I know it's been awhile since I last updated. I can't blame my absence on the lazy days of summer, because nothing around here has been lazy since camp ended. I don't think I can emphasize enough how much I am ready for SCHOOL TO START!!!! Our house is filled to the brim with arguments over IT'S NOT FAIR and HE WON'T LET ME HAVE A TURN and YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.
So we're getting out of Dodge. We're going to a place that's three hours away and supposedly has some hot weather and a pool. If I'm honest, there's something nostalgic driving this trip for me. When I was a kid, my parents and I went up to a place in northern Michigan every summer. We stayed in a cabin that was on a small lake, and we just hung out. There was a beach and paddle boards and a game room and other kids. There was also a ghost that inhabited one of the buildings, and she prompted several intense searches that would rival anything you could see on the A&E channel's Children of the Paranormal (and this show is HILARIOUS. You should check it out).
(And I know my parents are reading this right now, saying, "That didn't happen. There wasn't any ghost hunting." But you have to trust me -- they were too busy leisurely reading books to notice any hauntings).
Anyway, I want that kind of vacation for Blue and Green. You know, the stuff of good memories. The only difference is that my kids are not really inclined to run off and dig holes and find companions and search for ghosts. They're more likely to turn their freckly faces up at us and say, "What now?" as if we hold The Itinerary of Fun in our back pockets. This has made it so that I have to plan for every contingency. What if they suddenly become really independent and go hunt for ghosts? I'm bringing 3 books and a silly magazine just in case I magically have the time to read. What if it pours down rain for three days? Ack! I'm bringing a sack full of Legos and some craft projects and a big bottle of whiskey. What if it's too cold to swim but not raining? Tennis rackets! Balls! Board games! It occurs to me as I write this that maybe the reason that our kids can't just amuse themselves is that their imaginations are buried somewhere under the luggage.
The most pressing question that plagues us as we get ready to go on vacation is whether or not to bring the laptop. Isn't this the biggest thing that distinguishes the Brady Bunch vacations of the seventies from the trips we take with our own kids? Michael is worried that he might slip in his fantasy baseball rankings if he can't stay connected (and while he's checking the stats, he could also make sure everything's going OK at the office...). And then there's our habit of watching The Closer DVDs in the evenings. What will we do if we have to wait until the weekend to find out what color lipstick Kyra Sedgwick wears in the next episode? I'm all about rustic family time, but that might put us over the edge.
I do think that the computer will tether us to our daily lives in a way that will diminish the getting-away quality of this trip. The question is, do we have the fortitude to leave it behind? Stay tuned.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
John Edwards
Last Friday afternoon, the boys and I were hanging out at the Baskin Robbins. Blue was in a bit of a funk. He had spent a fair amount of time choosing his flavor, taking free samples here and there and acting totally oblivious to the line of 45 people behind him. In the end, he chose Cherries Jubilee (because that’s what Green picked, and Blue didn’t want to be left out). The trouble was that Blue doesn’t much like cherries or whatever constitutes Jubilee. So he had to sit there picking out the flecks of cherry and dark chocolate and miscellaneous other stuff that made up the bulk of his treat.
Anyway, Blue was half way through his ice cream excavation when a senior citizen in a tennis outfit came running in the store. “Did you hear about John Edwards?” she shrieked to a cluster of ladies sitting by the door. “HE HAD AN AFFAIR!!!!”
Green had barely spat out, “Mama, what’s an affair?” when the woman continued,“He’s a skunk! Did you hear me?! A skunk!”
We all know that skunks are smelly, and stinkiness is a topic my boys enjoy. “Hee Hee Hee,” Green giggled. “She said skunk! P.U.!” And with that turn of fortune, I dodged the problem of having to explain to my six-year-olds why Democrats have trouble keeping their pants up.
Of course, upon learning about the Edwards indiscretion, my first thought was, “Aha! Now I can blog about politics! That’s what my readers said they wanted, after all.” And so I went home and readied myself for the flood of who/what/why/what position/what kind of cigar media coverage I assumed would follow.
But the flood never came. I didn’t even receive a call from my father-in-law, whose outrage over the Monica Lewinsky escapade has yet to diminish. I did a quick search today, and the Edwards story fell well below the news that Cindy McCain sprained her wrist from shaking hands. (And in fact, there would be no story at all if Elizabeth Edwards’ family members would stop talking to People Magazine. I guess they figure that the National Enquirer shouldn’t be the only tabloid to benefit from Elizabeth’s humiliation).
So what do you make of this? Have we drawn a line between scandal and Real News? Are we more interested in thinking about Michael Phelps in his swimsuit than another slimy politician in his birthday suit? Are we more cynical, or are we smarter?
Weigh in, bloggers.
Anyway, Blue was half way through his ice cream excavation when a senior citizen in a tennis outfit came running in the store. “Did you hear about John Edwards?” she shrieked to a cluster of ladies sitting by the door. “HE HAD AN AFFAIR!!!!”
Green had barely spat out, “Mama, what’s an affair?” when the woman continued,“He’s a skunk! Did you hear me?! A skunk!”
We all know that skunks are smelly, and stinkiness is a topic my boys enjoy. “Hee Hee Hee,” Green giggled. “She said skunk! P.U.!” And with that turn of fortune, I dodged the problem of having to explain to my six-year-olds why Democrats have trouble keeping their pants up.
Of course, upon learning about the Edwards indiscretion, my first thought was, “Aha! Now I can blog about politics! That’s what my readers said they wanted, after all.” And so I went home and readied myself for the flood of who/what/why/what position/what kind of cigar media coverage I assumed would follow.
But the flood never came. I didn’t even receive a call from my father-in-law, whose outrage over the Monica Lewinsky escapade has yet to diminish. I did a quick search today, and the Edwards story fell well below the news that Cindy McCain sprained her wrist from shaking hands. (And in fact, there would be no story at all if Elizabeth Edwards’ family members would stop talking to People Magazine. I guess they figure that the National Enquirer shouldn’t be the only tabloid to benefit from Elizabeth’s humiliation).
So what do you make of this? Have we drawn a line between scandal and Real News? Are we more interested in thinking about Michael Phelps in his swimsuit than another slimy politician in his birthday suit? Are we more cynical, or are we smarter?
Weigh in, bloggers.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Twelve
Since we’re getting in the habit of achieving last summer’s goals, I decided that it would be fun to finally go on that coastal hike that Michael and I wanted to do last year. Unfortunately, when I checked out the trail I found that, once again, we would have a high tide problem. But you know what? I’m sick of obstacles. I’m sick of Mother Nature trying to tell me what I can and cannot do. So I persuaded Michael that we could get to the coast, hike the several miles in to the beach, and see all the natural wonderfulness before the ocean whisked us away.
This, apparently, was an error in judgment. Tides do not like sassy ladies to challenge their authority. More on that later.
We deposited the kids with my parents (Junk food! Toys! Constant attention!), and headed out for the drive to the ocean. We used to be road trip experts. There was no blue highway too rural for us. So much of our history together involves a travelling adventure or an odyssey. But these days, I am tired. Time is in short supply, and my butt gets sore if I sit too long.
We discovered this time around that what may look like a short distance on a map could really be a very lengthy, tedious drive on a poorly-maintained gravelly road. I had hoped to spend a little time in a town called Pysht --- because, really, how funny a name is that!? I thought, “Hey! I could do a remote blog from Pysht!” But it seems that Pysht is too small a place to actually have a building, so we must have driven right through it. This cracked me up. “Hey Michael,” I said. “I think we already pashed Pysht. I am Pysht off! Hee Hee Hee.” (At this point, Michael thwacked me on the back of the head with the map).
My interest in Pysht reminded me of one of our notorious wild goose chases. We were on a road trip up to the Canadian Rockies, and we decided to meander through rural Washington instead of taking the direct route. In particular, I saw on the map that Ronald McDonald was buried in the northeastern part of the state. No one told me that he had died! Poor, grief-stricken Hamburgler! We definitely needed to go see Ronald’s grave and lay a greasy french-fry bag by his headstone. Something like seven hours later, we finally stumbled upon his memorial site. Except this wasn’t Ronald McDonald’s grave after all. It was the gravesite of RANALD MACDONALD -- not a junk food-selling clown, but, rather, the first man to teach English in Japan. My dream of standing on a mountaintop and mournfully singing the early 1980s jingle, “Big Mac, Filet O’Fish, Quarter Pounder, French Fries, Icy Coke, Thick Shake, Sundaes, and Apple Pies,” was dashed.
Anyway, once we pashed Pysht, it was a mere 2 more hours to our destination. This offered me the opportunity to ask Michael, “What are you thinking about?” nearly 3000 times (His responses: nothing, baseball, weather, nothing). I have since learned that it was a good thing that we did not stop to explore the loveliness that would have been Pysht, because a human foot in a tennis shoe washed up on the nearby shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that very day. Many such disembodied feet are turning up on beaches throughout the area, inspiring feelings of general creepiness and providing a reminder to keep up-to-date with one's pedicure.
We arrived at the trailhead just in time for the rain to start. The hike involved three miles of boardwalk trail to the beach, three miles along the beach, and then three miles back along a different boardwalk. Michael went into the ranger station (remember how he loves a pretty ranger?) and was told that high tides were no problem. You just had to climb up and over the impassible parts. In my normal, city life, I tend to walk about 3 miles a day. 9 miles with a little up-and-over shouldn’t feel that different, right?
Wrong.
3 miles along a rocky beach with the tide rushing in does not make for an easy stroll. To this place’s credit, it may have been the most gorgeous, rugged, jagged coastline I had ever seen. And for a moment, I sighed heavily and drank in that seemingly untouched beauty.
This, apparently, was an error in judgment. Tides do not like sassy ladies to challenge their authority. More on that later.
We deposited the kids with my parents (Junk food! Toys! Constant attention!), and headed out for the drive to the ocean. We used to be road trip experts. There was no blue highway too rural for us. So much of our history together involves a travelling adventure or an odyssey. But these days, I am tired. Time is in short supply, and my butt gets sore if I sit too long.
We discovered this time around that what may look like a short distance on a map could really be a very lengthy, tedious drive on a poorly-maintained gravelly road. I had hoped to spend a little time in a town called Pysht --- because, really, how funny a name is that!? I thought, “Hey! I could do a remote blog from Pysht!” But it seems that Pysht is too small a place to actually have a building, so we must have driven right through it. This cracked me up. “Hey Michael,” I said. “I think we already pashed Pysht. I am Pysht off! Hee Hee Hee.” (At this point, Michael thwacked me on the back of the head with the map).
My interest in Pysht reminded me of one of our notorious wild goose chases. We were on a road trip up to the Canadian Rockies, and we decided to meander through rural Washington instead of taking the direct route. In particular, I saw on the map that Ronald McDonald was buried in the northeastern part of the state. No one told me that he had died! Poor, grief-stricken Hamburgler! We definitely needed to go see Ronald’s grave and lay a greasy french-fry bag by his headstone. Something like seven hours later, we finally stumbled upon his memorial site. Except this wasn’t Ronald McDonald’s grave after all. It was the gravesite of RANALD MACDONALD -- not a junk food-selling clown, but, rather, the first man to teach English in Japan. My dream of standing on a mountaintop and mournfully singing the early 1980s jingle, “Big Mac, Filet O’Fish, Quarter Pounder, French Fries, Icy Coke, Thick Shake, Sundaes, and Apple Pies,” was dashed.
Anyway, once we pashed Pysht, it was a mere 2 more hours to our destination. This offered me the opportunity to ask Michael, “What are you thinking about?” nearly 3000 times (His responses: nothing, baseball, weather, nothing). I have since learned that it was a good thing that we did not stop to explore the loveliness that would have been Pysht, because a human foot in a tennis shoe washed up on the nearby shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca that very day. Many such disembodied feet are turning up on beaches throughout the area, inspiring feelings of general creepiness and providing a reminder to keep up-to-date with one's pedicure.
We arrived at the trailhead just in time for the rain to start. The hike involved three miles of boardwalk trail to the beach, three miles along the beach, and then three miles back along a different boardwalk. Michael went into the ranger station (remember how he loves a pretty ranger?) and was told that high tides were no problem. You just had to climb up and over the impassible parts. In my normal, city life, I tend to walk about 3 miles a day. 9 miles with a little up-and-over shouldn’t feel that different, right?
Wrong.
3 miles along a rocky beach with the tide rushing in does not make for an easy stroll. To this place’s credit, it may have been the most gorgeous, rugged, jagged coastline I had ever seen. And for a moment, I sighed heavily and drank in that seemingly untouched beauty.
Then I had to stop sighing and climb upon a huge dead tree and slide my way across its branches to escape the rushing water. After that, we had to lie down flat and wiggle on our stomachs to get under the next fallen tree. A quick shimmy up some enormous boulders preceded the realization that we were completely stuck. I’m not sure what was louder – the crash of the waves or the crescendo of my whine.
So Michael, what you may not have heard over the noise was the fact that there is no one I’d rather dangle off the edge of the world with than you (even if I get blisters and the bugs make it impossible for me to eat my lunch). Happy 12th anniversary.
So Michael, what you may not have heard over the noise was the fact that there is no one I’d rather dangle off the edge of the world with than you (even if I get blisters and the bugs make it impossible for me to eat my lunch). Happy 12th anniversary.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Nature, Finally
Well, wasn't that poll fun? Thanks to all of you for participating. I am somewhat surprised by the breakaway success of the "coverage of weird events" category. I never knew that's what turned you on. Get ready for an upcoming entry about our city's basset hound festival, in which more than 300 costumed bassets march down a parade route. You asked for it!
I am also somewhat surprised by your lack of interest in underpants. This must mean that there aren't many six year old boys among my readers. Or maybe you guys are just embarrassed to admit how much you liked last month's story about the thong injury.
Since we've been talking about anniversaries, I have to mention that a whole year has gone by since I first posted about how much we want our kids to love the great outdoors. I was on a kick last summer, reading about the importance of connecting children with nature, blah, blah, blah. We had this big ambition to get the boys hiking, so I set about finding kid-friendly hikes that were close to home and had big payoffs. But there was always some big obstacle -- Green's tantrums, rain, the problem of where to get and how to get a trail parking pass, the issue of timing the hike correctly so that the kids wouldn't fall asleep in the car on the way home (5 minute nap at 3 p.m. equaled no bedtime until 11 p.m.).
12 full months later, we got ourselves a parking pass. We landed ourselves some sunshine. Green woke up on the right side of the bed. Everyone was well-rested. And we went to the mountains. Oh yes we did.
This is not to say that getting there was easy. The boys insisted on controlling the music, which meant a solid hour of the song "My Toothbrush Marches Up and Down" (to the tune of "The Ants Go Marching One By One") on continuous repeat. But we made it to the trailhead, found a parking place, examined the outhouse in great detail, and set out for our 1 mile hike up to the "natural water slide." And while there was a fair amount of "are we there yet?" moaning, the kids actually handled the ascent pretty well. The payoff was indeed delightful, especially if you enjoy swimming in glacial runoff (uh, Sparky, this water is COLD).
To Michael, a lifelong hiker, no journey is complete without a trip to Dairy Queen at the end. I suggested that eating a 1400 calorie sundae after the hike might negate the exercise component of the experience. He outlined several reasons why eating ice cream after a hike actually improves children's love of the environment and makes them want to hike more, which in turn keeps them active. It didn't make any sense, but I agreed that we could stop at a DQ if we came upon one.
But we didn't find one. We passed sign after sign advertising various trashy fast food places, but there was no Dairy Queen anywhere. And then something unusual happened: Michael started to whine. It's as if his inner first grader emerged and couldn't handle a ride home without the obligatory Peanutbuster Parfait.
"Oh, come on," I said. "Let's just stop somewhere else and get a regular ice cream cone." "It's not the same," Michael pouted. Finally, we pulled into the driveway of a diner, one whose sign proclaimed, "Nothing in this establishment is good for you." That seemed a promising enough advertisement to me.
Right away, I noticed that we were not the only ones in search of a frozen delicacy that day. In the parking lot, alongside our dusty Subaru, loitered a sizable posse of Bikers for Christ (Their leather jackets read, "We Ride the Lord"). Apparently they couldn't find a Dairy Queen, either. I watched a big smile emerge on Blue's face. He exclaimed, "I want one of those!" I was worried that he meant one of numerous colorful Jesus tattoos that decorated the members' entire bodies, but he was clearly admiring the the long line of giant motorcycles. "Blue," I said, "you can get yourself a motorcycle when you are 18, but I will never allow you to wear a t-shirt that says, "Hey beautiful, show me your tats!"
The boys ordered some sort of marshmallow milkshake and Michael had a caramel one. Those choices seemed a little yuppie to me, given our company. But we polished them off and returned to the city drenched with nature, sugar, and good vibes.
And it's all about good vibes, isn't it? I think the drawback of the Get Your Kids Into Nature literature is that it turns something that is fun into a grim responsibility. Because, really, what's better than a day of swimming followed by a picnic with 200 reformed thugs?
(Michael inserts that it would have been better if the thuggy picnic was at a Dairy Queen. Crybaby.)
And it's all about good vibes, isn't it? I think the drawback of the Get Your Kids Into Nature literature is that it turns something that is fun into a grim responsibility. Because, really, what's better than a day of swimming followed by a picnic with 200 reformed thugs?
(Michael inserts that it would have been better if the thuggy picnic was at a Dairy Queen. Crybaby.)
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Anniversary
Well, bloggers, we did it. We've been together for a whole year. On this very date in 2007, I was patting myself on the back for figuring out how to get this thing up and running without having to access my computer support team. Today, I am still patting myself on the back. Way to go, me!
Along the way, I have learned quite a bit about you guys. You're pretty feisty about politics, and you became REALLY alarmed when I wrote about my political indecision. You have enjoyed my adventures as a kindergarten volunteer, and you dig the occasional story about lecherous penguins. You have strong feelings about high school reunions, and you like chain letters and spaghetti. You really like food on a stick and have some misgivings about letting small children ride pissed-off sheep. You have also reacted well to any story involving underpants. On the other hand, you could care less about my literary interests or how much I drink on my birthday.
I say all this to let you know that you matter. I pay attention to your comments and your emails (i.e. I spend a lot of time checking for your comments and emails). You may have noticed that it has become easier to leave a comment (see sidebar for instructions), but if the system still makes you nervous, just send me a regular email sometime. I'd love to hear from you.
With the goal of being more responsive to you, I have set up a poll to the right of this entry. Please let me know what you'd like to read about. Be sure to vote! You can pretend like it's American Idol.
Along the way, I have learned quite a bit about you guys. You're pretty feisty about politics, and you became REALLY alarmed when I wrote about my political indecision. You have enjoyed my adventures as a kindergarten volunteer, and you dig the occasional story about lecherous penguins. You have strong feelings about high school reunions, and you like chain letters and spaghetti. You really like food on a stick and have some misgivings about letting small children ride pissed-off sheep. You have also reacted well to any story involving underpants. On the other hand, you could care less about my literary interests or how much I drink on my birthday.
I say all this to let you know that you matter. I pay attention to your comments and your emails (i.e. I spend a lot of time checking for your comments and emails). You may have noticed that it has become easier to leave a comment (see sidebar for instructions), but if the system still makes you nervous, just send me a regular email sometime. I'd love to hear from you.
With the goal of being more responsive to you, I have set up a poll to the right of this entry. Please let me know what you'd like to read about. Be sure to vote! You can pretend like it's American Idol.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Art
The lazy days of summer are definitely here. I'm certainly feeling lazy, especially about blogging. Sorry about the lapse. And thanks to all of you who emailed to complain --- it's always heartening to know that people are still paying attention.
Blue and Green are busy at day camp this summer. The camp is located on "daddy's campus," and they attend assorted "classes" in university buildings. Their group of smelly six-year-olds makes stuffed space aliens in a room right next door to a calculus class. The exciting news this week was that one camper threw up right outside the door of a class that was taking a midterm. The kids apparently shrieked, "PUKE!" at the top of their lungs until the real professor of the real college students came out and yelled at them.
Much of what they do each day involves complicated projects that require "recyclables." They have made a "space machine." They have made star scopes. They have made pillows and booklets and tambourines. All of these things have been carefully constructed out of garbage. In fact, one afternoon the boys came running out of their last class with their backpacks bulging. Inside were cereal boxes and butter tubs and empty yogurt containers. "Ummm, boys?" I said. "Why do you have a bunch of trash in your backpacks?" Green said, "No, mama, that's not trash. That's ART." "But Green," I responded, "You haven't done anything to this to make it art." He rolled his eyes. "Mama, it's art in my imagination."
The upshot is that I have a whole bunch of someone else's breakfast containers in my house. Maybe this is the future of recycling. Instead of placing your crap in the recycling bin, you just find a small child and fill his backpack with it. Then he takes the stuff home to his mother, who sighs deeply and redirects it to her child's school for their art supply closet. The garbage will soon go home with a different child, in the form of a different project. Thus, the trash goes from family to family to family without generating any waste or pollution.
I'm not sure what came over me the other day. I was noting how excited the boys have been about their variouspieces of trash artworks, so I put us all in the car and drove us 30 minutes away to a "salvage studio." At this place, you pay $6.75 per child to make "art" with the store's vast collection of trash materials. I don't know what I was thinking --- maybe that the kids would make a small keepsake of some kind? Instead, they each made a factory. A FACTORY. These pieces of trash sculptures are enormous. And it occurred to me, I just PAID MONEY to bring home someone else's refuse. That cash could have bought us a bag of organic cherries or an itty bitty amount of gas! Instead, there is a huge pile of debris fine art in my living room, and I am under strict orders not to move, jostle, disconnect, or do away with it.
Next year, Blue and Green will be going to an art-free camp. No more creativity for those two.
Blue and Green are busy at day camp this summer. The camp is located on "daddy's campus," and they attend assorted "classes" in university buildings. Their group of smelly six-year-olds makes stuffed space aliens in a room right next door to a calculus class. The exciting news this week was that one camper threw up right outside the door of a class that was taking a midterm. The kids apparently shrieked, "PUKE!" at the top of their lungs until the real professor of the real college students came out and yelled at them.
Much of what they do each day involves complicated projects that require "recyclables." They have made a "space machine." They have made star scopes. They have made pillows and booklets and tambourines. All of these things have been carefully constructed out of garbage. In fact, one afternoon the boys came running out of their last class with their backpacks bulging. Inside were cereal boxes and butter tubs and empty yogurt containers. "Ummm, boys?" I said. "Why do you have a bunch of trash in your backpacks?" Green said, "No, mama, that's not trash. That's ART." "But Green," I responded, "You haven't done anything to this to make it art." He rolled his eyes. "Mama, it's art in my imagination."
The upshot is that I have a whole bunch of someone else's breakfast containers in my house. Maybe this is the future of recycling. Instead of placing your crap in the recycling bin, you just find a small child and fill his backpack with it. Then he takes the stuff home to his mother, who sighs deeply and redirects it to her child's school for their art supply closet. The garbage will soon go home with a different child, in the form of a different project. Thus, the trash goes from family to family to family without generating any waste or pollution.
I'm not sure what came over me the other day. I was noting how excited the boys have been about their various
Next year, Blue and Green will be going to an art-free camp. No more creativity for those two.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Mommies On The Loose
Last weekend, my friend E and I jumped on a train and headed out of town, leaving our families and motherly duties behind us. It was just the two of us --- no schedules to follow, no penguins to manage, no tick-tock-tick-tock of the machinery of everyday living. We wanted to prove that we are women who are still fabulous, still young, still full of spontaneity and fun.
(Getting on train)
Jennifer: Yay! We’re free! No obligations! No kids!
E: Just two wild and crazy ladies with time to kill and money to spend.
Jennifer: Oooh! Look! A train guy! My boys need a picture of that.
Jennifer: They call this the “Vampire.” I think it has Squirt in it! Delicious!
(Getting on train)
Jennifer: Yay! We’re free! No obligations! No kids!
E: Just two wild and crazy ladies with time to kill and money to spend.
Jennifer: And crafting to do. Don’t forget about our bag of craft supplies.
E: I think I forgot my glue stick.
Jennifer: Michael made fun of me for bringing my craft stuff on our trip. Can’t we go to bars AND make collages? Why are the two mutually exclusive?
(Train employee in uniform walks by)
(Train employee in uniform walks by)
Jennifer: Oooh! Look! A train guy! My boys need a picture of that.
E: You’re not supposed to be thinking about the kids.
Jennifer: I need a picture of the dining car, too. Let’s go find it!
E: Wait. Look what’s getting on the train.
Jennifer: Oh no. It seems like we’ve been seated with a tenth grade girls’ volleyball team.
E: They look like strippers. What were their mothers thinking, letting them go out in public like that?
Jennifer: We’re old enough to be their mothers, you know.
E: Not this weekend. This weekend we’re young, hip, and carefree!
Jennifer: I do have to remember to find a toy store while we’re there. I need to bring back souvenirs.
E: You’re not supposed to be thinking about the kids.
(That night, at dinner)
Jennifer: Woo! This restaurant is swanky!
(That night, at dinner)
Jennifer: Woo! This restaurant is swanky!
E: I think you’re supposed to be cool if you come here. Can you fake it for a few minutes?
Jennifer: Look at the yummy list of cocktails! Can you make sure I get back to the hotel safely?
E: How much to you plan to drink?!?
Jennifer: Uh, one or two?
E: You are so NOT cool.
Jennifer: Let’s get that waitress to take our picture!
E: This is so embarrassing.
Jennifer: Uh, Courtney? Could you take our picture? We’re two mommies on a getaway vacation! It’s just us! No children!
E: Stop it. Drink your cocktail.
Jennifer: They call this the “Vampire.” I think it has Squirt in it! Delicious!
E: Don’t drink that too fast! My wine isn’t even here yet.
Jennifer: I shink I mi be gittin loooooopy.
E: I think we need to order you some food.
Jennifer: I mish my kiiiiids. Aren’t my kiiiiiids cuuuttteee?
E: You’re not supposed to be thinking about your kids.
(Next day. Shopping).
Jennifer: I need to get something for Michael.
(Next day. Shopping).
Jennifer: I need to get something for Michael.
E: Like what?
Jennifer: I don’t have any ideas. If I don’t find something soon, I’ll have to get him an Amtrak key chain at the train station.
E: Look! There’s a men’s boutique across the street!
Jennifer: A men’s boutique?
E: Yes! Maybe you can get him a really nice shirt. Let’s go!
(The women enter the store. It is dimly lit, with a sign that says “You must be 18 to enter.” Obscene clothing and paraphernalia line the shelves.)
Jennifer: Uh, E, I think this may be a different kind of shop.
E (picking up what appears to be a whip): Oh. My. God.
(They read a sign that says: "Please Refrain From Hitting Customers While Shopping”)
Jennifer: Hee Hee.
E: Hee Hee.
Together: Hee Hee Hee.
Jennifer: Look, E, I can get some underwear with penguins on them here! I’m totally buying these.
E: You are NOT supposed to be thinking about your kids.
(That night, in the hotel room. Crafting)
E: Aren’t you going to finish your collage?
(That night, in the hotel room. Crafting)
E: Aren’t you going to finish your collage?
Jennifer: I’m getting kind of sleepy. It’s after my bedtime.
E: It’s only 9:30.
Jennifer: Exactly.
E: We came all this way. You can’t go to sleep at 9:30.
Jennifer: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
E: Do you think we should put on some nice clothes and do something wild and crazy? We could crash that wedding reception downstairs…
Jennifer: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
E: We could talk. Not about kids, but about other stuff. We could discuss the meaning of life!
Jennifer: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
E: You’re no fun. You’re acting like such a GROWNUP.
Jennifer: Fine. Let’s open the minibar. Tell me the meaning of life.
E: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Jennifer: Exactly.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Pomp and Circumstance
(Wild Kindergarten Graduation Boogie)
All sweet things must come to an end. Last Tuesday, the boys graduated from kindergarten. And I cried. I cried through the graduation wiggle dance (see above). I cried through the diploma presentation. And I cried through the ceremonial ingestion of bomb pops on the playground. I was crying because in the space of a year, my tiny boys morphed from mere nubbins of people into "big kids." They read books. They ride their bikes without training wheels. They roll their eyes at me. And I feel this sense of being at the perfect moment of their lives, at the place where childhood wonder and an increasing competence exist in equal measure.
But truthfully, the graduation itself didn't work out so smoothly. Blue and Green's teacher decided that she would present the diplomas in alphabetical order. And then, to create a sense of metaphor, each child and his/her parents were to leave the room and symbolically head to first grade. This worked well for Adam, Anna, and Ashley. By the time it was Green's turn, the room was seeming a bit empty. And Zachary? When it was time for him to get his kindergarten certificate, his mom was the only one in the room to deliver the applause.
(Blue receiving diploma while teacher does "sign language clapping.")
Of course, the kids didn't notice the sloppy execution. They didn't notice my tears, either. All they noticed was that SUMMER! VACATION! IS! HERE! God knows that all those kindergarten craft projects and field trips and playground games were EXHAUSTING. Time to kick back with a juice box and wait around for the ice cream man to show up.
(Green, with post-graduation refreshment. If you look closely at the background, you can see the sign that tells students that they can't bring their potbellied pigs to school. I am not kidding.)
But, wouldn’t you know it, six-year-olds relax a little differently than I do. On the first day of summer vacation, the boys made an elaborate bad-guy-catching system throughout the house. They used string to zigzag booby traps between furniture and across rooms. On the second day of summer vacation, they brought in all of the rocks they could find in the back yard and piled them up in the kitchen. Apparently this was supposed to be a construction site. On the third day of summer vacation, they pulled out some toy police vehicles that blared the COPS theme song at top volume (Bad boys! Bad boys! Whatcha gonna do?) and played the tune over and over until I screamed. Then they made houses for their penguins out of Cheerios boxes (paper, tape, markers everywhere) and created a series of menacing signs for their room ("No Adults Allowed"). When they had a little friend over last week, I overheard one of them say, "I know! Let's make a flood!" And here's what I learned: little boys + running water + dirt = cosmic mess.
When I was a kid, summer was all about staying cool. As a parent, I’m finding that summer is all about keeping my cool as the kids tear through my previously serene space and destroy it. Remember the picture that my neighbor gave me when the boys began school, the one with the lady in the living room smiling happily as her kids leave on the bus? I get it now! I get it!
Summer vacation. One week down, ten to go.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Lawsuit
I'm taking a brief break from the blogging as summer vacation starts. I'll try to update this weekend. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this fabulous bit of information:
http://uk.reuters.com/article/rbssConsumerGoodsAndRetailNews/idUKN1938991320080619
I know that being the parent of two little boys has changed me, because I now find stories about underpants to be laugh-out-loud funny.
http://uk.reuters.com/article/rbssConsumerGoodsAndRetailNews/idUKN1938991320080619
I know that being the parent of two little boys has changed me, because I now find stories about underpants to be laugh-out-loud funny.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Memo
From: The School District
To: Parents of Kindergarteners
Dear Parents:
This memo is to inform you that we have scheduled a field trip at the beach for your children on June 6. We have made sure that this trip coincides with "S is for Summer!" day in the kindergarten curriculum, and we have attached an important handout about the importance of sunscreen.
We are aware that this year is a La Nina year in our city. We know that record grey, record cold, and general crapitude is predicted for the upcoming weeks. But we truly doubt that the region's bad weather would impact this wonderful excursion. If it does, we will change the curriculum theme to "S is for Shittiness."
We have also made sure to schedule our trip at a far-away beach. Despite the steep gas prices, we want to ensure that your child has a powerful memory of a long ride in a steamy, gas-guzzling bus. To further enhance their experience, we have chosen a site that has no bathroom facilities. After all, if you bring 85 six-year-olds on a four hour trip, the likelihood that someone will need to pee is small, right?
If, on the day of your trip, you are startled by the predictions of snow in the mountains and several inches of rain in the lowlands, be advised that we will not cancel or change these plans for any reason. We owe it to the environment to send your small children out into the low tides to handle, fling, and strangle the wildlife.
Sincerely,
The Powers That Be
To: Parents of Kindergarteners
Dear Parents:
This memo is to inform you that we have scheduled a field trip at the beach for your children on June 6. We have made sure that this trip coincides with "S is for Summer!" day in the kindergarten curriculum, and we have attached an important handout about the importance of sunscreen.
We are aware that this year is a La Nina year in our city. We know that record grey, record cold, and general crapitude is predicted for the upcoming weeks. But we truly doubt that the region's bad weather would impact this wonderful excursion. If it does, we will change the curriculum theme to "S is for Shittiness."
We have also made sure to schedule our trip at a far-away beach. Despite the steep gas prices, we want to ensure that your child has a powerful memory of a long ride in a steamy, gas-guzzling bus. To further enhance their experience, we have chosen a site that has no bathroom facilities. After all, if you bring 85 six-year-olds on a four hour trip, the likelihood that someone will need to pee is small, right?
If, on the day of your trip, you are startled by the predictions of snow in the mountains and several inches of rain in the lowlands, be advised that we will not cancel or change these plans for any reason. We owe it to the environment to send your small children out into the low tides to handle, fling, and strangle the wildlife.
Sincerely,
The Powers That Be
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Stretch Your Mind
I know that many of you have been all wrapped up in the ending of the Obama/Clinton saga. The stress and the drama have been enough to send me running to the nearest movie theater ---- Yes! You guessed it! We actually WENT OUT and saw a real movie, and we STAYED AWAKE all the way until the credits rolled. I can't tell you how excited I was to go see Sex and the City. But, ultimately, I can't say it was as fulfilling as I had hoped. I loved the TV show. It captured a real yearning that so many of us have to create a happy, authentic, connected life. But the movie? Here are my impressions:
1) There was too much emphasis on fairy tale endings.
2) I don't like Mr. Big, even if he does build groovy closets.
3) It might be better to be left at the altar than to see yourself in wedding photos wearing a large, teal bird in your hair. Maybe I just don't get high fashion.
So, bloggers, weigh in. What did you think of the movie?
The other thing I've been doing lately is reading poetry. My absolute favorite poet, Erin Malone, is featured this month on the Beloit Poetry Journal blog. Go check her out. In addition to reading two fantastic poems, you can join the ongoing discussion in the comments section about punctuation. There's nothing sexier than a bunch of writers talking about the ethics of the ampersand.
1) There was too much emphasis on fairy tale endings.
2) I don't like Mr. Big, even if he does build groovy closets.
3) It might be better to be left at the altar than to see yourself in wedding photos wearing a large, teal bird in your hair. Maybe I just don't get high fashion.
So, bloggers, weigh in. What did you think of the movie?
The other thing I've been doing lately is reading poetry. My absolute favorite poet, Erin Malone, is featured this month on the Beloit Poetry Journal blog. Go check her out. In addition to reading two fantastic poems, you can join the ongoing discussion in the comments section about punctuation. There's nothing sexier than a bunch of writers talking about the ethics of the ampersand.
Friday, May 30, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 9, 2008
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.)
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.)
Friday, May 2, 2008
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.
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.”
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.”
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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.
(Holy Crap! They're six!)
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!)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
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:
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:
Saturday, April 5, 2008
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.
Family + Kindergarteners = Craziest Fun
Cold Water + Kindergarteners = Crazy Fun
Theme Parks + Kindergarteners = Crazier Fun
Family + Kindergarteners = Craziest Fun
Sunday, March 23, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
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.
Friday, March 7, 2008
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
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
Monday, March 3, 2008
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!
“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!
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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).
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).
Monday, February 11, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
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.
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.
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