing whether she’s too female or not female enough (Too many tears? Too few? Too much cleavage? Matronly pantsuits?). I read an essay by Rebecca Traister on Salon.com that has come the closest to expressing my feelings about the gender component of this election. She writes,

"…I think of how, when I was 9, my dad took me into the voting booth so that I could pull the lever for the first female vice president, and how he told me that he hoped that in my lifetime I would have the opportunity to vote for a woman at the top of the ticket. And I think about the fact that this is it -- my chance to pull that lever for her, so that I can do it again come November.

Who am I to turn up my nose at her because she's imperfect? I always figured the first female president would be a Thatcher-style Republican -- how can I complain about a Wellesley-educated Democrat who once resembled the second-wave women who fought for my ability to control my own reproduction and get paid as much as my male colleagues?

How could I ever tell those women that I voted for Barack Obama? What do I tell my aunt, my mother -- women who aren't crazy about Hillary's politics either, but whose extra decades on the planet have left them more acutely aware than I about the fleeting opportunity she presents. What if I have a daughter someday and she asks me about why we've never had a woman president? Do I tell her that we once came close, but that Mommy was really digging Obama that day?"

And so I struggle, but I sure am glad to feel the power of choosing again, to feel that a struggle is worth it. I have a sense that I will walk into the caucus site this Saturday still unclear about what I will do. Perhaps I will be one of those people who shifts position in the middle of the caucus! Wouldn’t that be fun?

Stay tuned. I’ll be doing a little filming this weekend as we make our way from the boys’ school pancake breakfast to the polling place. Live coverage of my indecision – it doesn’t get any better than that.

Celebrity Blog, Part II

Here's the second volume of my answers to your most probing questions. Never fear, next week will be business as usual. I'm sure you're weak with anticipation to hear about the boys' unit on water snails or a synopsis of the class preparation for Groundhog Day.

Now that you teach, I imagine your perception of university life is a bit different than when we were the "customers." Do you think the students are different, or might it be just us? What do you think of students who don't bother to attend your class each time?

Oh, don’t get me started. But you know, I didn’t feel like a customer when I was in college. I felt “lucky to be there,” or at least that’s what I was told over and over again. What was the magic bullet that let me in the door to my alma mater, and not the 7 other kids from my high school who applied and were rejected? (It must have been that poem about nuclear war that I sent in along with my application. Ha.).

But I definitely feel like my students are customers, and I am the server. Or, as I told a friend the other day, I am a waitress of ideas. Low wages, bad tips. I’ve said it before, but I feel a tremendous pressure to keep those customers HAPPY.

That said, many of my students are incredibly active, and my class is just a tiny spot in their lives. A student might be an Assistant Manager at Blockbuster AND President of the Student Senate AND Co-chair of the Save the Elephants Auction AND an intern at Microsoft. When I was in college, I just read books (oh, and I also drove a recycling truck. But that’s a different story).

The thing about the kids who don’t come to class is that I get 30 emails afterwards asking me what they missed. And I say, “You missed class.”

I do wonder how you select your reading list for your books, and how do you find time to read on top of everything else?

Do you mean the books I assign in my classes? I tend to pick books that have a good, narrative style, because I’ve found that many students, especially younger students, tend to connect emotionally with a topic before they connect intellectually. (Plus, good stories make them HAPPY).

But if you mean the books I read on my own, I tend to choose those by browsing around. I read Nancy Pearl’s suggestions. I check out new releases on amazon.com. I’m on goodreads.com, and I poke around there. I read the New York Times Book Review. And I like to go to bookstores, too. And as for the time thing, I’ve always been a big reader. It’s like breathing to me. The TV writers’ strike helps, too.

We want to know what is the favorite ethnic food at your house and do B&G ever eat it too?

We definitely have pan-Asian palates. Japanese, Chinese, Thai…And yes, the boys eat it, too, in large volumes. After all, noodles are beige.

Do you want to live overseas? Even if only for a six month stretch? How old would Blue and Green need to be before you would take them out of the country for that long?

It would be fun, but I think I’d rather do something like that when the kids are older and better able to entertain themselves. Right now our lives are consumed by trying to keep the boys busy and fed and exercised. That seems so much harder if you’re sitting in some cobble-stoned little village where you don’t speak the language and you’re under tremendous pressure to drink a big bottle of wine during the afternoon siesta and again in the evening. But you should ask ECM and Shawn, two of this blog’s loyal readers. They’re currently hanging out in Rome for three months with their five year old and are having a great time. I’ve heard that the kid keeps busy by licking the peeling lead paint off the walls.

When you drive/fly/ship Blue and Green off to their respective colleges of choice, how will you know how you did as a parent?

I don’t think that moment will be the point of measurement. I’ll judge success ten years later by seeing whether one is able to buy me a big house with a view of the water. That’s all I care about. I’ll leave it to their professors to make sure that they’re HAPPY.

If you find out that you're going to die tomorrow and you can choose whatever you want for your last meal, what would you choose and why?

Well, I think I’d have to combine elements of my some of my favorite meals into one big multicultural feast. (Warning: This probably won't mean anything to you unless you live in my city). I’d start with some calamari from Toyoda Sushi. And then I’d have a margarita and a green enchilada plate from Santa Fe Cafe. And some fried spring rolls from Araya's Vegetarian Thai. And I’d end with a cup of Gold Medal Ribbon ice cream from Baskin Robbins. Why? Well, why not? If I’m sick the next day, who cares?

How do you tell Blue and Green apart from a distance? Do you regard dressing them in different colors as a kindness to others, and if so, should we thank you when you do this?

From a distance? Hmmm. Green is a little thicker. Blue has two cowlicks in the back of his head, giving him rather noticeable sprouts of hair. Green’s head is round like a basketball, while Blue’s is a bit more oval. Blue is usually the one who is jabbering.

Their teacher has thanked us for color coding them, so we keep doing it. But you know what’s funny? There have been at least three occasions when strangers have approached me and started a conversation that goes like this:

Weirdo: Are they twins?
Me: Yes.
Weirdo: You might want to get that checked to be sure. They don’t really look alike.

When did the Scotch thing start?

You’re referring to my enjoyment of single malt scotch. I think I first tried it in my twenties, when Michael and I went to a scotch bar (long since closed). Scotch is fun, because it’s half snooty refinement/half tough-guy cool. And it makes me happy without causing me to slide under the table.

Of course, my love of scotch can get me into trouble. When the kids were just two years old, we had a little backyard party. The boys came outside with sippy cups filled with apple juice. They proudly told the crowd, “Look at our scotch!”

No, really, I don’t drink it that often. And the kids only get some after they finish their chores.

Who’s going to be the first sponsor of your blog?

What, you think I’m going to sell out?

Uh, anyone want to sponsor this blog?

Celebrity Blog, Part I

Thanks to you all for your questions. It was so nice to sit down today and not have to puzzle over what to write. If I didn’t choose your question today, never fear. We’ll be doing this again next week! Aren’t you excited? Good – because I need you to send in more questions. Keep 'em coming.

Who is your favorite dwarf and why?

OK, I ‘m assuming that you’re talking about the famous 7 dwarves here. I confess to not really remembering them all, so I went ahead and looked on Wikipedia for a refresher. The seven dwarves are: Doc, Grumpy, Sneezy, Bashful, Sleepy, Dopey, and Happy. I guess that the only way to pick a favorite is to try to identify with the names. Doc? The boys call me “not really a doctor,” so I guess I’ll scratch that one off the list. Sneezy? Not usually, so I won’t choose him, either. Bashful? Ummm, not exactly. Dopey? I hope not. Happy? Well, down deep, yes, but do I walk around grinning all day long? No. Hmmm. Grumpy and Sleepy – those are two that I can identify with. I think I’ll go with Sleepy as my favorite dwarf.

But here’s an interesting twist! There were lots of dwarves that didn’t make the cut. Here are the others: Blabby, Jumpy, Shifty, Snoopy, Scrappy, Cranky, Dirty, Awful, Silly, Daffy, Flabby, Jaunty, Biggo Ego, Chesty, Bald, Gabby, Nifty, Sniffy, Burpy, Lazy, Puffy, Dizzy, Stuffy, Sleazy, Tipsy, Titsy, and Tubby. This list is much more interesting. If I am going to pick a favorite from this list, I’ll have to do some categorizing before I make a choice.

I am never: Chesty, Bald, Dizzy, Awful, Shifty, Stuffy, Tubby, or Titsy

I am sometimes: Blabby, Jumpy, Snoopy, Scrappy, Cranky, Dirty, Daffy, Flabby, Jaunty, Sniffy, Burpy, Lazy, Puffy, Sleazy, and Tipsy

I am always: Silly, Biggo Ego, Nifty, and Gabby

Of those five, I think I’ll have to choose Biggo Ego, because it is truly the best name I’ve ever heard.

If you could do anything – and I believe you can – what would it be?

I immediately approached this question as a career question, though I’m not sure that’s what you intended. If I could do anything, I would be the next Sarah Vowell. She’s got it made! She sits around and writes clever essays, gets paid to read them on the radio, and occasionally gets to do cartoon voices for hit movies.

In my dream last night, you had given me instructions for a performance that we were giving together; we were supposed to introduce writers to an audience. I was ready for this, until you announced that this was just a rehearsal, which had to do with everyone eating a lot of cake at your house. Also, a set of twin girls about the age of Green and Blue were there, and my husband moved in with your family. Overall, I felt panic. Can you interpret this for me?

Well, of course you are panicked. I spent the whole day bossing you around, and then I went and stole your husband. I hope I at least gave you some of the cake.

What happens when you combine bottomless, strong margaritas, chips, salsa, and guacamole?

Well, first of all I turn into two of those rejected dwarves – Tipsy and Tubby.

Then I start to spill my secrets…

Have you ever been abducted by aliens?

Yes, almost six years ago. Their names are Blue and Green.

Do you wear underwear?

Often.

If you could go back and “do it all again,” would you?

I don’t think so. There are certainly things that would be fun to relive, but I assume that “doing it all again” would involve the bad as well as the good. Plus, ultimately I would want to end up in the same place (but with a bigger house and tighter abs).

If you could go back in time and impart one piece of knowledge to your high school/college self, what would it be?

I’d tell my young self to take a risk. I was always timid in my choices.

Oh yeah, I’d also tell myself to throw away those stirrup pants. What a mistake!

Can you tell me why I am thinking up questions when I should be sleeping?

Because this is so much fun!

Do you budget your family expenses and why?

Not so much. I do a little mental budgeting, though – like, “If I give up Diet Coke for a month, I will be able to buy X.” But then I don’t usually give up the Diet Coke.

How has becoming a mother changed you?

Well, it made me lose YEARS of sleep. I will be at a deficit for the rest of my life.

I also never expected to become REALLY GOOD at sucking boogers out of a baby’s tiny nose with a bulb syringe. It really is an underappreciated skill.

And there’s a whole cavity in my brain that is filled with horrible songs. Do any of you remember the Wiggles? The boys have totally forgotten the show and the characters, but I will be humming “Toot, toot, chugga, chugga, Big Red Car!” throughout eternity.

I have also learned to really value privacy, because I no longer have any. Yesterday I was in the shower, when I suddenly heard the bang and slam of people entering the bathroom. The boys began a deep and animated conversation about ferry boats just inches from the shower curtain. “Hello!?,” I shouted. “Why is there a party in here?” They were still in the room when I got out of the shower, and despite my efforts to conceal myself, Green said, “Mama, you have bumps like a camel.” Fabulous.

But, seriously, I guess I would say that becoming a mother has amplified everything. I find the world so much funnier with the boys in it. I laugh louder, and I scream louder. My capacity for happiness is enormous, as is the potential for grief.

You are so amazing and talented. How do you manage to do it?

Thank you. Thank you. I’d like to thank my manager, my publicist, my personal trainer, and YOU, the fans! Where would I be without my fans?

Blog Fatigue

I have to admit to having a bit of blogger's block these days. We've been at this blogging thing for six months, you and I, and I'm finding it a bit difficult to come up with new and exciting things to babble about.

This week I considered writing about the Martin Luther King, Jr. celebration at the boys' school. I happened to be volunteering last week when the kids abruptly abandoned their lesson about goldfish (They're gold! And they swim!) to practice their Martin Luther King song and dance. Yes, you read that correctly -- a song and dance. It starts off like this: Martin Luther King/You make my spirit sing/You mean so much to me/'Cause you taught us how to be free. Combine that with a little foot stomping, hand waving, and wiggling, and you're ready for the Martin Luther King assembly (pageant?) on Thursday. I was also there when the teacher tried to generate a discussion about "brotherhood," but that quickly dissolved when the five year olds started raising their hands to say things like, "I have a brother!" and "I have a sister!" and "My brother is mean!" At that point, the kids were quickly dismissed to go work on their tooth fairy pillows (in preparation for February, which is Tooth Month).

But, you know, I feel like I've already made the case that this school is capable of making any serious holiday hilarious. I think I need to do something different for a few weeks. I'll come out and admit that I've read more than a few celebrity blogs. On these sites, fans write questions to the celebrity, and he/she answers. I think that's what we should do! After all, I can be a pretty big diva. But, of course, this plan only works if you ASK ME QUESTIONS. They can be funny or serious. You can pose them in the comments section, or you can send me an email. But you have to do it, and if you don't, my feelings will be hurt. And if my feelings get hurt, I'll have to post a video with me crying. Let me tell you, that's not a pretty sight.

To get us started, certain young people agreed to be the first question askers. Here is what their inquiring minds wanted to know:

Do you eat lunch while you're teaching?

Sadly, yes I do. One of my classes runs from 10 am until 1 pm, right through the lunch hour. And if I get hungry, as some of you know, I am not a nice person. And if I am not a nice person in class, I will not get good teaching evaluations. And if I don't get good teaching evaluations, I will not be rehired.

My lunch looks like a kindergartener's lunch: peanut butter sandwiches, applesauce, Chips Ahoy cookies. This is because there is no grownup food in our house.

Do you have play time at your school?

Uh, no. I have some bad news for you, Sparky. After kindergarten, you'll find a substantial reduction in fun.

What do you do while you're teaching?

Fly by the seat of my pants. And show movies. There's nothing like showing a movie to kill an hour of class time.

What is your favorite grocery store?

This is a tricky question. We have many, many grocery stores near us, and they all serve different purposes. The closest one is our local organic coop, where we can go and spend a lot of money but feel happy about ourselves and our choices. This is the place we go for produce, dairy, and general good karma. But if we want Chips Ahoy cookies, we need to go somewhere else. We tend to go to the place that has the free child care, because in addition to buying Chips Ahoy, you can take a little time to get a coffee and read a magazine. Now, if the coop were to offer free child care, I would move in there! Good karma and babysitting at the same time!? Can you imagine?

What do you like to eat for breakfast?

Little kids.


OK, there you have it. Now it's your turn. Send me a question. I'm waiting.....

Politics

So we were all sitting on the couch a few mornings ago flipping between the three national morning shows. I was marveling at whatever process it is that allows three anchors on three different channels to interview the same presidential candidate at the same time. At one point, the big, grinning image of John McCain popped up on the screen. Blue started cackling wildly, holding his belly because he was laughing so hard. “What is it?” we kept asking him, but it took him a while to regain his composure. “That looks like Grandpa,” he finally answered. Then, as we were contemplating this idea, Green said, “Look! That one looks like Daddy!”

It was Mitt Romney.

I just about peed in my pants.

Michael and I are progressive people. We live in a progressive town. We wear fleece a lot and enjoy a good spotted owl. But, as fate would have it, we have a son who is not so progressive. Do you remember the 1980s show, Family Ties? It was the one with the hippie parents and the Ronald Reagan-loving son. I have a feeling that’s going to be us in a couple of years.

Green is conservative. He loves his routine and his rules (one does not put one’s underpants in the hamper until AFTER the Curious George show ends). He eats the same food for lunch every single afternoon. One day a while back we asked him whether he would like to try something different, something new, just to spice things up. “Mama,” Green said, “I do not like different.”

Well there you have it.

But you see, Michael and I DO like different. And no matter how many times we screech Change! Change! Change! like a couple of overcaffeinated Democratic presidential hopefuls, Green is not interested. He likes tradition, consistency, and the status quo. I'm pretty sure that he is going to grow up to be the kind of guy whose idea of a good afternoon involves a can of beer, a recliner, and a Packers game.

I bring this up, because we came to an interesting realization the other day. We’ve made it through babyhood. We’ve made it through toddlerhood. We’ve made it to the point in our family life where we might actually be able to DO STUFF again. Except there’s the teeny problem of Green, who has no interest in broadening his horizons.

Last year we took a little weekend trip to Portland. We stayed at a hotel out by the airport, because we wanted an affordable suite. It turns out that this hotel was a conservative 5 year old boy’s nirvana. It had a view of the runway (planes taking off and landing! Woo!), lots of elevators (and buttons to push), a swimming pool, and a free buffet. Green was quick to mention that he saw no need to go out into the city and actually do anything, when there was SO MUCH FUN to be had at the hotel. And when we did leave at the end of the weekend, there was considerable sobbing and screaming. Michael and I needed to promise that we would someday return to that hotel and stay in the exact same room.

Green and I recently had a meaningful conversation about traveling. Here's a piece of it:

See what I mean? It looks like we're not going anywhere exciting any time soon. But if you have an Embassy Suites in your city, let us know. You can join us for the free breakfast.

New Year's Eve (the Parental Version)

Back in the day, New Year’s Eve was a marker of one’s essential coolness. When asked, “What did you do for New Year’s,” you wanted your answer to stand out: “We went to Club Whatever until midnight and then sat on the beach until sunrise” or “I went to this fabulous party with the most creative, interesting people, and we made sculpture out of broken clocks by the light of the moon.” It was understood that New Year’s Eve wasn’t an ordinary night; rather, it was one that had to generate a STORY.

Well, then we had kids and lost any semblance of essential coolness. I know, I know, some of you have kids and are still cool, but we aren’t. Somewhere along the line, we decided to let our young, cool selves go into hibernation. We figure that one of these days, we’ll wake up and be revitalized, older cool people, and that will be OK. Until then, however, we’re just tired.

But New Year’s Eve is still noteworthy no matter how boring your life is, so we had the idea that we could celebrate the east coast New Year’s Eve – that way we could be wild and crazy until 9 pm and then go to bed like usual. To that end, we invited some other parents-of-a-kindergartener over to join in our nutty early evening festivities.

You may not know it, but Michael can make a mean margarita. A REALLY mean margarita, the kind that makes me pretty stupid after just a couple of sips. So it was 5:00, and the grownups were sitting around the kitchen table with a huge pitcher of lemon-lime goodness. After just a few minutes, we were giggling like kids about old prom stories (what color was YOUR tuxedo?) and bad hair and questionable fashion choices. Every once in a while, a kid would come in and ask something like, “Mama, can you take the top off of this toy?” And I would say something like, “Umm, you’ll have to wait a minute until I can reconnect my brain with my hands.”

But here’s where that essential coolness problem comes in. It’s was now 5:45, and we were all feeling kind of bad. We looked around at our disheveled selves and thought, “We could just go to sleep right now.” But, no. There were 3 hours and 15 minutes left until “New Year’s.” Wouldn’t it have been embarrassing to go to bed BEFORE the east coasters did their countdown? Wouldn’t it have been pathetic to go to bed when it was technically still daytime?

Never fear. We made it until 9. Oh yes we did. And I am proud.

All of this got me thinking about New Year’s Eves in the past, and I was startled by one memory. I’m not sure what year it was – sometime in the late 1990s. We were in Minnesota, visiting Michael’s family. New Year’s Eve fell toward the end of the trip, and all of us were feeling weary of the constant celebrating. That night’s activity consisted of sitting around together watching the Access Hollywood Year in Review special. But there was one funny twist. Michael’s sister told us that changing your underwear at midnight could bring you special luck, provided that the underwear’s color was aligned with your wish. If I remember correctly, yellow meant money, pink was love, and white was happiness. So at 11:59, all six or seven women, including Michael’s mother, took off for the back bedroom where we stripped, changed, re-dressed, and returned to the living room by the stroke of midnight.

And we’ve never spoken of it since.

I wonder, did anyone get their wish that night? Can well-chosen unmentionables bring prosperity or romance or just general good energy? Next year, I will try again. And if you find me with a wad of cash in my pocket in January 2009, you will know why.

The Camera

I don't have any clever ramblings today, but I really want to see if I've managed to get video to work on this blog. You probably need to double click on the play button.

Green suffered through the night and most of the day with a stomach virus. Stomach viruses are like train wrecks in our family, knocking each of us off our tracks one by one. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to a thrilling New Year's Eve.

While Green was sleeping/throwing up, Blue and I spent the morning freeing a plastic shark jaw from a rock. In case you're wondering why he's wearing such stylin' specs, they're "safety goggles."

Aftermath

We have had an exciting couple of days. It turns out that the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus were scheduled to arrive on the very same night. Yes, Green's front tooth fell out in his Cheerios on Christmas Eve morning, prompting me to sing "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth" over and over again until Michael threatened to take my present back.

So we set out two plates of cookies, one for the Big Elf and one for the Fairy. Santa got a glass of milk, but the Tooth Fairy did not, apparently because fairies don't get thirsty. Coincidentally, I was just reading about a Tooth Fairy/Santa Claus encounter. In Father Knows Less Or "Can I Cook My Sister?": One Dad's Quest to Answer His Son's Most Baffling Questions, Wendell Jamieson tells the story of the unfortunate loss of his sister's tooth on Christmas Eve. When his sister awoke to find her tooth untouched under her pillow in the morning, she asked why the Tooth Fairy did not show up as planned. Her father told her that the Fairy did not forget-- it's just that she had been run over by Santa's sleigh. Apparently, that did not go over well. (Lucky for us, the Tooth Fairy was watching where she was going and managed to slip a little cash under Green's giant melon head).

Now, I know that every family that celebrates Christmas has its own little traditions. Some people open gifts on Christmas Eve, while some wait until Christmas day. In my family, we manage to do both. You see, my MOTHER wakes us up before the crack of dawn to open gifts, making the whole enterprise over and done with before the sun even rises. This year was no exception, and she broke a cardinal rule of parenthood which is YOU NEVER WAKE A SLEEPING CHILD.

Imagine our surprise when we heard the screech and bleat of a marching, singing toy Santa Claus at 5:20 a.m. It did not turn off until we were all out in the living room with our hands covering our ears. Fortunately, the holiday joy of small children outshines the outrage that comes from being violently uprooted from sleep.

The kids got what they wanted from Santa, and so did I. I have been coveting those cute little Flip video cameras that you can carry in your pocket, and one was waiting for me under the tree. We have a camcorder, but it's rare that I have it with me to capture the excitement of my everyday life. So be warned -- I'm going to try to get video up here, so you're likely to be exposed to a LIVE ACTION version of me cleaning the garage.

Now THAT is something to look forward to!

Merriment

Sorry about the small blogging hiatus. I was socked by my annual Christmas virus, which coincided with the end of the teaching quarter. I found myself shaky with fever, preparing for my inlaws' visit, and tackling the grading of 40 papers all at the same time.

I have a small problem when faced with big tasks. Rather than address whatever unpleasant project is at hand, I divert my attention to a different but still monumental endeavor. Here's an example. Back when I was in graduate school, we lived in this little 1960s apartment (complete with bright orange sink and avocado green gas fireplace). It also had the original refrigerator and ICE BOX. Over time, the ice box would freeze over, and the food would need to be rescued. So it was finals week, and I had 3 large research papers due on the very same day. I was woefully unprepared. On the night before the papers needed to be turned in, I decided that RIGHT THAT MOMENT I needed to chisel out the ice box. Of course, it took hours to get the ice out, and then another hour to clean up the puddles of water on the floor. Michael asked me why, when there was so much reading and writing left to be done, I would find it imperative to address the freezer situation. I shrugged. I may not have finished my work, but at least the tater tots were free from their icy prison.

So, here I was last week with those 40 papers, and it occurred to me that there had been a funky smell in the kitchen for awhile. All along I had been blaming the odor on Green's poor hygiene, but I was beginning to suspect that the problem might reside in the refrigerator. So what did I do? All the food came out, and all the shelves came out. And there, underneath the vegetable crisper boxes, I found the source of the aroma -- a small but pungent arboretum.

5 whole hours later, the ecosystem was destroyed, the appliance was pristine, and I was sufficiently disgusted. But I still had those 40 papers to deal with, and there was only one day before grades were due. When my inlaws arrived, I barely had time to raise my head out of the pile of puzzling essays (Here's one of my favorite sentences from the batch: "The purpose of American schools is to produce intelligible citizens." What? If that's the case, we are clearly failing.). But at midnight, I penciled my last grade onto the bubble form, and I was DONE.

Finally, we were able to rev up the Christmas merriment.



The boys had been antsy to visit the jolly old elf for awhile. We had been using Santa as a threat for weeks: "Blue, you need to get your dirty underpants off your brother's bed right now! Santa's watching!" or "Green, if Santa sees you hit your brother on the back of the head with that pirate sword, he's not going to bring you any presents!" Both kids were a little skeptical that one pudgy old man at the North Pole could monitor the behavior of all the world's kids at the same time. Did he have a bunch of cameras installed in everyone's house? Since I am unclear about the exact nature of Santa's surveillance equipment, I told them they should ask him themselves.

So Granny, Grandpa, Blue, Green, Michael, and I headed downtown to visit Santa. Afterwards, we rode the holiday carousel:



And we went and saw a gingerbread model of the Kremlin:



And that evening, we ate an eclectic pre-Christmas feast of grilled salmon and mashed potatoes and green beans (and ketchup). After that: presents! The boys were wild with excitement, and so was I. You see, I had found my father-in-law the perfect gift. He is a man who continues to have particularly strong views about the Clinton presidency, so I bought him a talking Bill Clinton doll. There was nothing more entertaining than watching him cringe when the doll said, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman...."

But anyway, the build up to Christmas is such a funny thing. It starts before the leaves drop from the trees, and there's such a pressure to buy, buy, buy. And in a world so full of trouble, the cheery cards that say "Peace on Earth" seem to sit in an ironic pile on the dining room table. But when you have a five year old (or two), something really does crack open when the Christmas tree lights go on for the first time, or when Santa places a candy cane in his nervous little hand. I wish I had a picture to capture the instant when Blue opened his first present from Granny and Grandpa, when he jumped in the air with his hands above his head and screamed, "Oh Granny, how did you know? How did you know this is just what I wanted?" Sometimes life can be so hard it brings you to your knees, but there are moments, like that one, when I know that everything is right and good and possible.

Rain, Rain, Reindeer

OK, so this post was supposed to be titled, "Let it Snow." You see, we had a little treat on Saturday. It was a bit colder than usual, and it began to snow -- the fluffy flake kind that's sticky enough for fun. It doesn't snow much here, so when it does, people go outside and play with wild abandon. And that's just what we did.

Michael was so happy to have the chance to release his inner-Minnesotan. I was able to get some use out of my cute green hat. And the boys? They got some hot chocolate. About half-way through the outdoor merriment, I went inside and excavated some old packets of Swiss Miss instant hot cocoa. You know, the kind where you pour hot water and stir. When the boys came in and sipped some of that, they said, "Mama! How did you ever learn to make such good stuff?" "Boys," I said, "I am a domestic diva. This is my special, secret recipe."

Anyway, when it snows in the Pacific Northwest, it's BREAKING NEWS. All of the newbie news reporters get sent out to various suburbs, and they have to stand around and report on whether or not flakes are falling in that particular location. Actually, the funniest thing is when it's supposed to snow but then doesn't. The poor reporter has to stand by the side of a busy road and say things like, "If it were 10 degrees colder tonight, it would be snowing. But, as you can see, it's not."

This time, those young reporters were in for a little fun. The snow gave us an hour or two of winter excitement, but slowly, slowly, the temperature crept up. Our snowmen began to lean into each other and droop. By Sunday night, it became clear that we were in for a teeny tropical storm. Oh no, wait, not just a tropical storm, the remnants of a TYPHOON. Fabulous. On Monday morning, it was nearly 60 degrees and pouring buckets. I had my nice hour long commute to work that morning, which ended up being an even longer commute through standing water on the freeway. 24 hours later, some bridges are gone, and several schools are flooded and closed. The road we take to the beach has washed away.

I was lucky that my mom was taking care of the boys during my hellish commute. However, when I pulled up outside the house after my crappy day, I heard an odd, piercing screech. Imagine the sound of a sick cat, and combine it with the noise generated by 30,000 nine year olds shrieking for Hannah Montana. I covered my ears and walked into the house. This is what I found:

I'm thinking that this particular gift was delivered with a touch of hostility. What's the matter, mom? Are you getting me back for that driving trip to Cape Cod in the early 80s where I made you play my cassette tape of Rick Springfield's Working Class Dog over and over and over again? I'm sorry, OK? I will never sing "Jessie's Girl" again.

To those of you who saw the grim coverage of our local weather situation on the Today show, fear not. We are fine. Michael is not travelling to the office in a rowboat. A river did not swallow up our house. But if you happen to hear the wails of a musical toy reindeer as it disappears down a sinkhole, I take full responsibility.