The kids are in the other room playing Wii, which allows me some time to write this neglected blog. I know that there are some of you out there, probably right this minute, who are updating your Facebook page with the words, “I am loving these last summer weeks with my sweet, well-behaved, beautiful children!” And you make me feel just a little bit guilty when I pay the 8th grader across the street to come play Sorry! with my boys for an hour while I sit in the driveway and reclaim my sanity.
I remember those images I had of what it would be like to have a child. It usually had to do with cute clothes and pretty nurseries and Christmas morning and warm cookies just out of the oven. The thing is – when I was paging through that imaginary scrapbook all those years ago, I forgot to turn to Chapter 7. If I had, I would have seen the title, “At the End of the Summer, There Will Be 14 Hours to Fill Each Day and Nothing To Do Except Let Your Kids Play on the Wii, and If You Do That You Will Prove To the World That You Are a BAD MOTHER.”
Sensing my unease, Blue just wandered into the kitchen and said, “Don’t worry, Mommy. Playing the Wii isn’t Screen Time, it’s exercise!!”
I totally believe those experts that warn us on a monthly basis that screen time will rot the brains of the next generation. And I’ve been lucky that my boys haven’t been the kinds of little kids that sit in front of the TV all day long. But I have also, on occasion (ahem), been willing to trade a few of their IQ points for a break from the endless crafts or just a bit of peace and quiet. And I have a sneaking suspicion that those screen time experts have never had the problem of needing their children to sit, in one place, without fighting or climbing or escaping, in order to grab a quick shower.
But these are just excuses, aren’t they? Yes, my kids have spent too much time playing video games this past week. And I will also confess to our habit of going to the library to play video games on the computers. Hey, don’t roll your eyes. I made them check out a book each time, too. And there was the walking back and forth to the car. That was good for them!
Here’s the real bummer of the situation. The excessive screen time in our family comes AFTER a full work day of wholesome and educational childhood entertainment. Take, for example, our schedule from one day this week:
6:33 a.m.: Wake up! Breakfast! Time to make a robot out of recyclables!
7:15 a.m.: Fight with brother because his robot is bigger than your robot. Screaming. Lose allowance.
7:30 a.m.: Make stuffed animals out of felt. Add inappropriate anatomical parts.
8:30 a.m.: Fight with brother. Screaming. Lose more allowance.
8:45 a.m.: Build Lego vehicle with strange weapons.
8:46 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos, even though mother doesn’t really understand Legos and gets frustrated with the diagrams.
8:47 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos.
8:48 a.m.: Can’t find a piece! Oh no! Screaming.
8:49 a.m.: Ask mother to help find piece ("Can you ask me nicely? I don’t respond to whining! Yes, you really are whining.").
8:50 a.m.-10:00 a.m.: Ask mother to help with Legos.
10:01 a.m.: Lego vehicle falls apart. Screaming.
10:02 a.m.: Time for more crafts! NO FAIR! He has better materials than I do!
10:03 a.m.: Fight with brother. Screaming. Lose more allowance.
10:04 a.m. -10:59 a.m.: Build life-sized tent out of paper. Your tent doesn’t stand up, but your brother’s does. More screaming.
11:00 a.m.: Eat lunch. Complain about selection. Beg for junk food.
11:45 a.m.: Go to pool. This is the far away pool, because the close-by pool is too boring.
12:15 – 1:30 p.m.: Swim happily. Mother rests, except to smile and nod every 30 seconds when you say, “Look at me! Did you see that?”
2:30 p.m.: Arrive home. Ask, “What are we going to do now?”
At this point, we have been busy with crafts and building and screaming and fighting and swimming for eight full hours. So we all engage in some review of first grade math:
Blue and Green are awake for 14 hours every day. They have been on the go for 8 hours already. How many more hours does the mother have to fill? If there are 3 more days in the week, how long before the mother goes crazy?
So I did what any BAD MOTHER would do, and I let the boys play their Wii. For just a little while. A few minutes, er….maybe an hour. Hours. Hell, I don’t know. Let’s just mention that we still had time for a science experiment before bedtime. And a game of cards (NO FAIR! He got better cards that I did! Screaming. Lose more allowance.).
8:31 p.m.: Kids asleep. Mother drinks.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Why Things Don't Get Done
First of all, I’d like to extend a hearty welcome to all the new readers from Facebook! It’s a first step to making this thing a bit more public, taking the pressure of the dedicated core of readers that I’ve been forcing to come here over the past few years.
My intention was to bring the blog out of the closet and then fill your week with a bunch of new entries. But I was stymied by two problems. The first problem was that Blue and Green did not have camp this week. So my days began like this:
6:33 a.m.
Green: Mommy, I’m bored
Me: Hrrhmh?
Green: There’s nothing to do at our house.
Me: i…need…coffee…before...i…can…talk…to…you
Green: Can we go snorkeling now?
Me: Hrrhmh?
Green: Where’s my bathing suit?
Me (growling): Honey, the sun isn’t up yet.
Blue: We could go build a giant helium-powered light apparatus that shoots bad guys and let’s us see underwater in the dark! Mommy, do we have a chainsaw?
Green: IT’S NOT FAIR. HE’S GETS TO BUILD THE GIANT HELIUM-POWERED LIGHT APPARATUS BEFORE I DO!!!!
Blue: (punches Green in stomach)
Green: My arm is broken! He hit me, and my arm is broken!
Me: I think he punched you in the stomach.
Green: You always take his side!
Needless to say, my lovely children didn’t help me get a lot of writing done this week. My other big challenge involved preparing for our upcoming family reunion vacation. It’s not the actual packing that’s the issue. I haven’t even begun that process. I don’t know if this happens to you (or if it’s my own particular brand of crazy), but in the days before any trip, I become obsessed with attending to obscure household details.
This time, it was the bathroom grout. Was it always that color? Shouldn’t it be white? I can’t explain why dirty grout would be a problem in an empty house, while it never bothers me when we’re actually in town. And so there I was, on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and bleach, and a myriad other bizarre cleaning tasks were already forming an unsteady pyramid in my mind. That shower curtain is looking a little funky – should I replace it? The rug in the boys’ bedroom is beginning to smell a little bit too much like boys – should I get carpet cleaner? Old Cliff Huxtable-esque sweaters are thrown in a haphazard heap on the closet floor – take to Goodwill? Stuff from my dissertation is still shoved in a cardboard box under my desk – is it time to organize.? Has the food in the emergency kit expired? Do we even have an emergency kit? Ack!!!
The Unnecessary Things to Do list was growing ever larger, and I was growing ever more anxious. And, still on my hands and knees, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been asked to referee a fight in a while. I hadn’t been asked to read a book or do a craft project or feed anyone junk food. I peered out of the bathroom and saw nothing. I strained to listen. There was quiet followed by the words “fuel” and “exploding” and “hee hee hee.” It suddenly became clear to me that my grout might be clean, but my unattended children were busy in the kitchen building a bomb.
I am in awe of creative people, especially when they say how they get their work done. You know, the author who writes her novel on the bus while commuting to work, or the painter who paints at 4 a.m. before the day starts. But after this week, I’m pretty sure that these people don’t have children or grout. I may not have entertained you very well this week, bloggers, but I did manage to save the neighborhood from 7-year-old terrorists. And I deserve something for that.
(Next time you come over to my house, check out the baseboards! Shiny!)
My intention was to bring the blog out of the closet and then fill your week with a bunch of new entries. But I was stymied by two problems. The first problem was that Blue and Green did not have camp this week. So my days began like this:
6:33 a.m.
Green: Mommy, I’m bored
Me: Hrrhmh?
Green: There’s nothing to do at our house.
Me: i…need…coffee…before...i…can…talk…to…you
Green: Can we go snorkeling now?
Me: Hrrhmh?
Green: Where’s my bathing suit?
Me (growling): Honey, the sun isn’t up yet.
Blue: We could go build a giant helium-powered light apparatus that shoots bad guys and let’s us see underwater in the dark! Mommy, do we have a chainsaw?
Green: IT’S NOT FAIR. HE’S GETS TO BUILD THE GIANT HELIUM-POWERED LIGHT APPARATUS BEFORE I DO!!!!
Blue: (punches Green in stomach)
Green: My arm is broken! He hit me, and my arm is broken!
Me: I think he punched you in the stomach.
Green: You always take his side!
Needless to say, my lovely children didn’t help me get a lot of writing done this week. My other big challenge involved preparing for our upcoming family reunion vacation. It’s not the actual packing that’s the issue. I haven’t even begun that process. I don’t know if this happens to you (or if it’s my own particular brand of crazy), but in the days before any trip, I become obsessed with attending to obscure household details.
This time, it was the bathroom grout. Was it always that color? Shouldn’t it be white? I can’t explain why dirty grout would be a problem in an empty house, while it never bothers me when we’re actually in town. And so there I was, on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and bleach, and a myriad other bizarre cleaning tasks were already forming an unsteady pyramid in my mind. That shower curtain is looking a little funky – should I replace it? The rug in the boys’ bedroom is beginning to smell a little bit too much like boys – should I get carpet cleaner? Old Cliff Huxtable-esque sweaters are thrown in a haphazard heap on the closet floor – take to Goodwill? Stuff from my dissertation is still shoved in a cardboard box under my desk – is it time to organize.? Has the food in the emergency kit expired? Do we even have an emergency kit? Ack!!!
The Unnecessary Things to Do list was growing ever larger, and I was growing ever more anxious. And, still on my hands and knees, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been asked to referee a fight in a while. I hadn’t been asked to read a book or do a craft project or feed anyone junk food. I peered out of the bathroom and saw nothing. I strained to listen. There was quiet followed by the words “fuel” and “exploding” and “hee hee hee.” It suddenly became clear to me that my grout might be clean, but my unattended children were busy in the kitchen building a bomb.
I am in awe of creative people, especially when they say how they get their work done. You know, the author who writes her novel on the bus while commuting to work, or the painter who paints at 4 a.m. before the day starts. But after this week, I’m pretty sure that these people don’t have children or grout. I may not have entertained you very well this week, bloggers, but I did manage to save the neighborhood from 7-year-old terrorists. And I deserve something for that.
(Next time you come over to my house, check out the baseboards! Shiny!)
Friday, July 31, 2009
Unstuck
I have mentioned before how hard Blue and Green’s first years were. You know – the ENDLESS NONSTOP SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING.
But perhaps I haven't told you as much about the tiny problem of the NO SLEEPING. And I have to say – all this time later, my body has still not quite recovered from all those YEARS of deprivation.
You are probably thinking to yourself, “Everybody has a tough time early on.” But let me tell you, this was different. I managed to get the two screaming babies that didn’t nap, that didn’t sleep at night. I was the mom at the playground swinging her kids at dawn. Michael was the dad going to the all night Starbucks drive-through. And our days were spent begging, pleading, bouncing, rocking, praying for 30 minutes of rest.
I remember going to the pediatrician's office, with a screaming butterball in each arm, and imploring the nurse to help us. I don’t know what I was thinking – this is the earthiest, no-antibiotic-prescribing doctor's office you could imagine -- but somehow I thought she’d pat me on the arm and give me a bottle of tranquilizers for the kids (or for me?). Instead, she smiled at me and said, “Have you tried the Baby Whisperer?”
I almost exploded. Of course we tried the whispering. We tried the crying-it-out and the crying-it-in. We tried having them sleep with us, in the car seat, on the couch. We tried songs and books and routines and the aforementioned begging. Nothing. No sleep.
And then, one evening, after TWO AND A HALF YEARS OF THIS, they fell asleep on the living room floor. And slept most of the night. And then the next day they took at nap at 9 and then another at 2. On the living room floor. So Michael and I lay down next to them and thanked our lucky stars for this gift.
Every night thereafter, those kids slept on the living room floor. And we didn’t mess with it, because HALLELUJAH they were sleeping. It didn’t matter that we no longer had access to the central space in the house. It didn’t matter that these were rather unorthodox arrangements. All that mattered was sleep.
Never fear, the kids now sleep in their own beds, usually all night long. But the consequences of that sleepless era are many. The most important consequence was the restriction that the lack-of-sleep placed on our sense of what was possible. And once they began to sleep like normal kids, we didn’t want to tinker with success. Naptime was sacred. Bedtime was inflexible. Frankly, we became inflexible.
I mention this now, because this has been the summer of big changes in our family. Maybe it’s the distance from those early years. Maybe it’s the boys’ increasing independence. But suddenly I have this drive to do all of the things we’ve been putting off in favor of rest.
First on my list was to take the boys camping. With such abundant natural beauty in our region, it’s a shame that we hadn’t taken them camping earlier. But, please – if there is ever the opportunity for a crappy night’s sleep, it’s while parked on the ground in a stuffy tent after a meal of burned marshmallows. This year, however, we had a new attitude: if they don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, they will make it up the next. Or perhaps more importantly, if WE don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, WE will make it up the next.
This is not to say that Michael and I did not go through our usual decision-making process before heading out to the wilderness. The conversation went something like this:
Michael: Do you think this is a good idea?
Me: It could be. But it could also ruin our lives.
Michael: What do you think is the worst thing that could happen?
Me: Well, it could rain, and the four of us would be jammed into the tent with nothing to do. And the boys would begin picking on each other, and we would start to scream at them and take away all of their allowance. And we WOULDN’T SLEEP AT ALL. Then we would go for weeks where everyone is crabby because they didn’t sleep on that one weekend. And then we would get swine flu, or bird flu, or bug flu, or whatever flu you get from not getting any sleep in the great outdoors.
Michael: Hmm. Anything besides that?
Since I couldn’t come up with any other dire predictions, we packed the car and headed out to experience our first camping adventure with the boys. We arrived, found our spot, unpacked our stuff, and held our breath. We fully anticipated Green to growl about not having access to his Wii. We fully anticipated Blue to turn to us with a bored expression and say, “What now?”
But you know what?
They loved it.
They loved the zippers on the tent. They loved the little paths that crisscrossed near our campsite. They loved the sticks and the stumps and the bugs and the bumps in the night. There was a small child somewhere in the campground that kept screaming, “I WANNA GO HOME! I WANNA GO HOME!” all night long. And the good news is….that child did not belong to us.
Tent:
Stump:
Spigot:
Gin:
The morning we were set to leave, we took a stroll along the beach at very low tide. It was the perfect family day – sun was shining, sand dollars and sea stars were littered everywhere, and we were all fairly rested. I was thinking to myself, “I think this trip has been a success. I can’t believe we accomplished this so easily.”
And then I fell into quicksand.
Yep. Quicksand.
I had never actually contemplated quicksand as a real phenomenon before. Isn’t it an Indiana Jones-ish idea? Something from cartoons? But no, there I was, sinking. It couldn’t be that I survived camping with my children just to die a slow, muddy death in Puget Sound. Could it?
Unfortunately, we were all a bit too alarmed by this event to think to snap a photo. But I looked something like this:
(photo from half-fast.org)
No, just kidding. Only my legs were submerged. But here’s the rub: if you are stuck in quicksand, and you manage to get one leg free, the only option you have is to put it back down in that very same quicksand as you attempt to free your other leg. And that sort of starts the process all over again.
Here’s the other bad thing that I discovered: if you get stuck in quicksand, no one can come over and help you, because they, too, will get stuck. So if, while you are sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, your child comes running at you to show you the pieces of dead crab that he found (yuck), you have to scream bloody murder, “Don’t you dare come anywhere near me or you will be sucked into the center of the earth!” And you have to sound calm while you are screaming, so as not to worry him that YOU are being sucked into the center of the earth (even though you are).
It occurred to me that one of my biggest problems with the quicksand was that the muck had suctioned in my shoes. Perhaps, I figured, if I could free my feet from my shoes, I could extract myself from this dilemma. But then it dawned on me that I only had that one pair of shoes with me on the trip. As I wrestled with the problem of spending the rest of the day shoeless, Michael hollered at me to reach my arm down into the mud and free my feet. “Do it!” he shouted. “Stop thinking about it.”
“First of all, “ I said to him, “I never stop thinking. Some people even pay me to think. I am a thinker. Second, if I reach my arm into the mud, I’ll get all disgusting.”
He said, “You are already disgusting. You’ve been camping.”
That was a good point. It was also good that I am somewhat limber, because reaching arm-deep into quicksand while staying upright is quite a feat. But I did it, and I even managed to get the shoe out and toss it up the bank. Then I jogged on one leg a bit, trying to prevent further sinkage, while I freed the other foot.
Phew.
So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t get so blinded by your own success that you fail to notice the steaming pile of quicksand at your feet? Always pack an extra set of shoes, because you never know when yours will be swallowed up by nature? Do your yoga so that you can be prepared to balance on one muddy hand?
All of those things are true. But I got to thinking that maybe it’s simpler than that: whatever problem we have, we probably will not sink all the way down. We will get out eventually.
(Note to pediatrician: Even though we no longer have sleep problems, I’d still like a tranquilizer or two for those rough days. Like when Green calls Blue a buttburger, and Blue hits him in the face with a Wii remote. That kind of thing.)
But perhaps I haven't told you as much about the tiny problem of the NO SLEEPING. And I have to say – all this time later, my body has still not quite recovered from all those YEARS of deprivation.
You are probably thinking to yourself, “Everybody has a tough time early on.” But let me tell you, this was different. I managed to get the two screaming babies that didn’t nap, that didn’t sleep at night. I was the mom at the playground swinging her kids at dawn. Michael was the dad going to the all night Starbucks drive-through. And our days were spent begging, pleading, bouncing, rocking, praying for 30 minutes of rest.
I remember going to the pediatrician's office, with a screaming butterball in each arm, and imploring the nurse to help us. I don’t know what I was thinking – this is the earthiest, no-antibiotic-prescribing doctor's office you could imagine -- but somehow I thought she’d pat me on the arm and give me a bottle of tranquilizers for the kids (or for me?). Instead, she smiled at me and said, “Have you tried the Baby Whisperer?”
I almost exploded. Of course we tried the whispering. We tried the crying-it-out and the crying-it-in. We tried having them sleep with us, in the car seat, on the couch. We tried songs and books and routines and the aforementioned begging. Nothing. No sleep.
And then, one evening, after TWO AND A HALF YEARS OF THIS, they fell asleep on the living room floor. And slept most of the night. And then the next day they took at nap at 9 and then another at 2. On the living room floor. So Michael and I lay down next to them and thanked our lucky stars for this gift.
Every night thereafter, those kids slept on the living room floor. And we didn’t mess with it, because HALLELUJAH they were sleeping. It didn’t matter that we no longer had access to the central space in the house. It didn’t matter that these were rather unorthodox arrangements. All that mattered was sleep.
Never fear, the kids now sleep in their own beds, usually all night long. But the consequences of that sleepless era are many. The most important consequence was the restriction that the lack-of-sleep placed on our sense of what was possible. And once they began to sleep like normal kids, we didn’t want to tinker with success. Naptime was sacred. Bedtime was inflexible. Frankly, we became inflexible.
I mention this now, because this has been the summer of big changes in our family. Maybe it’s the distance from those early years. Maybe it’s the boys’ increasing independence. But suddenly I have this drive to do all of the things we’ve been putting off in favor of rest.
First on my list was to take the boys camping. With such abundant natural beauty in our region, it’s a shame that we hadn’t taken them camping earlier. But, please – if there is ever the opportunity for a crappy night’s sleep, it’s while parked on the ground in a stuffy tent after a meal of burned marshmallows. This year, however, we had a new attitude: if they don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, they will make it up the next. Or perhaps more importantly, if WE don’t get a good night’s sleep one night, WE will make it up the next.
This is not to say that Michael and I did not go through our usual decision-making process before heading out to the wilderness. The conversation went something like this:
Michael: Do you think this is a good idea?
Me: It could be. But it could also ruin our lives.
Michael: What do you think is the worst thing that could happen?
Me: Well, it could rain, and the four of us would be jammed into the tent with nothing to do. And the boys would begin picking on each other, and we would start to scream at them and take away all of their allowance. And we WOULDN’T SLEEP AT ALL. Then we would go for weeks where everyone is crabby because they didn’t sleep on that one weekend. And then we would get swine flu, or bird flu, or bug flu, or whatever flu you get from not getting any sleep in the great outdoors.
Michael: Hmm. Anything besides that?
Since I couldn’t come up with any other dire predictions, we packed the car and headed out to experience our first camping adventure with the boys. We arrived, found our spot, unpacked our stuff, and held our breath. We fully anticipated Green to growl about not having access to his Wii. We fully anticipated Blue to turn to us with a bored expression and say, “What now?”
But you know what?
They loved it.
They loved the zippers on the tent. They loved the little paths that crisscrossed near our campsite. They loved the sticks and the stumps and the bugs and the bumps in the night. There was a small child somewhere in the campground that kept screaming, “I WANNA GO HOME! I WANNA GO HOME!” all night long. And the good news is….that child did not belong to us.
Tent:
Stump:
Spigot:
Gin:
The morning we were set to leave, we took a stroll along the beach at very low tide. It was the perfect family day – sun was shining, sand dollars and sea stars were littered everywhere, and we were all fairly rested. I was thinking to myself, “I think this trip has been a success. I can’t believe we accomplished this so easily.”
And then I fell into quicksand.
Yep. Quicksand.
I had never actually contemplated quicksand as a real phenomenon before. Isn’t it an Indiana Jones-ish idea? Something from cartoons? But no, there I was, sinking. It couldn’t be that I survived camping with my children just to die a slow, muddy death in Puget Sound. Could it?
Unfortunately, we were all a bit too alarmed by this event to think to snap a photo. But I looked something like this:
(photo from half-fast.org)No, just kidding. Only my legs were submerged. But here’s the rub: if you are stuck in quicksand, and you manage to get one leg free, the only option you have is to put it back down in that very same quicksand as you attempt to free your other leg. And that sort of starts the process all over again.
Here’s the other bad thing that I discovered: if you get stuck in quicksand, no one can come over and help you, because they, too, will get stuck. So if, while you are sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss, your child comes running at you to show you the pieces of dead crab that he found (yuck), you have to scream bloody murder, “Don’t you dare come anywhere near me or you will be sucked into the center of the earth!” And you have to sound calm while you are screaming, so as not to worry him that YOU are being sucked into the center of the earth (even though you are).
It occurred to me that one of my biggest problems with the quicksand was that the muck had suctioned in my shoes. Perhaps, I figured, if I could free my feet from my shoes, I could extract myself from this dilemma. But then it dawned on me that I only had that one pair of shoes with me on the trip. As I wrestled with the problem of spending the rest of the day shoeless, Michael hollered at me to reach my arm down into the mud and free my feet. “Do it!” he shouted. “Stop thinking about it.”
“First of all, “ I said to him, “I never stop thinking. Some people even pay me to think. I am a thinker. Second, if I reach my arm into the mud, I’ll get all disgusting.”
He said, “You are already disgusting. You’ve been camping.”
That was a good point. It was also good that I am somewhat limber, because reaching arm-deep into quicksand while staying upright is quite a feat. But I did it, and I even managed to get the shoe out and toss it up the bank. Then I jogged on one leg a bit, trying to prevent further sinkage, while I freed the other foot.
Phew.
So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t get so blinded by your own success that you fail to notice the steaming pile of quicksand at your feet? Always pack an extra set of shoes, because you never know when yours will be swallowed up by nature? Do your yoga so that you can be prepared to balance on one muddy hand?
All of those things are true. But I got to thinking that maybe it’s simpler than that: whatever problem we have, we probably will not sink all the way down. We will get out eventually.
(Note to pediatrician: Even though we no longer have sleep problems, I’d still like a tranquilizer or two for those rough days. Like when Green calls Blue a buttburger, and Blue hits him in the face with a Wii remote. That kind of thing.)
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Chocolate Syrup Will Add a Realistic Brown Tone to the Blood
OK, I will admit this: I never really liked Michael Jackson. Sure, I was “there” for the 1982 premiere of the Thriller video on MTV, and I was of the first generation of suburban kids to try and fail at moonwalking. But, when my parents presented me with my very own cassette tape of the Thriller album, I asked them to take it back to the store.
I have confessed this ambivalence to assorted friends over the past few weeks, and most have reacted with a touch of horror. “But what about the dancing?!?!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you think he was a genius?” Hmmm. Well, the dancing was good, and he was very creative. But I was just never…thrilled.
When he died, I was not surprised that there was a collective national gasp of shock. But I certainly didn’t imagine that there would be an elephant parade in his honor! Or a Maya Angelou poem ("Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind")! Or a butter sculpture! So I got to thinking -- perhaps I have underestimated the whole Michael Jackson phenomenon. Is there a way connect with this larger movement, to feel it for just a moment?
To that end, I decided to take to the streets and gauge the impact of Michael Jackson’s life and death in my own community. I was going to ask people about why they were so attached to him, how his music changed them, and how they were coping with his death.
So Last Friday evening, my friend ECM and I headed out to the 2009 World Record Thriller Dance. Here was the premise: You were supposed to dress up like a zombie (we didn’t – I regret that), wait in line for hours, and then join with thousands of similarly bloody individuals in a dance that filled several blocks of city streets.
When ECM and I embarked on our attempt at investigative reporting, we found that m
ost zombies were more than willing to let us pick their brains. Take, for instance, “Chubby Farmer Zombie," who joined us on the sidewalk to chat about the larger significance of the event. “Why did you dress up like a zombie tonight?” I asked him. “Because my wife made me,” he answered. “It didn’t have anything to do with Michael Jackson?” I continued. “Ah, yes!” he corrected. “Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson changed music, man! He was the KING OF POP. He just died, you know.” At that point, he was joined by his nagging wife (sporting an “I Love Brains” shirt, below) and their charming son, G.I. Joe.
My attention was diverted by “Vitamin Water Zombie,” who came up to us to ask us what we were doing. “I’m taking pictures of people like you!” I said. “Why?” he asked. “Because I want to write about why all these people came out tonight in costumes to do a dance from the 1980s.” He said, “I came because my ex-girlfriend wanted me to come.” I looked at him quizzically. “It’s complicated," he added.
There were others.
Zombie with a Brain on a Stick:
Corporate Logo Zombies:
Elvis Zombie:
Going to the Chapel Zombie:
Zombies Up Past Their Bedtime:
A Banana:
A Penguin:
Random Bloody Guy:
ECM and I planted ourselves with a good view of the main stage. The music started for the warm-up, and we could hear the perky dance instructor zombies begin their work.
Right, Left, Right, Left, Shoulder Step, Shoulder Step, Shuffle Back, Hop, Hop, Forward, Slide, Slide, Right Hip, Right Hip, Left Hip, Left Hip, Claws Up, Claws Up, Stare, Stare.
But it turned out that all we could really see was a confused and sweaty crowd of zombies milling around without a place to be. ECM and I were debating about what to do when we heard a zombie say, “Hello, Seattle! We are 300 zombies short of a record. Please go sign up so that we can be WORLD LEADERS!!!”
World leaders! Yes! The Senate election in Minnesota was won by a similar margin. Our participation mattered! We mattered! I grabbed ECM by the arm and dragged her down the street and over to the sign-up station. We weren’t mere journalists. We weren’t bystanders. We were going to DO the Thriller dance, join in this ghoulish display, be a part of HISTORY.
We signed up, gave our phone numbers for verification, and joined the throngs on our way to dance. Except…Wait….There was no dance. We found ourselves out on the street watching a costume contest. About 20 zombies were up on a platform, vying to win an XBOX.
I stood, practicing the dance in my head (Slide, Slide, Roar, Turn), while the competing zombies introduced themselves. Oddly, the fellow who won was not dressed as Michael Jackson; rather, he was dressed like Billy Mays.
Soon, the crowd dispersed. ECM and I looked at each other. Slide? Slide? Roar? Turn? Where was the dancing? We signed up! We were ready!
We made our way up to the front, where ECM found what seemed to be a zombie-in-charge. “When is the dance?” she asked. “The Thriller dance already happened,” he said. “You missed it.”
Missed it!!?
Missed it!!?
Missed it!!?
Days later, we are still at a loss. We were part of this huge event, this RECORD BREAKING event, and yet we weren’t. I have started a letter:
Dear Guinness Book of World’s Records,
On Friday, July 3, Seattle broke the Thriller dancing record with 3,848 zombies. You will need to subtract 2 from that total, because ECM and I somehow entered the twilight zone and didn’t actually do the dance.
Sincerely,
Zombie, Ph.D
I am also at a loss about the larger meaning of this evening. It didn't seem
to have much to do with Michael Jackson. Does this suggest that his music transcends his untimely death? That the Thriller Dance will live on, even though he has joined the Land of the Dead? Perhaps there was a sense that drenching oneself in ketchup and carrying around a fake amputated leg could create unity. After all, aren’t we always hungry for something common to rally around, to cry over, to feel together? But more likely, most people were simply happy to have an excuse to celebrate Halloween in July (and maybe win an Xbox along the way).
(Somebody out there was able to see the actual dance. Thanks, YouTube. The dancing starts 22 seconds in.)
I have confessed this ambivalence to assorted friends over the past few weeks, and most have reacted with a touch of horror. “But what about the dancing?!?!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you think he was a genius?” Hmmm. Well, the dancing was good, and he was very creative. But I was just never…thrilled.
When he died, I was not surprised that there was a collective national gasp of shock. But I certainly didn’t imagine that there would be an elephant parade in his honor! Or a Maya Angelou poem ("Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind")! Or a butter sculpture! So I got to thinking -- perhaps I have underestimated the whole Michael Jackson phenomenon. Is there a way connect with this larger movement, to feel it for just a moment?
To that end, I decided to take to the streets and gauge the impact of Michael Jackson’s life and death in my own community. I was going to ask people about why they were so attached to him, how his music changed them, and how they were coping with his death.
So Last Friday evening, my friend ECM and I headed out to the 2009 World Record Thriller Dance. Here was the premise: You were supposed to dress up like a zombie (we didn’t – I regret that), wait in line for hours, and then join with thousands of similarly bloody individuals in a dance that filled several blocks of city streets.
When ECM and I embarked on our attempt at investigative reporting, we found that m
ost zombies were more than willing to let us pick their brains. Take, for instance, “Chubby Farmer Zombie," who joined us on the sidewalk to chat about the larger significance of the event. “Why did you dress up like a zombie tonight?” I asked him. “Because my wife made me,” he answered. “It didn’t have anything to do with Michael Jackson?” I continued. “Ah, yes!” he corrected. “Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson changed music, man! He was the KING OF POP. He just died, you know.” At that point, he was joined by his nagging wife (sporting an “I Love Brains” shirt, below) and their charming son, G.I. Joe.
My attention was diverted by “Vitamin Water Zombie,” who came up to us to ask us what we were doing. “I’m taking pictures of people like you!” I said. “Why?” he asked. “Because I want to write about why all these people came out tonight in costumes to do a dance from the 1980s.” He said, “I came because my ex-girlfriend wanted me to come.” I looked at him quizzically. “It’s complicated," he added.
There were others.
Zombie with a Brain on a Stick:
Corporate Logo Zombies:
Elvis Zombie:
Going to the Chapel Zombie:
Zombies Up Past Their Bedtime:
A Banana:
A Penguin:
Random Bloody Guy:
ECM and I planted ourselves with a good view of the main stage. The music started for the warm-up, and we could hear the perky dance instructor zombies begin their work.
Right, Left, Right, Left, Shoulder Step, Shoulder Step, Shuffle Back, Hop, Hop, Forward, Slide, Slide, Right Hip, Right Hip, Left Hip, Left Hip, Claws Up, Claws Up, Stare, Stare.
But it turned out that all we could really see was a confused and sweaty crowd of zombies milling around without a place to be. ECM and I were debating about what to do when we heard a zombie say, “Hello, Seattle! We are 300 zombies short of a record. Please go sign up so that we can be WORLD LEADERS!!!”
World leaders! Yes! The Senate election in Minnesota was won by a similar margin. Our participation mattered! We mattered! I grabbed ECM by the arm and dragged her down the street and over to the sign-up station. We weren’t mere journalists. We weren’t bystanders. We were going to DO the Thriller dance, join in this ghoulish display, be a part of HISTORY.
We signed up, gave our phone numbers for verification, and joined the throngs on our way to dance. Except…Wait….There was no dance. We found ourselves out on the street watching a costume contest. About 20 zombies were up on a platform, vying to win an XBOX.
I stood, practicing the dance in my head (Slide, Slide, Roar, Turn), while the competing zombies introduced themselves. Oddly, the fellow who won was not dressed as Michael Jackson; rather, he was dressed like Billy Mays.
Soon, the crowd dispersed. ECM and I looked at each other. Slide? Slide? Roar? Turn? Where was the dancing? We signed up! We were ready!
We made our way up to the front, where ECM found what seemed to be a zombie-in-charge. “When is the dance?” she asked. “The Thriller dance already happened,” he said. “You missed it.”
Missed it!!?
Missed it!!?
Missed it!!?
Days later, we are still at a loss. We were part of this huge event, this RECORD BREAKING event, and yet we weren’t. I have started a letter:
Dear Guinness Book of World’s Records,
On Friday, July 3, Seattle broke the Thriller dancing record with 3,848 zombies. You will need to subtract 2 from that total, because ECM and I somehow entered the twilight zone and didn’t actually do the dance.
Sincerely,
Zombie, Ph.D
I am also at a loss about the larger meaning of this evening. It didn't seem
to have much to do with Michael Jackson. Does this suggest that his music transcends his untimely death? That the Thriller Dance will live on, even though he has joined the Land of the Dead? Perhaps there was a sense that drenching oneself in ketchup and carrying around a fake amputated leg could create unity. After all, aren’t we always hungry for something common to rally around, to cry over, to feel together? But more likely, most people were simply happy to have an excuse to celebrate Halloween in July (and maybe win an Xbox along the way).(Somebody out there was able to see the actual dance. Thanks, YouTube. The dancing starts 22 seconds in.)
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Talk
I should have known it was coming when Green brought home this book from the school library:
The boys have been tiptoe-ing around the question of babies. Recently, I overheard a conversation between them and a friend. It went something like this:
Blue: Jax, do you know how babies are born?
Jax: (slyly) I do.
Green: How?
Jax: The mommy squats down, and the baby squirts out her butt.
Together: Hee Hee Hee
Blue: I’m pretty sure that it squirts out her belly button. Remember, the baby is in the mommy’s stomach?
Jax: Yes, but a stomach is connected to the butt. That is how you poop.
Blue and Green: Ahhhhhh! Now we get it!
At that moment, I was a coward. I did not want to have that discussion, not then. I needed a cocktail first. I needed Michael to be home. I needed to hire a professional to take care of it. I cleared my throat and said, “Boys! Why don’t you all go outside and pretend to shoot things!”
“Yay!” they hooted and ran to the yard with their make-believe guns. I rested my head on the table, feeling like I had dodged a bullet.
A few days later, I was not as lucky. It was a sunny spring day, and we were all headed to the beach. In typical fashion, it was a heroic endeavor to get us all fed, dressed, and sunscreened. About 2/3 of the way through the process, I came into the living room to find the boys hunched over a large children’s encyclopedia.
I leaned over their shoulders and peered at the page. At the top, in neon letters, were the words “Human Reproduction.”
I almost dropped the large load I was carrying. The theme music to Friday the 13th filled my ears:
“Look!” Blue shrieked. “It’s a picture of a baby hatching!”
Hatching?!
I glanced up at Michael, who was half-way through smearing sunscreen on his own face. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I knew what he was saying: Now. We need to tell them now.
These days, the dominant philosophy about sex education is to demystify the topic early and often. The idea is that early parental intervention can protect against misinformation (see above) and crazy, inaccurate hypotheses (see above), and also open lines of communication. Of course, this kind of forward-thinking openness doesn't always produce the desired result. One afternoon, my friend, ECM, and her kindergartner were cooking together. She asked him, “Do you know how babies are made?” His head snapped back in surprise. ECM began to share the details. He suddenly put his hands over his ears and screamed, “I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t wanna hear it!”
I don’t blame him. Anyway, Michael and I decided that we would let our boys’ own curiosity guide the timing of the discussion, and here we were.
I cleared my throat. “Uh…boys? Babies don’t hatch from eggs.”
Green looked up suspiciously. He pointed to a picture of a fetus in the book. “Here’s a picture of a baby with a huge penis. It’s in an egg.”
I paused, then said, “That baby is in an amniotic sac. And that’s not a penis. That’s the cord that brings food to the baby while he’s in his mommy’s belly.”
Green said, “It sure looks like a penis. A giant monster penis!”
There were a couple of silent moments as we all reflected on the idea of a giant monster penis. Then Blue asked, “So how does the baby get in there?”
The Friday the 13th music played again:
Michael and I gazed at each other, waiting to see which one of us was going to take the bait. Usually, our problems fall into jurisdictions. If a birthday party is coming up, I’m the one who is responsible for the journey to Toys R Us. If there is a flying millipede with fangs whizzing through the living room, Michael has to deal with it. But this? This? We stared at each other for 10 seconds, then 20.
Blue repeated the question. “How do babies get in the mommy’s belly?”
Michael shifted, stammered, then dove in. “Well," he said, with a scientific tone. “See…there’s a sperm and an egg, and when they meet, a baby begins to grow.”
Blue was not satisfied. “Where does the sperm come from?” he asked.
Michael looked at me, eyes wide, pleading with me to take over. “From the daddy," I mumbled.
“What? I can’t hear you.” Green said.
“FROM THE DADDY. SPERM COMES FROM THE DADDY,” I wheezed.
“I don’t get it!” Green whined, growing exasperated.
Michael coughed. And coughed again. And then he clarified.
Green’s mouth hung open, his eyes like saucers. “You’re joking,” he challenged.
Michael shook his head and said, “I’m not joking.”
Then Green’s eyes got squinty. He said, “I don’t believe you.”
Blue jumped in. “ I know!” he exclaimed. “Green, you need to ask your teacher. She’ll know the truth.”
It just so happens that Green’s teacher is 7 months pregnant. I would not put it past my child to run into the classroom and say, “Mrs. Worksheet, my daddy says that he knows how that baby got in your belly!”
“ACK!” I shrieked. “No! No! Let’s keep this discussion in our family!” I paused, trying to compose myself. “Uh…do you have any questions?”
Blue said, “I do. I have a question.”
I braced myself. “What is it?”
“Can we go to the beach now?”
Blue: Jax, do you know how babies are born?
Jax: (slyly) I do.
Green: How?
Jax: The mommy squats down, and the baby squirts out her butt.
Together: Hee Hee Hee
Blue: I’m pretty sure that it squirts out her belly button. Remember, the baby is in the mommy’s stomach?
Jax: Yes, but a stomach is connected to the butt. That is how you poop.
Blue and Green: Ahhhhhh! Now we get it!
At that moment, I was a coward. I did not want to have that discussion, not then. I needed a cocktail first. I needed Michael to be home. I needed to hire a professional to take care of it. I cleared my throat and said, “Boys! Why don’t you all go outside and pretend to shoot things!”
“Yay!” they hooted and ran to the yard with their make-believe guns. I rested my head on the table, feeling like I had dodged a bullet.
A few days later, I was not as lucky. It was a sunny spring day, and we were all headed to the beach. In typical fashion, it was a heroic endeavor to get us all fed, dressed, and sunscreened. About 2/3 of the way through the process, I came into the living room to find the boys hunched over a large children’s encyclopedia.
I leaned over their shoulders and peered at the page. At the top, in neon letters, were the words “Human Reproduction.”
I almost dropped the large load I was carrying. The theme music to Friday the 13th filled my ears:
“Look!” Blue shrieked. “It’s a picture of a baby hatching!”
Hatching?!
I glanced up at Michael, who was half-way through smearing sunscreen on his own face. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I knew what he was saying: Now. We need to tell them now.
These days, the dominant philosophy about sex education is to demystify the topic early and often. The idea is that early parental intervention can protect against misinformation (see above) and crazy, inaccurate hypotheses (see above), and also open lines of communication. Of course, this kind of forward-thinking openness doesn't always produce the desired result. One afternoon, my friend, ECM, and her kindergartner were cooking together. She asked him, “Do you know how babies are made?” His head snapped back in surprise. ECM began to share the details. He suddenly put his hands over his ears and screamed, “I don’t wanna hear it! I don’t wanna hear it!”
I don’t blame him. Anyway, Michael and I decided that we would let our boys’ own curiosity guide the timing of the discussion, and here we were.
I cleared my throat. “Uh…boys? Babies don’t hatch from eggs.”
Green looked up suspiciously. He pointed to a picture of a fetus in the book. “Here’s a picture of a baby with a huge penis. It’s in an egg.”
I paused, then said, “That baby is in an amniotic sac. And that’s not a penis. That’s the cord that brings food to the baby while he’s in his mommy’s belly.”
Green said, “It sure looks like a penis. A giant monster penis!”
There were a couple of silent moments as we all reflected on the idea of a giant monster penis. Then Blue asked, “So how does the baby get in there?”
The Friday the 13th music played again:
Michael and I gazed at each other, waiting to see which one of us was going to take the bait. Usually, our problems fall into jurisdictions. If a birthday party is coming up, I’m the one who is responsible for the journey to Toys R Us. If there is a flying millipede with fangs whizzing through the living room, Michael has to deal with it. But this? This? We stared at each other for 10 seconds, then 20.
Blue repeated the question. “How do babies get in the mommy’s belly?”
Michael shifted, stammered, then dove in. “Well," he said, with a scientific tone. “See…there’s a sperm and an egg, and when they meet, a baby begins to grow.”
Blue was not satisfied. “Where does the sperm come from?” he asked.
Michael looked at me, eyes wide, pleading with me to take over. “From the daddy," I mumbled.
“What? I can’t hear you.” Green said.
“FROM THE DADDY. SPERM COMES FROM THE DADDY,” I wheezed.
“I don’t get it!” Green whined, growing exasperated.
Michael coughed. And coughed again. And then he clarified.
Green’s mouth hung open, his eyes like saucers. “You’re joking,” he challenged.
Michael shook his head and said, “I’m not joking.”
Then Green’s eyes got squinty. He said, “I don’t believe you.”
Blue jumped in. “ I know!” he exclaimed. “Green, you need to ask your teacher. She’ll know the truth.”
It just so happens that Green’s teacher is 7 months pregnant. I would not put it past my child to run into the classroom and say, “Mrs. Worksheet, my daddy says that he knows how that baby got in your belly!”
“ACK!” I shrieked. “No! No! Let’s keep this discussion in our family!” I paused, trying to compose myself. “Uh…do you have any questions?”
Blue said, “I do. I have a question.”
I braced myself. “What is it?”
“Can we go to the beach now?”
Monday, May 11, 2009
Seven
Blue and Green turned 7 a few weeks ago. I always get a little misty-eyed when I think about them getting bigger, and 7 seems so…old. But, truthfully, the event itself made me weary. When I woke up that day, I came into the kitchen and said, “Look at the birthday boys!!” Green looked at me and said in a snotty voice, “So where’s my birthday breakfast?”
Birthday breakfast?!
“What do you mean, Green?” I asked. He furrowed his brow. “Every year I’m supposed to get a special breakfast on my special day.” I growled, “Really? I didn’t get that memo.” I tossed a can of frosting onto the table in front of him. “Spread this on your Cheerios,” I said, reaching for my coffee. “Knock yourself out.”
I don’t know about you, but I remember my birthday being A DAY. With maybe a piece of cake and a song. Blue and Green expect their birthday to be an endless PARADE OF LOVE AND SUGAR. They had a party at a crazy bouncy place with 24 of their sweaty friends (Madagascar 2 cake, with two airplanes on it!!). Then there was their class party (brownies + frosting + marshmallows and candy on top!). Later, there was the celebration with their little league team (rice crispie treats!). And apparently we were supposed to take them out to dinner as well (at the Spaghetti House, where you can by Ragu covered noodles for $10 a plate. The boys say it’s SO MUCH BETTER than the kind we have at home.).
To me, Blue and Green’s 7th birthday turned out to be more of a soul-sucking drain of resources than a rite of passage. But I have to admit that something has changed in the last year. There has been a quiet shift from cute little cherubs to… boys. As they were heading out the door to school that morning, I said, “Wow. You guys are really growing up.” Blue looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, DUH.”
Duh, indeed, but I am still shocked at all the differences. Lately, I have witnessed an increasing nonchalance about their old favorites, trucks and buses. Curious George has joined preschool favorites Dora and Diego in the Land of Forgotten Characters. They ask me to stop when I sing the song about Port-a-potties that they made up last summer. “Mommy,” Green said, “That song is hurting my ears.” “What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “You WROTE that song!” “I know,” Green answered, “but that is a kindergarten song. And we’re first graders.”
Ah, yes. Of course. First grade. The year is almost over, and I haven’t really said a thing about it, have I? I will preface my comments with the important detail that my kids like first grade. They claim that it’s way better than kindergarten. But I can’t believe that this is true. Kindergarten was newness and finger paint and potato-decorating. Kindergarten had songs and Choice Time and taxidermy.
First grade has work.
Lots of work.
To the credit of the teachers and this curriculum, my kids are certainly excelling. Last year, they were counting to 100. This year, they’re doing multiplication. Last year, it was the A-B-Cs. This year, they are in “book clubs.” But, as thrilled as I am that they are plunging ahead into the world of knowledge, I have to admit to some ambivalence. Can’t you have multiplication AND finger paint? Chapter books AND Choice Time?
I am still a weekly classroom volunteer, but I am definitely less enthusiastic. Remember volunteering last year? My job was to help kids make peacocks out of paint and to construct Irish Derby Hats out of newspaper. This year, my job has been to work with the kid who can’t focus on his math, the one who is slipping behind as his peers hurtle forward to algebra. This is what my typical volunteering experience has been like this year:
Me: Hello, Jasper! Mrs. Taskmaster wants me to help you with your double-digit addition. Then we can get to work on those fractions!
Jasper: What?
Me: Math, Jasper. Let’s do 42 + 37 + 63 + 50 + 17. Quick! In your head! Then tell me what 1/3 of the sum is.
Jasper: Who are you?
Me: I’m Blue’s mom.
Jasper: Do you even know how to do that problem?
Me: I can’t do it in my head unless I have another cup of coffee. I could, however, solve the problem with a paper and pencil. But you are not allowed to do math the way I learned it. You are supposed to intuit it.
Jasper: So you are saying that you can’t do it, aren’t you? Don’t you have a PhD?
Me: Umm….yes, but my PhD is not in math.
Jasper: I think you are a big fraud.
Jasper is right. The way that I learned how to add and subtract and multiply and divide got recycled long ago. And the way that I learned how to spell? By memorizing? Forget it. My kids are “feeling the sounds” or something like that. I wasn’t very good at the kindergarten crafts, but I find that I am even less competent at first grade academics.
To better illustrate how much things have changed, I want to compare Blue’s Mothers’ Day gift to me last year with the one that he created this year. Last year, Blue spent an afternoon at school decorating a flower pot for me. It had hearts all over it and the painted words, “I love you.” The teacher gave each child a droopy flower to plant, and Voila! I had a lovely hand-made memento of my child’s affection (Actually, the teacher did not consider what would happen to this gift when it was toted home in a backpack. What I really received was a sack full of dirt and an empty pot).
This year, Blue gave me a bubble diagram for Mother’s Day. Awww, honey, how romantic! The kids have been working on these kinds of diagrams all year. I am not sure why. I have a feeling that bubble diagrams are going to be covered on the Big State Standardized Test, and Mothers' Day is just another opportunity to practice, practice, practice.
Birthday breakfast?!
“What do you mean, Green?” I asked. He furrowed his brow. “Every year I’m supposed to get a special breakfast on my special day.” I growled, “Really? I didn’t get that memo.” I tossed a can of frosting onto the table in front of him. “Spread this on your Cheerios,” I said, reaching for my coffee. “Knock yourself out.”
I don’t know about you, but I remember my birthday being A DAY. With maybe a piece of cake and a song. Blue and Green expect their birthday to be an endless PARADE OF LOVE AND SUGAR. They had a party at a crazy bouncy place with 24 of their sweaty friends (Madagascar 2 cake, with two airplanes on it!!). Then there was their class party (brownies + frosting + marshmallows and candy on top!). Later, there was the celebration with their little league team (rice crispie treats!). And apparently we were supposed to take them out to dinner as well (at the Spaghetti House, where you can by Ragu covered noodles for $10 a plate. The boys say it’s SO MUCH BETTER than the kind we have at home.).
To me, Blue and Green’s 7th birthday turned out to be more of a soul-sucking drain of resources than a rite of passage. But I have to admit that something has changed in the last year. There has been a quiet shift from cute little cherubs to… boys. As they were heading out the door to school that morning, I said, “Wow. You guys are really growing up.” Blue looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, DUH.”
Duh, indeed, but I am still shocked at all the differences. Lately, I have witnessed an increasing nonchalance about their old favorites, trucks and buses. Curious George has joined preschool favorites Dora and Diego in the Land of Forgotten Characters. They ask me to stop when I sing the song about Port-a-potties that they made up last summer. “Mommy,” Green said, “That song is hurting my ears.” “What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “You WROTE that song!” “I know,” Green answered, “but that is a kindergarten song. And we’re first graders.”
Ah, yes. Of course. First grade. The year is almost over, and I haven’t really said a thing about it, have I? I will preface my comments with the important detail that my kids like first grade. They claim that it’s way better than kindergarten. But I can’t believe that this is true. Kindergarten was newness and finger paint and potato-decorating. Kindergarten had songs and Choice Time and taxidermy.
First grade has work.
Lots of work.
To the credit of the teachers and this curriculum, my kids are certainly excelling. Last year, they were counting to 100. This year, they’re doing multiplication. Last year, it was the A-B-Cs. This year, they are in “book clubs.” But, as thrilled as I am that they are plunging ahead into the world of knowledge, I have to admit to some ambivalence. Can’t you have multiplication AND finger paint? Chapter books AND Choice Time?
I am still a weekly classroom volunteer, but I am definitely less enthusiastic. Remember volunteering last year? My job was to help kids make peacocks out of paint and to construct Irish Derby Hats out of newspaper. This year, my job has been to work with the kid who can’t focus on his math, the one who is slipping behind as his peers hurtle forward to algebra. This is what my typical volunteering experience has been like this year:
Me: Hello, Jasper! Mrs. Taskmaster wants me to help you with your double-digit addition. Then we can get to work on those fractions!
Jasper: What?
Me: Math, Jasper. Let’s do 42 + 37 + 63 + 50 + 17. Quick! In your head! Then tell me what 1/3 of the sum is.
Jasper: Who are you?
Me: I’m Blue’s mom.
Jasper: Do you even know how to do that problem?
Me: I can’t do it in my head unless I have another cup of coffee. I could, however, solve the problem with a paper and pencil. But you are not allowed to do math the way I learned it. You are supposed to intuit it.
Jasper: So you are saying that you can’t do it, aren’t you? Don’t you have a PhD?
Me: Umm….yes, but my PhD is not in math.
Jasper: I think you are a big fraud.
Jasper is right. The way that I learned how to add and subtract and multiply and divide got recycled long ago. And the way that I learned how to spell? By memorizing? Forget it. My kids are “feeling the sounds” or something like that. I wasn’t very good at the kindergarten crafts, but I find that I am even less competent at first grade academics.
To better illustrate how much things have changed, I want to compare Blue’s Mothers’ Day gift to me last year with the one that he created this year. Last year, Blue spent an afternoon at school decorating a flower pot for me. It had hearts all over it and the painted words, “I love you.” The teacher gave each child a droopy flower to plant, and Voila! I had a lovely hand-made memento of my child’s affection (Actually, the teacher did not consider what would happen to this gift when it was toted home in a backpack. What I really received was a sack full of dirt and an empty pot).
This year, Blue gave me a bubble diagram for Mother’s Day. Awww, honey, how romantic! The kids have been working on these kinds of diagrams all year. I am not sure why. I have a feeling that bubble diagrams are going to be covered on the Big State Standardized Test, and Mothers' Day is just another opportunity to practice, practice, practice.
As you can see, Blue laid out several of my most pleasing attributes:
1) I have a great sense of humor (That’s true, though I hate to break it to him that my laughter at his knock-knock jokes is not genuine.).
2) I am a nice person (unless you ask me to make you a special birthday breakfast before I have my morning coffee).
3) I give him things that he wants (though it seems to me that just last week he was screaming, “You never give me anything I want!!!”).
4) I am a good cook (No one has ever said this to me before. I guess I have perfected my Noodles With Butter dish. ).
5) I am playful (This is true, unless I am doing Facebook. Then I tend to say things like, “Go off and find something to do!! Why do we have a house full of toys if you’re not going to use them?!”).
6. I use my computer a lot (Oh no! I guess I am spending too much time on Facebook. Sorry, kids.)
Sigh. As I write this, I am tucking the bubble diagram into my scrapbook ( Just kidding. I don’t have a scrapbook – I have a “memory pile” next to my desk.). I am also doing long division problems in my head, so that I can be ready for second grade volunteering. After all those years where the days went by so slowly, I suddenly feel the increasing speed of the boys’ childhoods. I think that if I could have picked out my perfect Mothers' Day present, it would have been to hold life still for just a moment -- just one moment, before it wriggled out of my hands and dashed on.
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Gutter
Warning: The contents of this entry may be objectionable to some readers. If you are opposed to references to bodily functions, smells, or noises, you should turn back now. If you are squeamish about underpants, especially random dirty underpants, be advised that there is DANGER AHEAD.
I have learned many things about parenthood. I have learned how to deal with a child's ear pain (Motrin, not Tylenol. Scotch for me). I have learned that, to a six year old, a sprinkle of basil on pizza counts as a vegetable (and will not be tolerated). I have learned that identical objects are not identical -- your brother's will always be better than yours, and IT'S NOT FAIR. But I have to say that the one thing that has surprised me over the past year or two is the total smearing of our lives with POTTY TALK.
About six months ago, my boys became enamored with the Captain Underpants series of books. You know these books, the ones with titles like “The Madcap Adventures of Professor Poopypants.” I realized then that all it takes to make a buck in this world is to tap into the timeless joy that can be found in the idea of poop. Dav Pilkey, the author of the series, simply types a few potty words on each page, draws some rough sketches of a school principal in his BVDS, and zillions of little boys across the country are happy to lay down $4.99 a pop for the pleasure of this kind of “literature.” Better yet, there’s a CD of Captain Underpants potty talk songs (sung by a Japanese synth band) that your child can purchase and play on continuous repeat (Who can resist a song called, “Oops I farted, Oops I burped”).
I do know that there are certain families that forbid potty talk, or forbid it at certain times of the day, or in certain places. One family we know has a rule that you can only use potty talk in the bathroom. Of course, all this means is that their kids each go stand in a separate bathroom and holler their potty words across the house.
Personally, I am rather beleaguered by all the forbidding I have to do. Daily, I have to forbid hitting, punching, kicking, saying mean things, biting, and hiding your brother’s toothbrush in or around the toilet. And just today I learned that I apparently need to forbid digging large holes in the middle of the lawn. I am tired of screaming, “No! No! No!” all day. And that means, at our house, the potty talk will continue to flow in a steady stream.
Occasionally, we can use the potty fixation to our advantage. A few weeks ago, Michael and I took Blue and Green on a little winter hike. Michael was trying to explain the complex ecosystem to the boys, pointing out the presence of an enormous nurse log that was hosting the growth of a new tree. “See that dead tree on its side," Michael began. “You can see its root structure.” Green asked, “Mommy, when are we going home?” Michael persisted, “Isn’t this cool, guys? This tree died and a whole new tree is growing on top of its trunk.” Blue said, “I’m tired. Is it time for ice cream yet?”
Finally, I piped in. “Boys,” I said, “Go check out that tree’s butt!” And off they ran to play in the forest.
We do try to help the boys decide which situations are not ripe for this kind of material. They already know that school is not the ideal place to discuss potty-related topics (though let me tell you, I have learned some things about elementary school boys’ bathrooms that a prim mother doesn’t need to know). We have also asked the boys to refrain from excessive potty talk when we have guests in the house. This rule is generally effective, but occasionally some special circumstances arise. Take, for instance, my in-laws’ visit last December. We were all happily sitting around the kitchen table, talking about mild and wholesome things, when the phone rang. It was our neighbor, calling with hysteria about some “suspicious characters” in the neighborhood.
I should probably back up and mention where we live. It’s a little 1950s neighborhood that is filled with the “original owners.” That means, in polite terms, that the social scene around here is pretty sedate. Nothing really happens, but still, this one neighbor is on the lookout. Don’t even think about stumbling drunk along our street! By all means, clean up after your dog! And if dandelions take over your lawn, watch out! This lady will call 911.
So, anyway, we were all sitting around in the kitchen when our neighbor sounded her alarm: A car! Parked outside our house! Strange people! Doing strange things! I peeked outside, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar grey beater. Parked. Empty. No strange people. “Thanks,” we told the vigilant neighbor. “We will stand guard.” But, of course, we went back to whatever we were doing, and when we looked outside again, the car was gone.
The next day, when the kids and I were heading out of the house to go to school, Blue stopped abruptly and squealed with delight.
“What is it????” I asked, startled.
“UNDERPANTS!!!!!” He shrieked at top volume. “Mommy! Look! There’s a pair of stinky, smelly underpants in the road!”
And he was right. In the precise spot where the strange vehicle was parked the day before lay a striped pair of Victoria’s Secret panties. For me, this presented a set of perplexing problems: What was I going to do with a pair of someone else’s panties just steps from my front door? Was there a way to dispose of them without actually touching them? And, most importantly, how was I going to tell my mother-in-law not to trip on the USED bloomers decorating our property? For Green, this was a delightful twist to an otherwise ordinary morning. “Mommy,” he said. “This is shaping up to be a really good day!”
By now you are probably wondering why I am sharing this piece of news with you. Well, let me tell you, dear readers, YOU are going to participate in the Saga of the Traveling Underpants. Each month, we will go together out into the street. Will the panties still be there? Will someone move them? Or will they decompose? Maybe this is a question for environmental science: What happens to synthetic fabric made by children in Bangladesh if you expose it to the elements over time?
We have already learned that a Weather Event will not carry the underpants down the street in a flow of ice and water. We have also learned that the passage of various garbage and recycling trucks does not propel the panties away from our house and toward someone else’s. And, finally, we have noticed that few people actually mention the presence of the underpants when they come to visit us. Does this mean they don’t notice that they just plopped their kicky leather boots on top of someone’s unmentionables? Or does it mean that they think that the underpants are MINE?
Here it is - the first installment (covered in a little snow):
I have learned many things about parenthood. I have learned how to deal with a child's ear pain (Motrin, not Tylenol. Scotch for me). I have learned that, to a six year old, a sprinkle of basil on pizza counts as a vegetable (and will not be tolerated). I have learned that identical objects are not identical -- your brother's will always be better than yours, and IT'S NOT FAIR. But I have to say that the one thing that has surprised me over the past year or two is the total smearing of our lives with POTTY TALK.
About six months ago, my boys became enamored with the Captain Underpants series of books. You know these books, the ones with titles like “The Madcap Adventures of Professor Poopypants.” I realized then that all it takes to make a buck in this world is to tap into the timeless joy that can be found in the idea of poop. Dav Pilkey, the author of the series, simply types a few potty words on each page, draws some rough sketches of a school principal in his BVDS, and zillions of little boys across the country are happy to lay down $4.99 a pop for the pleasure of this kind of “literature.” Better yet, there’s a CD of Captain Underpants potty talk songs (sung by a Japanese synth band) that your child can purchase and play on continuous repeat (Who can resist a song called, “Oops I farted, Oops I burped”).
I do know that there are certain families that forbid potty talk, or forbid it at certain times of the day, or in certain places. One family we know has a rule that you can only use potty talk in the bathroom. Of course, all this means is that their kids each go stand in a separate bathroom and holler their potty words across the house.
Personally, I am rather beleaguered by all the forbidding I have to do. Daily, I have to forbid hitting, punching, kicking, saying mean things, biting, and hiding your brother’s toothbrush in or around the toilet. And just today I learned that I apparently need to forbid digging large holes in the middle of the lawn. I am tired of screaming, “No! No! No!” all day. And that means, at our house, the potty talk will continue to flow in a steady stream.
Occasionally, we can use the potty fixation to our advantage. A few weeks ago, Michael and I took Blue and Green on a little winter hike. Michael was trying to explain the complex ecosystem to the boys, pointing out the presence of an enormous nurse log that was hosting the growth of a new tree. “See that dead tree on its side," Michael began. “You can see its root structure.” Green asked, “Mommy, when are we going home?” Michael persisted, “Isn’t this cool, guys? This tree died and a whole new tree is growing on top of its trunk.” Blue said, “I’m tired. Is it time for ice cream yet?”
Finally, I piped in. “Boys,” I said, “Go check out that tree’s butt!” And off they ran to play in the forest.
We do try to help the boys decide which situations are not ripe for this kind of material. They already know that school is not the ideal place to discuss potty-related topics (though let me tell you, I have learned some things about elementary school boys’ bathrooms that a prim mother doesn’t need to know). We have also asked the boys to refrain from excessive potty talk when we have guests in the house. This rule is generally effective, but occasionally some special circumstances arise. Take, for instance, my in-laws’ visit last December. We were all happily sitting around the kitchen table, talking about mild and wholesome things, when the phone rang. It was our neighbor, calling with hysteria about some “suspicious characters” in the neighborhood.
I should probably back up and mention where we live. It’s a little 1950s neighborhood that is filled with the “original owners.” That means, in polite terms, that the social scene around here is pretty sedate. Nothing really happens, but still, this one neighbor is on the lookout. Don’t even think about stumbling drunk along our street! By all means, clean up after your dog! And if dandelions take over your lawn, watch out! This lady will call 911.
So, anyway, we were all sitting around in the kitchen when our neighbor sounded her alarm: A car! Parked outside our house! Strange people! Doing strange things! I peeked outside, and sure enough, there was an unfamiliar grey beater. Parked. Empty. No strange people. “Thanks,” we told the vigilant neighbor. “We will stand guard.” But, of course, we went back to whatever we were doing, and when we looked outside again, the car was gone.
The next day, when the kids and I were heading out of the house to go to school, Blue stopped abruptly and squealed with delight.
“What is it????” I asked, startled.
“UNDERPANTS!!!!!” He shrieked at top volume. “Mommy! Look! There’s a pair of stinky, smelly underpants in the road!”
And he was right. In the precise spot where the strange vehicle was parked the day before lay a striped pair of Victoria’s Secret panties. For me, this presented a set of perplexing problems: What was I going to do with a pair of someone else’s panties just steps from my front door? Was there a way to dispose of them without actually touching them? And, most importantly, how was I going to tell my mother-in-law not to trip on the USED bloomers decorating our property? For Green, this was a delightful twist to an otherwise ordinary morning. “Mommy,” he said. “This is shaping up to be a really good day!”
By now you are probably wondering why I am sharing this piece of news with you. Well, let me tell you, dear readers, YOU are going to participate in the Saga of the Traveling Underpants. Each month, we will go together out into the street. Will the panties still be there? Will someone move them? Or will they decompose? Maybe this is a question for environmental science: What happens to synthetic fabric made by children in Bangladesh if you expose it to the elements over time?
We have already learned that a Weather Event will not carry the underpants down the street in a flow of ice and water. We have also learned that the passage of various garbage and recycling trucks does not propel the panties away from our house and toward someone else’s. And, finally, we have noticed that few people actually mention the presence of the underpants when they come to visit us. Does this mean they don’t notice that they just plopped their kicky leather boots on top of someone’s unmentionables? Or does it mean that they think that the underpants are MINE?
Here it is - the first installment (covered in a little snow):
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Lunar New Year
Each year at school the boys have a Chinese New Year assembly. They get very excited about this event, because they get to watch some fancy dancing and acquire fortune cookies and little red bags of chocolate coins (most likely made in New Jersey). At our house we also celebrate the Lunar New Year, but with a slightly different purpose (and less dancing. No Billy Idol in this case.). We use the New Year as an opportunity to modify annoying behavior.
For instance, we declared 2006 as the Year of the Pot. (Not the Michael Phelps kind of pot -- come on!). At that point, our enormous almost-four-year-olds were refusing to go to the toilet, and I was in that "Will my kids be in diapers in college?" stage of worry. And, if I'm truthful, I was getting kind of embarrassed about taking them out in public. What was I supposed to do -- heave my four foot, 55 pound preschoolers up on a changing table? So the Year of the Pot involved a lot of rather hefty bribes and a little bit of lying to make the kids think they came up with the idea. The result: everyone in this family will be wearing underpants at college.
But, of course, those of you who are parents know that many endeavors are more complicated than they first seem. For our kids, the 2006 project required an extra step. As a result, 2007 became the Year of the Wipe. I will not elaborate on this process here but will offer the confession that the results of the 2007 activities continue to be less impressive than they should be.
2008 was the Year of the Pronoun. I'm pretty sure I've talked about our pronoun issues before, but I will offer a recap. Blue and Green look alike. They have the same interests, and they stick to each other like glue. This has always been confusing to people. And then, when they were little, they had the added quirk of ignoring the basic rules of grammar. When talking about themselves, they would use the second person. If Blue was hungry, he would say, "You are hungry!" If Green was upset, he would say, "You are not happy!" Needless to say, this was a problem for anyone who did not know the code.
Before the Year of the Pronoun, we tried a number of pronoun incentive plans, most notably the Pronoun Sticker Chart. For every correct pronoun, a kid could get a sticker. This worked for something like two minutes. I remember standing in the kitchen with a big book of stickers from Target, armed with patience and a chirpy attitude. "Who can give me an 'I' sentence?" I asked. "I can!" Blue shouted, and was rewarded with a sticker. "Me, too!" said Green. "I want another one," Blue said, laughing. "Me, too!" said Green. Stickers were flying onto the chart. Woo! What fun! Then Green turned to me with a frown and said, "You're done."
One day, for reasons unclear, the boys switched from using the second person to the third person. So if Green said, "Green hates vegetables," he was talking about himself. It seemed like a step in the right direction, but yet -- still a confusing mess. The Year of the Pronoun promised to be a busy one. Oh yes -- I was going to send those kids to college with clean underwear AND the ability to communicate with others.
And you know what -- it worked! The boys started using "I" and "me" correctly and with ease. Though if I'm honest, I'll admit that I probably had nothing to do with it.
That brings me to 2009. Green does indeed hate vegetables, and Blue will happily hate anything that Green hates. And what began as a toddlery distaste for variety is now just poor nutrition. And, you know, I'm unemployed and have lots of time to worry about ending up on a TLC reality show called BAD MOTHERS AND THE KIDS THAT THEY MESSED UP.
Last weekend, my parents took us to a nearby Chinese restaurant. The boys ordered their usual dish of (beige) noodles with (beige) tofu and (white) rice with NO VEGETABLES. Each time we go to this restaurant we have to somehow translate, "Please do not put onions or basil or any sort of green fleck that might be confused with a vegetable on the noodles, or an epic hissy fit will ensue." And it occurred to me at that moment, 2009 is going to be the Year of the Vegetable.
Yesterday I began the hard work of selling vegetables as tasty treats. I pulled out the cookbook my Great Aunt Martha gave me as a wedding gift, the kind of cookbook that has a whole section on cooking vegetables with marshmallows. And I found this carrot recipe that managed to take the vegetable OUT of the carrot (Boil the crap out of it, coat it in brown sugar and butter). I presented this dish to the boys with the following preface: "Boys! Try this yummy piece of orange candy covered in fat!"
As it turns out, you can put lipstick on a carrot, but it's still a carrot.
Don't worry -- I'm not afraid. 2009 has just begun. It's the year of HOPE! and CHANGE! Right? With any luck, we can transform these kids' beige palates, one marshmallowy bite at a time. YES WE CAN!!!
For instance, we declared 2006 as the Year of the Pot. (Not the Michael Phelps kind of pot -- come on!). At that point, our enormous almost-four-year-olds were refusing to go to the toilet, and I was in that "Will my kids be in diapers in college?" stage of worry. And, if I'm truthful, I was getting kind of embarrassed about taking them out in public. What was I supposed to do -- heave my four foot, 55 pound preschoolers up on a changing table? So the Year of the Pot involved a lot of rather hefty bribes and a little bit of lying to make the kids think they came up with the idea. The result: everyone in this family will be wearing underpants at college.
But, of course, those of you who are parents know that many endeavors are more complicated than they first seem. For our kids, the 2006 project required an extra step. As a result, 2007 became the Year of the Wipe. I will not elaborate on this process here but will offer the confession that the results of the 2007 activities continue to be less impressive than they should be.
2008 was the Year of the Pronoun. I'm pretty sure I've talked about our pronoun issues before, but I will offer a recap. Blue and Green look alike. They have the same interests, and they stick to each other like glue. This has always been confusing to people. And then, when they were little, they had the added quirk of ignoring the basic rules of grammar. When talking about themselves, they would use the second person. If Blue was hungry, he would say, "You are hungry!" If Green was upset, he would say, "You are not happy!" Needless to say, this was a problem for anyone who did not know the code.
Before the Year of the Pronoun, we tried a number of pronoun incentive plans, most notably the Pronoun Sticker Chart. For every correct pronoun, a kid could get a sticker. This worked for something like two minutes. I remember standing in the kitchen with a big book of stickers from Target, armed with patience and a chirpy attitude. "Who can give me an 'I' sentence?" I asked. "I can!" Blue shouted, and was rewarded with a sticker. "Me, too!" said Green. "I want another one," Blue said, laughing. "Me, too!" said Green. Stickers were flying onto the chart. Woo! What fun! Then Green turned to me with a frown and said, "You're done."
One day, for reasons unclear, the boys switched from using the second person to the third person. So if Green said, "Green hates vegetables," he was talking about himself. It seemed like a step in the right direction, but yet -- still a confusing mess. The Year of the Pronoun promised to be a busy one. Oh yes -- I was going to send those kids to college with clean underwear AND the ability to communicate with others.
And you know what -- it worked! The boys started using "I" and "me" correctly and with ease. Though if I'm honest, I'll admit that I probably had nothing to do with it.
That brings me to 2009. Green does indeed hate vegetables, and Blue will happily hate anything that Green hates. And what began as a toddlery distaste for variety is now just poor nutrition. And, you know, I'm unemployed and have lots of time to worry about ending up on a TLC reality show called BAD MOTHERS AND THE KIDS THAT THEY MESSED UP.
Last weekend, my parents took us to a nearby Chinese restaurant. The boys ordered their usual dish of (beige) noodles with (beige) tofu and (white) rice with NO VEGETABLES. Each time we go to this restaurant we have to somehow translate, "Please do not put onions or basil or any sort of green fleck that might be confused with a vegetable on the noodles, or an epic hissy fit will ensue." And it occurred to me at that moment, 2009 is going to be the Year of the Vegetable.
Yesterday I began the hard work of selling vegetables as tasty treats. I pulled out the cookbook my Great Aunt Martha gave me as a wedding gift, the kind of cookbook that has a whole section on cooking vegetables with marshmallows. And I found this carrot recipe that managed to take the vegetable OUT of the carrot (Boil the crap out of it, coat it in brown sugar and butter). I presented this dish to the boys with the following preface: "Boys! Try this yummy piece of orange candy covered in fat!"
As it turns out, you can put lipstick on a carrot, but it's still a carrot.
Don't worry -- I'm not afraid. 2009 has just begun. It's the year of HOPE! and CHANGE! Right? With any luck, we can transform these kids' beige palates, one marshmallowy bite at a time. YES WE CAN!!!
Monday, January 5, 2009
New Year's Excuses
Some of you are getting a little bit naggy about my lack of updating. Good news for you -- naggy works! I do have an excuse, though. Oh yes I do. It's called a 21 day winter break, stuck in the house with two very grumpy short people.
See, out here in this lovely city, we had what was called a "weather event." That's fancy speak for 5 inches of snow in a place that is not prepared. And a
pparently, a weather event involves a surprising amount of inaction and denial. There was no plowing, no salting, just waiting for the snow to melt (which it did not).
The weather event also involved the closure of the public schools, which meant that the boys' two week vacation turned into three. And let me tell you, a vacation for them is not a vacation for me. Lucky for us, the school system developed a new alert plan to inform parents about weather related issues. The first day of the snowy week, when it was not even snowing yet, the phone started to ring at 5:45 a.m. When we didn't answer, a computerized voice left a message on our answering machine saying something like, "Due to the possibility that it might snow some time in the future, we are going to cancel all classes. This gives us the added benefit of being able to save our cash-strapped district a little bit of money on our heating bills." The system then proceeded to call our cell phones, so the whole house was alive with ringing and buzzing. At 5:46, the kids whooped with joy. "No school! Hooray!" they sang. At 5:47, Green said, "I'm bored."
I'm afraid that being house-bound for so long drove me to drink. I didn't actually mean to drink as much as I did. But on New Year's Eve, as we were lamenting with friends about the weather, Michael accidentally doubled the amount of tequila in his famous margaritas. And sadly, bloggers, that led to some rather unfortunate middle-aged dancing around the living room to Billy Idol.
Oh, it wasn't pretty. There's even a video out there of the drunken flailing (and singing! "Dancing With Myself, woh-oh-oh"), but don't go asking to see it. You never will.
So anyway, that's a long, windy way of saying sorry. I know it's been a bit of a rough patch in our relationship, but returning to blogging is my new year's resolution. I'll leave you with a few photos from the holidays.
Would have been a snow day if it weren't already winter break
See, out here in this lovely city, we had what was called a "weather event." That's fancy speak for 5 inches of snow in a place that is not prepared. And a
pparently, a weather event involves a surprising amount of inaction and denial. There was no plowing, no salting, just waiting for the snow to melt (which it did not).The weather event also involved the closure of the public schools, which meant that the boys' two week vacation turned into three. And let me tell you, a vacation for them is not a vacation for me. Lucky for us, the school system developed a new alert plan to inform parents about weather related issues. The first day of the snowy week, when it was not even snowing yet, the phone started to ring at 5:45 a.m. When we didn't answer, a computerized voice left a message on our answering machine saying something like, "Due to the possibility that it might snow some time in the future, we are going to cancel all classes. This gives us the added benefit of being able to save our cash-strapped district a little bit of money on our heating bills." The system then proceeded to call our cell phones, so the whole house was alive with ringing and buzzing. At 5:46, the kids whooped with joy. "No school! Hooray!" they sang. At 5:47, Green said, "I'm bored."
I'm afraid that being house-bound for so long drove me to drink. I didn't actually mean to drink as much as I did. But on New Year's Eve, as we were lamenting with friends about the weather, Michael accidentally doubled the amount of tequila in his famous margaritas. And sadly, bloggers, that led to some rather unfortunate middle-aged dancing around the living room to Billy Idol.
Oh, it wasn't pretty. There's even a video out there of the drunken flailing (and singing! "Dancing With Myself, woh-oh-oh"), but don't go asking to see it. You never will.
So anyway, that's a long, windy way of saying sorry. I know it's been a bit of a rough patch in our relationship, but returning to blogging is my new year's resolution. I'll leave you with a few photos from the holidays.
Holiday Penguin
Snow Day
Snow Day
Would have been a snow day if it weren't already winter break
Tongue
Freaks and Geeks
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Miss Me?
I know.
I KNOW.
I've neglected you, dear bloggers, and I am sorry. It's been kind of a rough fall for me. I decided to teach a full load this quarter, which proved to be a little too full. It was especially problematic, because one of the classes I was teaching was unfamiliar to me (read: I did not know the subject). So every weekend, like my students, I was reading the core literature in the field. And I was writing a lecture and coming up with fun activities and practicing looking authoritative. It turns out that the acting class I took during my freshman year in high school came in handy (And today the part of the Competent Professor is being played by....).
Then it came to my attention that several of my students were big, fat cheaters. Yeah, you read that correctly: SEVERAL. So here's the thing: If you ever become my student, you might find that I don't always know what I'm talking about. But I usually know if you've copied your paper right from the internet (or from the textbook), especially if you are normally a crappy writer or don't speak English as your native language.
Here's my favorite cheater moment from this quarter. I brought the offending student into my office to "talk about his sources." He sat across from me, looking slightly concerned that my normal "nice professor" face had changed into the face I put on when I yell at my kids. As I showed him what happened when I plugged his sentences into Google, he looked shocked. Then he said, "I had no idea that this paper came from the internet. I had my dad write it for me!"
So I've been a little busy being an academic honesty cop. But, OK, here's my confession. I also started a little relationship with Facebook this fall. I find that it's just as fun as this blog, but I don't have to write essays! The first week I joined, I went crazy (they don't call it Crackbook for nothin'). And I have reconnected in a chit-chatty sort of way with a few people I haven't talked to since, oh, 1981. But slowly the buzz is starting to wear off. I imagine it's kind of like going to a high school reunion. At first, it's so much fun to see how everyone has changed. Then you start to realize that the reason that you didn't keep in touch with all these folks is that you never really did have anything in common. The conversations usually go like this: "How have you been? You have 2.5 kids, a great job at a bank, and a white, picket fence? Terrific!" And then you're done.
Coincidentally, I received my college's alumni magazine yesterday. You know these things -- people send in blurbs about how fabulous they have become (kind of like the Facebook updates, but with more glory: "I have 2.5 BRILLIANT kids, am CEO of a bank that did not require a bailout, and my white, picket fence is eco-friendly"). But, anyway, there was one update that stood out to me. It went something like this: "I wrote (Successful Novel), published by (Fancy Publishing Company) in 2008. I wrote the book while in (Exotic Country), where I played (Professional Sport) for a year. After I finished it, I traveled to (Warm Beachy Island) for a vacation, and I decided to stay!"
I've decided that next time I have the "What have you been doing with your life?" conversation on Facebook, I'm going to use this woman's story instead of my own. But, wait, that would be kind of like stealing a paper from the internet, wouldn't it?
Thank you all for being patient. There will be many new updates soon.
I KNOW.
I've neglected you, dear bloggers, and I am sorry. It's been kind of a rough fall for me. I decided to teach a full load this quarter, which proved to be a little too full. It was especially problematic, because one of the classes I was teaching was unfamiliar to me (read: I did not know the subject). So every weekend, like my students, I was reading the core literature in the field. And I was writing a lecture and coming up with fun activities and practicing looking authoritative. It turns out that the acting class I took during my freshman year in high school came in handy (And today the part of the Competent Professor is being played by....).
Then it came to my attention that several of my students were big, fat cheaters. Yeah, you read that correctly: SEVERAL. So here's the thing: If you ever become my student, you might find that I don't always know what I'm talking about. But I usually know if you've copied your paper right from the internet (or from the textbook), especially if you are normally a crappy writer or don't speak English as your native language.
Here's my favorite cheater moment from this quarter. I brought the offending student into my office to "talk about his sources." He sat across from me, looking slightly concerned that my normal "nice professor" face had changed into the face I put on when I yell at my kids. As I showed him what happened when I plugged his sentences into Google, he looked shocked. Then he said, "I had no idea that this paper came from the internet. I had my dad write it for me!"
So I've been a little busy being an academic honesty cop. But, OK, here's my confession. I also started a little relationship with Facebook this fall. I find that it's just as fun as this blog, but I don't have to write essays! The first week I joined, I went crazy (they don't call it Crackbook for nothin'). And I have reconnected in a chit-chatty sort of way with a few people I haven't talked to since, oh, 1981. But slowly the buzz is starting to wear off. I imagine it's kind of like going to a high school reunion. At first, it's so much fun to see how everyone has changed. Then you start to realize that the reason that you didn't keep in touch with all these folks is that you never really did have anything in common. The conversations usually go like this: "How have you been? You have 2.5 kids, a great job at a bank, and a white, picket fence? Terrific!" And then you're done.
Coincidentally, I received my college's alumni magazine yesterday. You know these things -- people send in blurbs about how fabulous they have become (kind of like the Facebook updates, but with more glory: "I have 2.5 BRILLIANT kids, am CEO of a bank that did not require a bailout, and my white, picket fence is eco-friendly"). But, anyway, there was one update that stood out to me. It went something like this: "I wrote (Successful Novel), published by (Fancy Publishing Company) in 2008. I wrote the book while in (Exotic Country), where I played (Professional Sport) for a year. After I finished it, I traveled to (Warm Beachy Island) for a vacation, and I decided to stay!"
I've decided that next time I have the "What have you been doing with your life?" conversation on Facebook, I'm going to use this woman's story instead of my own. But, wait, that would be kind of like stealing a paper from the internet, wouldn't it?
Thank you all for being patient. There will be many new updates soon.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The True Meaning of Halloween
(6:30 p.m. A dark and stormy night)
Me: Time to trick-or-treat! Hooray!
Green: I think I only want to go around the block this year.
Me: WHAT?!
Green: I want to go around the block and then go home and hand out candy.
Me: What's the matter with you? Are you sick?!
Green: Mommy, this the season of giving! And I want to give!
Me: No, Green, you’re thinking about Christmas. This is the season of getting, of taking. It’s the season of GREED!
Green: I want to go home.
Me: (heavy sigh). Blue, would you like to score tons of candy with me while your brother goes home and practices being generous?
Blue: Yes!
Me: I think you must be the kid who’s related to me. That other one, I don’t know where he came from.
(A half hour later)
Blue (getting whiny): Mommy, you need to help me carry this bucket of candy. It’s overflowing, and it’s too heavy for me.
Me: Blue, you should never complain about being too rich, too successful, or too full of candy. You were very good at getting all those ladies to pour their entire bowls of goodies into this bucket. Remember that one house where you got something like 20 Starbursts!?
Blue: It’s just too heavy. I’m done trick-or-treating. I want to go home and give out candy with Green.
Me (shrieking): Spreading the wealth!? Are you crazy? What are you, a Socialist?
Blue: Mommy, I think you might need a time out.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Politics, First Grade Style
(Driving home from school)
**Aha! It's Ronald REAGAN! Not Ronald McDonald!
Green: Mommy, did you know that Obama is just like Martin Luther King?
Me: Uh....What?
Green: He loves Martin Luther King! (Green then bursts into a rendition of the Martin Luther King song he learned in kindergarten: Martin Luther King/You make my spirit sing/You mean so much to me/'Cause you taught us how to be free...)
Blue: Well, there's one thing that's a problem about Barack Obama. He likes chili, and I can't vote for anyone who likes chili.
Green: But the other guy likes Ronald McDonald. Mommy says that McDonalds food isn't good for us.**
Me: McCain has been talking about Ronald McDonald? The clown?
Green: It's true! He likes Ronald McDonald, and he enjoys fishing like Grandpa.
Me: Boys, I have no idea what you're talking about.
Green: We discussed politics in school today. That's how we're going to become good citizens.
Blue: That's right. If you're going to vote, Mommy, you'd better learn about the issues.
**Aha! It's Ronald REAGAN! Not Ronald McDonald!Monday, September 22, 2008
The Search For Order
(Bye, Summer!)Blogging is like exercising. Some months I’m totally on the ball, spinning several times a week, walking the hills around my neighborhood, generally making an effort. Other months, I feel pretty good if I carry a load of laundry from one end of the house to the other (phew! Hard work! I think I need a snack!). So look what happened: I decided to focus my attention on maybe learning a bit about the new subject I’m teaching this fall (gulp) and had a brief blogging hiatus. Then a week turned into two, into three. I admit that I’m a flabby writer now, and I need to recommit.
Another obstacle to blogging has been that my kids are driving me crazy. I thought I could just hunker down and wait out this spell of annoying behavior. All you parents out there know how that goes. You wring and wring and wring your hands about the (fill in the blank: waking up at night; fear of the bathtub; biting; burping; not napping; napping too much; eating too much; eating too little; unwillingness to do the age-appropriate thing you want them to do….), and then, one day, it’s suddenly not a problem anymore. The reasons for the change are as unclear as the reasons for the problem in the first place.
The issues in question are what I would classify as sibling stuff. And I don’t have a sibling. I never had to fight over the front seat. I never had to share my toys. I never had to take turns. I never had to hear my mother say, “I can’t help you build a waterproof movie projector out of toothpicks right now because I’m busy helping your brother make a walkie-talkie out of bubble gum wrappers and rubber bands.”
So part of my difficulty dealing with sibling stuff is that I don’t know exactly how it feels to constantly have to WAIT to get what I want. And I certainly don’t know how it feels to watch Curious George while my clone of a brother kicks me in the head with his tremendously smelly feet.
But still, we’ve had more than our fair share of smacking and hitting and whining and screaming and floods in the bathroom and general badness. Last week, after one particularly horrendous battle over getting dressed for school, I called Michael at the office and bellowed, “WE NEED TO HAVE A FAMILY MEETING!!!!”
And he said, “I’m actually in a work meeting right now. Can I call you back?”
And then I shrieked, “NO! DON’T YOU THINK THAT THE FACT THAT I WANT TO SKEWER YOUR OFFSPRING WITH THEIR TOY LIGHTSABERS SUGGESTS THAT THERE’S AN EMERGENCY WE NEED TO TAKE CARE OF?”
That night, Michael and I sat down to make a new behavior incentive plan. Here’s how it went:
Me: We need to break the day down into sections and tie rewards to specific behaviors!
Michael: We need four sections. Let’s list the jobs tied with each section and their associated behaviors.
Me: OK, Morning. Job #1: Eat cereal without gargling or spitting.
Michael: But isn't "eating cereal" the job, while gargling and spitting are behaviors?
Me: Whatever. But do you think we need to turn “no gargling” into a positive? Like, the associated behavior is “using table manners?”
Michael: Terrific. Now let’s turn to getting dressed.
Me: Job #1: Change into clean underpants. Associated Behavior: No throwing brother’s dirty underpants behind the dresser. Behavior translated into a positive: Treat brother’s underpants as you would treat your own.
This went on for some time. My eyes began to droop. “Uh, Michael?” I asked. “Do you think that the fact that we just wrote a 300 page behavior manual, complete with footnotes and appendices, means that this new plan isn’t going to work?”
Michael paused. He said, “I think we need to have the kids brainstorm the rules.”
So, like CEOs who are trying to be hip, we sat the kids down to come up with all the rules that we already decided to implement. Michael became the group facilitator. Right away, Green said, “I think we need to make a change to the system. I think we need to get a toy every week for our good behavior.”
Michael said diplomatically, “Thanks for that suggestion, Green. But let’s focus on what you think our house rules should be.”
Blue said, “Daddy, did you know that emperor penguins can weigh up to 88 pounds?”
Michael said, “That’s wonderful, Blue. But let’s see if we can think about what kinds of things will help us get along in the mornings.”
Green said, “I think that getting a toy every week will help me get along!”
I sighed and said, “Why don’t you tell me about your class rules.”
Green sat up straight. He said, “Respect others and property.”
“Terrific!” I exclaimed. “What might respecting others mean at home?”
He thought a minute, then said, “Uh, not throwing toys at Blue’s face?”
“Marvelous!” I crowed. “And Blue, what might respecting property mean at home?”
Blue giggled. “I know!” he said. “Not putting Green’s penguin in the toilet!”
Slowly but surely, we came up with a list of things the boys will do and how they will act on a daily basis. I know that some of it will work, and some of it won’t. But it already feels like our normal household vibe is back. “You did a great job, boys!” I said. “Now maybe it won’t be so hard for Mommy to live in this house with you!”
Green replied, “I always come up with good rules, Mommy. You wanna know why?”
“Why?” I asked.
And then he said (and I kid you not), “I make good rules because I am The Decider.”
Friday, September 5, 2008
Vacation Recap
Just in case you were wondering, I did bring the laptop with me on vacation. BUT I never turned it on, not even once. It sat unattended in my suitcase, making me just a bit (well, actually a lot) paranoid that some wicked sunbather was going to break into our hotel room and steal it.We had a nice time, despite a wee windstorm and the occasional six-year-old attitude problem. Notably, Green decided, after years of flagrant nudity, that he was suddenly and unrelentingly modest. "Uh, Green," I said. "Could you wait to take this developmentally-appropriate step until the whole family is not crammed into a single tiny space?" "NO!!!!" he bellowed. "I need my privacy!!" Not to be outdone, Blue also decided that I was never to set eyes on his cute little butt again. "But Blue," I argued, "just yesterday you were playing the naked somersault game!" (Come to think of it, I could do without any more naked somersaults). He looked at me as if to say, "That was then, this is now." The result of this new declaration was that the two of them spent a considerable amount of the vacation arguing about who was going to change his clothes in the postage stamp-sized bathroom.
The other thing that I learned on this trip is that it is unwise for me EVER to express my opinion or to make a suggestion. Apparently, adolescence has arrived early, because both kids are dead set on rejecting all of my good ideas. Here's an example:
(Vacation Morning Number One)
Me: Boys! Let's go to the beach!
Green: No, I want to go to the pool.
Blue: Me, too!
Me: But look -- the beach is sandy! You can dig!
Green: Digging is dumb.
Me: When did digging become dumb? Yesterday you made a point of bringing your buckets and shovels.
Blue: It wasn't dumb yesterday, but it's dumb today.
(Vacation Morning Number Two)
Me: Look, boys! There are waves at the beach! Let's go jump in them!
Green: No, I want to go to the pool.
Blue: Me, too.
Me: But there are no waves in the pool...
Green: Waves are dumb.
Blue: What a bad idea, Mommy.
(Vacation Morning Number Three. One hour before checkout).
Random Playmate: I'm going to the beach!
Green: Let's go to the beach!
Blue: Yes, the beach!
Green: This is so amazing! There's sand!
Blue: We can jump off the dock into the waves!
Me: Guys, you have five more minutes, and then we have to go pack up and leave.
Green: No fair! We didn't get to spend any time at the beach!
Blue: Why didn't you tell us there was sand at the beach! Why didn't you tell us about the waves?
Me: I did, but....
Green: I never get to do what I want!
Blue: I never want to go home!
(Wild, epic screaming ensues)
Next year, I'm going to try a different approach. This is what I envision:
Me: Boys, you may not go to the beach.
Green: Why? There's sand on the beach!
Blue: We could dig!
Me: Beaches are violent and dangerous and inappropriate.
Green: Mommy, you have to let us go to the beach!
Blue: Pleeease!
Me: OK. Just this once.
Green: You are the nicest Mommy ever.
Brilliant, don't you think?
Random Playmate: I'm going to the beach!
Green: Let's go to the beach!
Blue: Yes, the beach!
Green: This is so amazing! There's sand!
Blue: We can jump off the dock into the waves!
Me: Guys, you have five more minutes, and then we have to go pack up and leave.
Green: No fair! We didn't get to spend any time at the beach!
Blue: Why didn't you tell us there was sand at the beach! Why didn't you tell us about the waves?
Me: I did, but....
Green: I never get to do what I want!
Blue: I never want to go home!
(Wild, epic screaming ensues)
Next year, I'm going to try a different approach. This is what I envision:
Me: Boys, you may not go to the beach.
Green: Why? There's sand on the beach!
Blue: We could dig!
Me: Beaches are violent and dangerous and inappropriate.
Green: Mommy, you have to let us go to the beach!
Blue: Pleeease!
Me: OK. Just this once.
Green: You are the nicest Mommy ever.
Brilliant, don't you think?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted, Vacation, Have To Get Away
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.
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.
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.
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