Self Portraits

I love art, but I'm an idiot at art. To prove this wild statement as truth, I will relate a true story. I will not exaggerate, embellish, or in any way alter the facts as I remember them.

Many, many years ago, my sister Carolyn called me on the phone and said, "There is an art gallery on Westheimer Dr. that is selling paintings by Jackson Pollack. They have a few that you and I could afford. Do you want to drive over there, take a look at them, and maybe choose one and buy it together? We could go halvies?"

"Jackson Pollack? Isn't he that guy that throws paint and splashes it around and calls it motion art or some such garbage and they have monkeys that have duplicated his crap and one elephant that has done some doodling with his trunk that looks exactly like it?"

"Well, yes, some people can't appreciate it and have had some monkeys attempt to duplicate it, but his stuff is genuinely creative."

"How much does it cost?"

"Well, some of his large murals are probably ten or twenty thousand dollars. You and I would buy one of his smaller paintings, and it would only cost us four or five thousand. I don't know. In some ways it depends on the size of the painting."

"Five thousand dollars for monkey art? Do you think I'm stupid, Carolyn? Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you really think I'd spend thousands of dollars to buy monkey art? They got a monkey at the Lubbock Zoo that has already proven it's just monkey art."

"Are you sure? His art might be valuable some day, and it is really amazing in a lot of ways."

"Do you really think I'm that dumb? Don't you realize that them art critics are peddlin' junk and laughin' all the way to the bank? No thank you! I got more brains than that. Them art people are laughin' their asses off at all the idjuts that are buyin' that monkey art!"

"OK. I just thought I'd ask. It seemed like a good idea to me."

"No monkey art for me, thank you."

And now? After watching the lady who was a guest on David Letterman who found a Jackson Pollack painting in a garage sale and is fighting off wealthy, wallet-bearing art lovers who are throwing money at her to get their hands on one of his paintings? After stickin' my foot in my mouth and three-quarters o' the way down my esophagus?

I genuinely appreciate all art. Not because of the investment lost, but because of the lesson learned.

Here are some samples of my fourth graders' self portraits:

"The neck bone's attached to the....jaw bone.
The jaw bone's attached to the....arm bone"

"I have powerful upper body strength, Mr. R.!"

"I've never liked my doorknobs. One is bigger than the other."

"I am mesmerized by your charms."

"Gaze into my eyes. You are going deeper. And deeper."

"This caption confused the bejeebers out of my teacher.

I am cheering on Heatran, a Yu-Gi-Oh character."

"You'll never guess what I'm thinking."

"I am from the planet Zertron,

and I have come for your electric toasters."

But Some of My Best FRIENDS Are, I Swear

Olivia and I spent this morning biking around our neighborhood. Saturday mornings are the best times for this, as we live in a (mostly) Orthodox neighborhood and consequently the Sabbath is free of cars. Well, except for that awkward moment when I race over to Nordstrom, and not knowing how to be nonchalant with my auto, honk bye-bye at my neighbors.

She chattered to me happily during the ride. And as those who know my family will atest, Olivia is most verbal when it comes to food. I was speaking to my good friend the other day when O ran in from her bedroom. "CHOCOLATE CAKE" she screamed, prompting my friend to say, "I do that sometimes!" Another phone conversation with my friend had Olivia shout "MORE PANCAKE!" Over the wires, charming. But accompanied with Olivia's little finger, pointing at your face with accusations of starvation, and it just substantiates my claim that I have birthed a diminutive dictator.

After thirty minutes pedaling in the heat, I was ready to go home; Olivia was not. The only way to be able to even wheel towards my house without her screaming was to promise her a large glass of the precious blood orange juice I had in the refridgerator. She was thrilled. My neighbors however, were not. As we slowly bicycled past the Orthodox people making their way to Synagogue, my daughter joyously pointed at each and every one of them and shouted her oncoming bounty. "Juice!" she yelled "JUICE!"

That, assuredly, is NOT what they heard.

Redundant Chinese Fortune Cookies

Brandon is a sixteen year old teenager I mentor, and he and I are at a Chinese restaurant enjoying a pretty good meal. Brandon and I both love food, and Chinese food is particularly good to both of us, so we're talking and yakking away about love, women, and life in general. I, of course, am providing him with my deep insights and advice, and Brandon is thoughtfully pretending to listen in a way that leads me to believe he will actually follow up on all my pontifications.

We finished our kung pao chicken and moo shui pork, and the waiter brought us those endearing little fortune cookies that once cost me $5 because the lottery was started up in our state and so the fortune cookie companies began printing numbers at the bottom of their fortunes and my wife and I decided that maybe the numbers were some sort of mysterious omen of winnings to come, so I dash to the nearest convenience store and contribute a Lincoln to the state "kitty" and some of it is given to a lucky yokel in Bernalillo who actually won the damn lottery.

I opened my fortune cookie and read it out loud to Brandon.

"You are never selfish with your advice or your help."

Brandon nodded approvingly and responded, "Yeah. That's right."

"Open yours, Brandon."

Brandon opened his fortune cookie and said, "You are never selfish with your advice or your help."

I stated the obvious, of course. "Brandon! That's the exact same fortune as mine!"

Brandon paused briefly and then announced way too loud so that everyone could hear, "What is this crap?"

Come On In, The Water's Fine

For me, signs of insanity of any level are frightening. I heartily listened to my father when he preached to "live like video cameras are on you constantly". His meaning was actually to not be hypocritical--live at home with the same manners that you give to the outside world. What for him then was simply a preventative to say, nose-picking, turned into an intense paranoia for me that has led to forty-plus years of carefully edited The Real World, Laura.

Thusly, I have tried to teach my children my father's view, sans the performance. If you wouldn't do it in front of others, don't do it at all. So if you have some strange tendency or quirk, don't hide it, learn to not do it. And then I bear Olivia. A child who gains the most solace in life by her family, her stuffed chicken, and a furball.

A furball is a hand-picked, personal piece of OCD, comprised of the white wool carpet that covers our living room. At an early age, she rolled around on the rug and pushed herself up on it, triumphantly rising with a fist full of white fibers. As she learned to walk about the house, one furball in each hand aided her balance. I kept pulling them out of her stubborn little mitts, envisioning that the day would inevitably come when she wouldn't be able to attend freshman year without them. They are an uninvited guest everywhere, to wit:


Today I caved in. I threw away this morning's little ball and she looked at me so pitifully.

"Come on," I sighed. "Let's go make you a new furball."

My God Where Have You Been or, Somebody Give Me Joan Rivers' Phone Number

The last week has given me the opportunity to do previously neglected things. Small things, like the laundry, the dentist, and convincing three credit reporting agencies that I am NOT, I repeat emphatically, NOT Laurie A. Smith. (It was bad enough that she stole my identity and racked up substantial debt, but what really fired me up is that no, my birthday is NOT in 1943, Jesus Christ can't you tell, thank you very much.)

This abundance of time is due to a. an absolutely exceptional way that I have been attacking my chores around here; b. my son is away on vacation and what a time-zapper an eleven-year old's life turns out to be; and c. my daughter has grown into a toddler. I am able to breathe again.

This is not the section where I brag on Olivia's intelligence (although may I tell you that at 22 months she recognizes her alphabet, can count to twenty, and just finished Pride and Prejudice--since the sole reason I had a daughter was to marry her off to that perfect man Mr. Darcy, since I missed out on him). This is the section, however, where I tell you that I have been untethered from an infant with the accompanying jars of babyfood, two naps a day, and inability to go anywhere because of my own obsession with the fact that I am not having any more children and I don't want to miss one moment of this!

This WAS her.






And this IS her now:

Actually, this is her around three months ago. I am astounded (yet again, you would think I would remember from the first time) at how quickly the time flies by. One moment you're grinding up peas in a food processor and the next you're both perfecting her routine on skates while you toss grapes she catches in her mouth. (Agenda next month: teach her to strip her own crib and wash the sheets.)

I love, love, love, love, love being the mother to two children. It is so different than being the mother to one. I had time, before, to do things like shop, hang out with friends, work, blog. Now, none of it. And I have never loved life more.

Jake has gone through so many changes lately (I wish I could blog about them but this is my blog not his, and I don't want anyone to read this and find out too much about him). Let me just say that he has been a kind, respectful, stand-up kid through a time when he had to deal with someone challenging him and not saying kind things to him, defend his character staunchly twice, and stand by someone through a hard time and be completely selfless. His feelings still got hurt, and I will work hard to make sure the take-away moral for him is not that the nice guy finishes last, but rather the nice guy finishes happier. Meanwhile, if he would just clean his room.

This is him now:








And this, according to Equifax, is ME now:

LOVING A DOWN'S SYNDROME CHILD

You can repeat a memorized truth heard because you believe it in your head; when you know it in your heart you tell others with a conviction that transcends belief.

I have known for years that children with Down's Syndrome are wonderful, but it is a truth I repeated because I was sure it was correct. Today, my heart opened to a boy with Down's Syndrome, and I know for a fact that Down's Syndrome children are pure delights.

Our school has a boy with Down's Syndrome in its Special Education program. He is in the fifth grade, is very small for his age, and everyone has great difficulty understanding him because of his language development. His mother, a very protective parent, finally acquiesed to the idea that her son be "mainstreamed" into a regular education classroom, and she chose mine. I made what I hoped was a powerful speech to my students about his physical problems and asked them to embrace this boy with warm frienship, thoughtfulness, and enthusiasm.

Our whole class has quickly grown to love little Stevie. The first thing we noticed was that he made friends with all the girls in the classroom, and the boys were somewhat envious of his willingness to hug and associate with the girls. I remember jokingly telling the class that he may have some academic and language problems, but he seemed to be more advanced in the boy/girl area. They all agreed.

Today little Stevie was walking with us to the cafeteria for lunch, and he had his left hand cupped over his left ear. I spoke to him, but he didn't respond. I spoke to him again, but again he didn't say anything. Then I noticed he was talking to himself. One of the astute and observant girls he adores informed me, "Mr. R., Stevie is talking on his cell phone."

I realized that Stevie was pretending to be engrossed in an imaginative phone conversation with someone on his cell phone hand. He would listen for an appropriate amount of time, respond with his animated gibberish, and was totally engrossed in his pretend conversation. He even glanced at his imaginative wristwatch to check the time, like a businessman takin' care o' business. He would listen and reply, then listen and reply.

I suddenly felt a love for this little fellow, and I knew I would be willing to die for him. It was an unusual and very private thought, but worth opening up about and passing onto you.

He didn't hang up his phone or turn it off; his conversation just abruptly ended, and he grinned his joyful grin at me, and I said, "You have a great smile, Stevie!" I didn't understand his reply, but I can tell you this. I used to say, "Children with Down's Syndrome are wonderful people," I said that because I believed it to be true. Now I can tell you for a fact, they are. I know it in my heart.

ONE YEAR OF BLOGGING AND THIS IS WHAT I HAVE LEARNED?

I was in the local Walgreen's drug store on Good Friday, and I noticed they had an awful lot of chocolate Easter candy that hadn't been sold yet. That got me to thinking, and here is what I thought:

Click on this highlighted link to see what I have learned after one year of blogging:


Easter chocolate

THE KINGDOM OF AMALIAKA

CHAPTER I

Once upon a time there was a very great and powerful kingdom called Amaliaka. The Amaliakans were a hard-working people who valued freedom, courage, and justice. They were ashamed to admit they had used military force in their history to grow in strength and power, and they had tried unsuccessfully to wean themselves from doing that.

There came into their kingdom a visionary, a man who could see into the future. Sure enough, for quite some time all the prophet's predictions came true. Upon his death, some foolhardy Amaliakans used their persuasive powers to convince the Kingdom of Amaliaka that they too had visionary skills. They convinced the Amailakans to shape and mold their society so as to take advantage of future events to ensure wealth and power for themselves and their children.

One of the largest factories in their kingdom was named "Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing, Inc." and specialized in making productive, efficient, dependable, and sensible tools for the the great Amaliakan society. One day the King of Amaliaka, King Gush, and his all-powerful enemy, Prince Teedy, decided that Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing was causing a lot of problems for the future of the Kingdom.

"We must do something to make sure that the tools of our future meet our future needs," decreed King Gush.

"I agree," piped up Prince Teedy. "We don't often agree, King Gush, but on this one, I'm with you all the way. Something must be done to make sure that Amalgajusted Anacomical KidFacturing improves their product to ensure a great future for all Amaliakans!"

The Amaliakans cheered, for they too were worried about some of the tools being produced by the factory. For years, all their tools were wonderful, and made them the strongest kingdom in all the land. Stories abounded about the dazzling displays of dependability and craftsmanship demonstrated by Amaliakan tools, but lately there seemed to be some serious problems with the tools. Reports of tool failures were running rampant through the kingdom. Many Amaliakans were complaining that the tools didn't work and didn't seem to be up to the quality of tools that had been made by the same factory in the past.

Terrible rumors began to eat at the heart of the Amaliakan spirit, rumors that another small country on the other side of Lake Ubettaworrie called CopyCatville had perfected making tools superior to the Amaliakans. The CopyCatters were scaring the living daylights out of the Amaliakans, so the Amaliaknas were relieved to hear that their King and his enemies had banded together to force the factory to make better tools.

"Wait a minute!' insisted the Council that ran the factory. "We've been been doing a great job up until now, and we don't think we need to change a thing. We're doing our best and just leave us alone. We know more about making tools than you do."

"Naw, you don't know what you're doing," replied King Gush and Prince Teedy. "You're making tools the same old way you always have been making them, and we can see the future. The tools have to be better and better and better and better!"

"Well that's hogwash," said the factory Council. "In our defense, we'd like to say that the biggest problem our factory faces is the lousy supply of raw materials provided to us by the lackluster, lazy-ass Amaliakan society. We're doing the best we can with the materials we got!"

That didn't sit too well with the Amaliakans, so King Gush and Prince Teedy riled up the Amaliakans even more and convinced them that the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant was not looking to the future. "Something must be done before it's too late! The CopyCatters are making tools much better than ours! Our great kingdom will be outperformed, overtaken, and overthrown by these other countries. Change is essential! I have a plan, and my plan is called Make Each Tool Better!"

The Amaliakans cheered and new laws, plans, and instructions were given to the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant that made them make better tools.

That didn't sit too well with the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant. "You're just keeping us busy going silly work that is meant to merely prove that we are doing our jobs! This isn't helping at all. This is horrible! Get rid of that stupid law called Make Each Tool Better!"

The Amaliakans were growing concerned because there didn't seem to be any improvement in the quality of the tools, and some of the factory workers at the Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing plant were telling everyone that the new laws were making things worse!

"What do we do?" they all cried. "Our tools are still not working! They break down! They aren't going to be worth a plugged nickel in twenty years or so!!"

"Oh shut up," said King Gush and Prince Teedy. "We are going to make our new law even better. We are going to tweak it and call it, "Make Each Tool Even Betterer Than Better!"

The Amaliakans cheered and voted for more laws to improve their tools, and eventually, King Gush and Prince Teedy passed a law that made it against the law to make a tool that wasn't a better tool than any tool that had ever been made.

"Out tools will be the finest tools that money can buy. Let some whippersnappers from across the lake try to compete with one of our Amalgajusted Anacomical Kidfacturing tools!"

Arguing in the Kingdom of Amaliakan began. It seemed that some of the rumors about the CopyCatters tools weren't true.

"I used a CopyCatter tool the other day and it broke down, too!" said one of the lowlier princes of the kingdom.

"That was just that once!" snapped King Gush. "I am convinced that our tools are worse than everybody else's. We must make them better!"

"Wait a minute," said some other citizens. "Are you tryin' to tell us that our tools aren't as good? We think they work just fine. Take care of them, don't leave them out in the yard, oil 'em and shine 'em up every now and then, and our tools are just as good as the CopyCatters! Take care of them, expect the most out of them, and they'll do great!"

The people cheered and quit listening to King Gush whenever he and Prince Teedy tried to get them all worked up over the future. Never once did King Gush or Prince Teedy ever admit that their tools were adequate. Instead, they kept tring to get the citizens of Amaliaka all steamed up over the tool situation, never knowing that the real problem facing the future of the Kingdom of Amaliaka was Bull Mascot and his reign of destruction on the Amaliakan currency.

STUPID QUESTIONS

My sister was talking to me about one of my previous blogs titled "Dumb Questions." During our conversation she thought of and mentioned a classic stupid question, but I forgot what it was, durn it. I am inviting her to add her question to this list by a comment at the end, and I am inviting anyone else to do the same. Here is the complete and unabridged version of the book my fifth graders and I wrote.


STUPID QUESTIONS

BY MR. R. AND HIS STUDENTS


"WHO IS BURIED IN GRANT'S TOMB?"

"HOW MANY COOKIES ARE THERE IN ONE DOZEN?"

"HOW MUCH DOES THE MEAT IN A MCDONALD'S QUARTER POUNDER WEIGH?"

"HOW OLD IS YOUR THREE YEAR OLD SISTER?"

"HOW MUCH DO THE THIRTY-NINE CENT STAMPS COST?"

"IS YOUR BROTHER A BOY OR A GIRL?"

"IS THAT A DOG BARKING?"

(SPOKEN BY A "SALES ASSOCIATE" WITH A HUGE NAME TAG ON HIS SHIRT) "HOW DID YOU KNOW MY NAME?"

"HOW LONG DOES THE TV SHOW '60 MINUTES' LAST?"

"WHEN WAS THE WAR OF 1812?"

"WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE COMPANY THAT MAKES CAMPBELL'S SOUP?"

"WHERE DID THE BOSTON TEA PARTY TAKE PLACE?"

"WHO WAS PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES DURING THE EISENHOWER ADMINISTRATION?"

"WHAT IS THE MAIN INGREDIENT IN CREAM OF WHEAT?"

"MR. R., WOULD YOU LIKE A PIECE OF THIS HOT AND DELICIOUS HOMEMADE CHERRY PIE?"

"WHAT CITY DO THE MIAMA DOLPHINS PLAY IN?"

"THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES LIVES IN THE WHITE HOUSE. WHAT COLOR IS IT PAINTED?"

"WHAT IS THE PHONE NUMBER FOR 911?"

"HOW DO YOU SPELL F.B.I.?"

"WHAT MOUNTAIN RANGE DOES THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL GO THROUGH?"


THE END

BLOWIN' SMOKE AT THE TEACHER

By the time I got to high school, I became a connoisseur of the bungling art of blowin' smoke at the teacher. Some people refer to it as snow, others as bs, but's it all the same. It's the blundering attempt to get a decent grade in school using only chicanery and a pen, for the brain has no clue. However, there is a blank paper staring at you which will be graded later by a teacher who might be distracted, or better yet, in a stupor.

One of my students gave it a shot, a fine piece of complicated confusion and absurdity, and one of the first really asinine attempts at blowin' smoke at me by this group of kids. Kids don't get good at it until the fifth grade. Here is a fine example of blowin' smoke.


The question: "What causes wind?"

The answer: "Gravity and air causes wind by gravity pushing up and down and inside is wind."

Joe has a way to go before he's eligible for high school quality smoke blowin', but it's a start.

DUMB QUESTIONS

This is a long blog, so have a cup of coffee ready.

My first fifth grade class wrote a book many years ago that I have shared with other subsequent classes, and they have helped add entries into it. The book is titled, "Dumb Questions." Anytime anyone asks or thinks of a dumb question, we write it in the book. So far we have quite a few classics:

"When was the War of 1812?"

"How many doughnuts are in a dozen?"

"How much do the $ .39 stamps cost?"

"What company makes "Campbell's Soup?"

"What color is the White House painted?"

"Who was President during the Eisenhower administration?"



I think you get the picture. My students love making them up and hearing them, and we have had quite a lot of fun with dumb questions.

My fifth grade class was recently visited by two of my ex-students who are now completely grown up and wise to the world. They are eighth graders at the middle school around the corner, and they came to my class to discuss what life was really like at middle school, and we aren't talking the bullshit questions kids will ask when an adult is around like, "Where are the drinking fountains?" or "How many times a week may you visit the library?" or "When is lunch period?" No. Not that crap. This was for real.

The first question was, "Are there knife fights at the school?"
"What?"
"I've heard there are knife fights at the school. Is that true?"
"Of course not! That's ridiculous!"
"I've heard there are fights and kids get beat up."
"I've never seen one. I think you'd get in BIG trouble if you got into a fight."

This is the kind of questions kids want answered. They hear rumors. Scary rumors. Frankenstein scary. Death scary. Kids get hurt. Kids die. Guns, dope, sex, and mayhem. Destruction, and Evil lurk the halls and grab little sixth graders and gobble them up like caramels.

So these two girls are giving my kids a real, honest, truthful look at middle school life. The question and answer session is going quite well, except every now and then they either grossed out my more mature students or confused the more immature ones with some remark about melting to the ground whenever a dreamy boy walked by.

All is going well.

Then someone asked the very good question, "I have heard that you can't ask questions. Is it true you're not allowed to ask questions?"

One of the girls, Marissa, is quite an over-the-top amateur actress/ham, and she started getting a lot of laughs with her answer.

"That's some kinda stupid rumor you've heard. Of course you can ask questions. Now you can't ask dumb questions" (A giggle rose from my students.) "There's one teacher, Ms. Conkle, who can't STAND stupid questions!" (Louder giggling from my students) "Someone will ask her a stupid question like, 'Ms. Conkle, is Texas in Africa or a constant state of stupidity?'" (Guffaws from my students).

By now Marissa is the center of attention and loving it. She's animated. She's doing voices. She's on a roll, and the kids are starting to roar with laughter.

"If you ask Ms. Conkle a dumb question, she'll bug her eyes out at you and say, 'Now that's a stupid question. Stop that right now!' So as you can see, it's only dumb questions you can't ask."

I'm a fan of comedy, and I can play a pretty good straight man. I'm sitting in the back of the room, and I am thinking, "Why don't you ask her a dumb question? She can look at you and say, 'Mr. R.. that's a dumb question! Stop that right now!'" So I raise my hand and Marissa promptly calls on me.

"Yes. Mr. R. You have a question?"

"Yes, Marissa, I do. I was wondering who is buried in Grant's tomb?"

Now I never thought for one minute that she wouldn't know the answer to that question. All my students through the years have heard these questions, including Marissa, and roared with laughter at them. I became immediately concerned when Marissa lowered her head and started scratching her chin as if in thought. Then she promptly looks up at me and exclaims, "Billy the Kid!"

My fifth graders started screaming with laughter. They thought that was the funniest thing they ever heard. Marissa was obviously confused, and I saw her friend, Shannon, whisper to her, "The answer is Grant." I could see Marissa's face fall as she realized her error, and she immediately yelled out, "Okay everybody, stop! Stop laughing. Stop! I see now what I did. I remember the dumb questions and you caught me off guard. Ask me another one, Mr. R. Please! Please ask me another one!"

I immediately said, as a way of letting her save face, "What is the main ingredient in Cream of Wheat?"

Without hesitation, Marissa yells out, CREAM!"

The kids fell out of their chairs! I saw Shannon mouthing the words, "It's wheat, not cream!" I saw the look on poor Marissa's face. It was humiliation turning into anger. I went to the front of the room and told her, amidst all the jeers and cackling, "I'm sorry, Marissa, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

She replied, "I'm never coming back here again!"

I told her that I felt horrible, and please, PLEASE come back.

I am proud to say that she and Shannon did come back about a week later, and we celebrated their return with a short party. In the middle of the party I asked Marissa a question:

"Marissa, is your brother a boy or a girl?"

Marissa proudly and confidently yells out, "He's a boy! And stop it with the dumb questions!!"

The kids cheered.

ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A FIFTH GRADER?

One of the hot new shows on FOX is a game show called "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?" If you haven't heard of this show, click on this link.

I like the show because it shows real, fifth grade kids as well-educated, intelligent, and clever. I am a fifth grade teacher, and I know for a fact that some kids today are more intelligent than I am, and many are more mature at their age than I was.

This morning at breakfast I was pontificating about something of no great importance, and I happened to make an offhand remark of little significance which, by chance, happened to have a minor error in it. However, my dear wife, Peggy, quickly and efficiently pointed out my "mistake." Then she said, "I'm smarter than a fifth grade teacher!"

Oh boy. I'm gonna be hearing that punch line a lot.

KIDS' QUESTIONS

My fifth graders can ask some off-beat questions. Here are some examples:



"What is the difference between living in an apartment and a condom?"


"Mr. R., what is a ho?"
"Well, Joe, I think that is a question you should ask your Mom. Where did you hear that word?"
"I was at my Grandma's and she told my Grandpa that were was a snake in the yard so go get a hoe."


"Mr. R., who is Martian Luther King?"
"You mean Martin Luther King."
"No. It says here Martian Luther King."
"That's a misprint, a misspelling.
"Oh."

"Mr. R., what's an IV?"
"An IV? Well, I've heard of an IV drip. It's when a person is in the hospital and receives medication and nourishment through a tube that's hooked up to their bloodstream. Is that what you mean?"
"I think so."
"Well how did you hear the word?"
"My Mom told the waitress to start bringing her margaritas and to just keep feeding them to her in an IV."

CALL ME "MR. BATTERING RAM"

Have you ever seen two Bighorn sheep ramming their heads together? Have you ever seen the film of the two locomotives that were driven into each other at full speed? I am a fifth grade teacher who conjures up these images when I think of myself and one of my students. The reason? My job is to bring up and discuss this student's problem behaviors and his incorrect solutions to answers despite the fact that he is having great difficulty accepting the possibility that he is not perfect.

The boy has always been overly sensitive to criticism. My strategy so far has been to say something that doesn't work, like "I like you. You're wonderful. But you're answer is not exactly correct."

Unfortunately, his issues have worsened. All his life he has been the center of attention, the most popular boy, the fastest, the strongest, the tallest, the handsomest, the creme de la creme. Now he finds himself second fiddle to his new step-brother, and he is not handling this new situation well. His new step-brother has leukemia. I am sure that his displacement as the family's center of attention must hurt, but his need for continued back-patting has turned sour. As his teacher, I am now unable to correct him in the slightest way without getting arguments and denials. He is unable to accept responsibilty for his own actions.

His reflexes are quick and responsive, and I can see him formulating his argument the moment I begin my sentence with, "This is good, _ _ _ _ _ _ _, but - ." Instantly I get some arbitrary, contrary excuse that prevents me from pointing out his answer makes no sense, and if it did, there is no punctuation of any kind on his paper.

I have a tough road to travel with this boy, and unfortunately, he is the class leader. That means other students take his side. I have become the Bald Meanie, the Yeller, and the Grumpy Teacher. It's a role I can't stand.

I have three choices:

1) Let the kid sit in the corner and mildew. Stop all instruction. Discontinue all learning on his part. Have no expectations. Just keep him from arguing with me. His arguing is a detriment to the rest of the class. Unfortunately, setting him in the corner to rot is to his detriment.

2) Butt heads! Collide head-on!! Use all forces in my arsenal, including but not limited to sending him to the school principal.

3) Use what little tactical advantage I have as an adult to get through to this kid. In other words, use my older intellect (I was gonna use the word "superior" intellect, but I'm not convinced that's accurate), reverse psychology, and every mental and emotional trick in my thin, little book to make this boy understand that I have to be able to teach him without his taking it the wrong way.

I'll tell you what I have always done in the past: #3.

I'll let you know if it works. The collision/solution will be decided soon.

WHERE IS THE "GOOD" IN GOODBYE?

My job as Melissa's piano teacher is about to end. I know it sounds silly, but I believe I may cry when her lessons stop. I'm mighty misty-eyed just writing this blog.

She hasn't been practicing for quite some time, and I have mentioned this fact in some of my blogs. Last week I told my wife that it seems odd that she is still continuing her lessons. Peggy hit me in the gut by speaking the obvious to the oblivious. "Well, it's easy to see what's going on. She likes spending time with you."

I realized that I have not complained about her lack of practice because I like spending time with her. I like spending time with her a lot, but I am a teacher and I have to use my best professional judgement, so at the last lesson I brought up the unpleasant idea that maybe we should discontinue her piano lessons. She told me that she didn't want to stop the lessons because she enjoyed spending time with me. I told her that I should have dropped her as a student some time back, but I didn't say anything because I enjoyed spending time with her.

The idea of her quitting is out there, now........lying out there like a pig turd on a hot fudge sundae. I think her piano lessons are about to end.

Losing Melissa as a student reminds me of the lyrics of the barbershop quartet song from the Broadway musical and the movie, "The Music Man."

"How can there be any sin in sincere?
Where is the good in goodbye?"

The Application of Studies to Daily Life

Jake is preparing for FCATs. This means he is learning the same stress he will face as an adult when you get the announcement that your company is merging with a larger company and this will result in termination that means you are bankrupt within six months, not that this is an actual example anyone you know is drinking over.

He is valiantly attempting to truly comprehend abstract ideas like algebra, gravity, and excerpts from Little House books. And he has been struggling the most with science. We spent quite a bit of time discerning between the different forms of matter (solids, gases, liquids), and of the various energy types (kinetic, chemical, light, etc.).

It all came into focus for him the other day. We both went in to check on Olivia, and watch our little Tasmanian sleep without stirring. Her legs were splayed, she was grabbing her stuffed chicken with passion, and her pacifier had slipped out of her open, momentarily-resting mouth.

Jake shook his head as he watched her. "That's Potential Energy," he noted.

It Should Have Been In The Gargantua

Albuquerque received another wonderful snow fall, and the schools are closed due to hazardous driving conditions. I am happy to have the day off. However, I did something VERY stupid.

My fourth grade car (nine years old), my thirty miles to the gallon in town and forty-one miles to the gallon on the highway little Saturn, my little, quick, blue gem with the stiff seats and the rattly ride and the ten disc CD player that takes up most of the trunk but sounds really good if the fan motor isn't blowing for the heater or the air-conditioner, is in the body shop. A lady whacked it with her big, huge, monstrous truck and dented the left front fender just a tad, so my little Saturn is being repaired. Her insurance company generously and rightly paid for me to have a rental car to drive while my Saturn is in the body shop. The rental car is a big, huge, monstrous, gigantic, typical, modern-day American Gas Hog that can pass everything except a gas station, and it needs but doesn't come equipped with a tugboat to get it in and out of parking spaces. I don’t remember the name of the car, but I think if I was given the power to name the……..”Thing”, I would call it a:

1) Ford Whale

2) Chevy Guzzler

3) Buick Behemoth

4) Pontiac Titanic

5) GMC Mammoth

6) Chrysler Colossus

But I digress. I was talking about my act of stupidity. When I picked up the rental car early yesterday morning, I was in a hurry to get to school so I grabbed my stuff out of my Saturn and put it in the Wake Maker, but I forgot one thing: my wife’s Valentine’s card I had hidden under the passenger seat of my Saturn. So this morning I sneak out to the garage to get my wife’s Valentine’s card so I can put it on the kitchen table so when she comes in to get her coffee and sits down and starts sipping in that cozy, enchanting way she does that makes me happy to be with her, she’ll see the card propped up on the table and will open it, and she’ll gaze into my eyes and kiss me, and laugh, and cry.

But NO!! My Saturn isn’t in the garage! It’s at the body shop, being repaired. In the garage is this empty space because the Beast won’t fit in my garage. It's out in my driveway crushing cement and it doesn’t have the Valentine’s card in it either, because I am a knucklehead and left it in the Saturn.

So this morning I sat down and drank my acid-free, decaffeinated coffee because of my babyfied, old man tummy, and I saw my wife’s card, and I opened it, and I gazed into her eyes, and I kissed her, and I laughed, and I cried, and I told her I bought her card two weeks ago. I mentioned that it was carefully selected out of thousands because it told her how much I loved her in the way I wanted to say it. “But it’s in the Saturn, baby. Sorry.”

She forgave me, but I won’t forgive myself so easily.

A Truly Great Spelling Sentence

I have written posts that pass along some of the clever or inane sentences that my fifth grade students have written using their spelling sentences. Here is the greatest of them all, a little gem, a pure treasure, and frankly, one that this year's students will never be able to top.

The spelling word is : impair




By Sarah:

"Breaking an arm will impair your ability to slap your sister."

I Play Straight Man to Andrea

Those precious fourth graders I taught last year have become fifth graders heading into sixth grade, and their charm is fading quickly.

On Friday I went by Andrea's desk and saw billions and billions of tiny pieces of paper. It looked like some tiny, minute creatures so small their fingers could not be recognized by the human eye had taken several pieces of 8.5" x 11" notebook paper and turned them into the world's most miniature confettti.

I was dumbfounded. I looked at Andrea and disbelievingly asked her, "Andrea, what is going on here? What is this crud?"

"Well, it's just paper and erasers and stuff."

"Did you do this during class time?"

"Yes sir, I did."

"Are my classes so boring that you have nothing better to do than shred paper and erasers?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

Melissa, Shopping Afficionado

I have given up on the idea of ever teaching Melissa to play the piano. She has reached a level of proficiency that is satisfactory to her needs, and any further keyboard skills just don't fit into her plans of becoming a professional shopper.

During her piano lesson last week, I asked her if she ever did any exercise.

"Yes, I get lots of exercise. I shop."

"How can shopping be exercise?"

"Well, you have to start out treadmilling. Some people call it walking. Then you do a LOT
of weight training by picking up items and turning them over and looking at them. Speed walking is necessary if there's a sale or you're running out of time in a mall that covers a lot of area. That means you also have to carry heavy items. All of this, of course, takes a lot of stamina, determination, and practice. I'm very good at it!"

"I'll bet you are, Melissa."

For her Christmas present I bought her a MasterCard gift card with her name on it:
Mellissa, Shopping Aficionado. An appropriate gift, I think.

Because It Is FIVE Whole Days

No parents are allowed on Jake's trip to DC tomorrow. Do you think he'd really recognize us?

Ask A Few Of My Former Bosses Where She Could Have Gotten THAT From

Olivia started gymnastics today. She is in the Kitten Division at the Cat Gym in Boca, and we have been talking about today's excitement for a week. "Are you ready for Kitten Gym, Olivia?" "Yes," she will answer, or "Meoww." My preparation for today's big step was remembering Jake at that age, and the excited way with which he ran from me toward the instructor, any instructor, to get the maximum amount of fun from the forty-five minutes. Jake would try anything and everything, while I looked with great envy at the mothers who were having to peel their children off their legs.

Olivia has thus far been all you could hope if you were looking for a petite, sweet girl. She says the word "tutu" out of the blue, meaning she wants to wear it around the house, or during lunch, and I am only too happy to oblige. She is verbal, and loves to pose for photographs, and relishes a new pair of shoes.

And today, my little daughter was a clingy. She hung on to my knees while the other babies learned to somersault down padded ramps. While the toddlers around her clamored for one more ride on the swing, or another attempt at the rings by which they swung like monkeys, Olivia grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, the car, and freedom.

"Bye-bye." She said to the instructor, fifteen minutes in to our session. When the instructor would insist she try something (I was all for it), Olivia would look into my face and cry at me and I knew the pain that all my friends had felt as they left their sobbing offspring--against every procreative fiber in their being--and sat in their car, miserable.

The instructor solaced my child with plenty of attention, and enticed her to finally enjoy a couple of minutes of jumping on the trampoline. After that, Olivia went to whatever station the children were not at, and played in her own fashion.

The instructor consoled me that she would be fine by the time she had a couple of sessions under her belt, and pointed out her opinion of Olivia's temperament. "It seems that if you tell her what to do and when to do it, it takes all the pleasure away from her. She seems to have a little distaste for authority."

Do You Just WANT Them To Beat Up Your Kid?

I have been extremely focused on a suitcase. No, not this one, my smart-alec friends. A really important one, the one that my son will be toting with him as he rides the rails off to Washington DC for five days. It must solidly contain his life, in an organized and easy-to-maintain fashion, and I won't be there to calmly handle the little messes.

Funny how our survival packages for the trip are so extremely different. His is a large red pullman and mine is so significantly smaller: a three-inch tall cylinder marked Valium. And so to focus on something, anything, other than the horrible imagined dangers that I can so freely conjure up, I have chosen to worry, effusively, about the contents of his suitcase. One such worry was where to pack his winter coat: too bulky for his backpack, not accessible enough in the suitcase, and sure-to-be-lost simply carried by hand.

As I was lying in bed, it came to me. I had already planned to ziploc bag every day's outfit--appropriately marked--so why not go one step further? I would buy a vacuum compressed bag, stuff a coat, gloves, and hat inside, vacuum out the air and he would have a neat little package for his backpack. Upon arrival in DC, he would merely need to pull out the ziploc bag, decompress it with a big whoosh, and voila! Cold weather gear at hand. I detailed to Eric my plan.

He looked me in the eye and said, "It surprises me greatly that Jake has not already been required to defend himself, you being his mom all these years."

The Chorus Christmas Show

I know I'm supposed to call it the Holiday Show, but I'm too ornery. The school chorus I started had its Christmas Show, and I am happy to say all went well, mostly.

I'll give the good news first.

Our performance had 139 third, fourth, and fifth grade singers crammed onto the risers, and my chorus is the largest public school chorus in the United States.

We had almost 700 people in attendance, making it the largest audience we have ever had.

The chorus and the soloists performed admirably. The hightlight of the show for everyone was a fifth grade soloist, Derrick, who is phenomenal. The audience went crazy over him. First, he loves performing. Second, he has a lot of experience. I have taught him for two previous years, and this show was his fifth working with me as a soloist. Third, he has so much talent. He has the looks, the sound, the charisma, and the naturalness. Performing is easy for Derrick. Last, he has worked with professionals locally in other venues and shows, both as an actor and a singer.

The Director, Lauren, did a commendable job considering this is her first effort at directing without my guidance, and most importantly, directing with an audience. Teachers call that affective assessment, the toughest and most stressful type of test of all.

Now for the bad news.

The moment I walked into the Community Center where we performed, I was "under the gun." Criticism roared at me from the six directions (north, south, east, west, up, and down). The fire department is across the street, and some swell parent with a genuine gripe that they didn't have a seat called the the fire department and complained that we were breaking the fire code. The Fire Marshall came for a visit, and sure enough promptly gave the Community Center a citation for breaking the fire code by having too may people crowded into too small a space. It was beyond standing room only; audience members were blocking the exits and standing in the hallways in order to get a good view. People that arrived an hour early were surprised to discover that the best seats available were in the fifth row. We were very fortunate the Fire Marshall didn't shut down our show.

Otherwise, all went well. We did it!

At Some Point The Secret Comes Out, And Then You Just Have To Sigh And Promise To Do Better

A friend of mine was reviewing Olivia's vocabulary. "What does the tiger say, Olivia?"
"Roooaaaar!"

"What does the cow say?"
"Mooooo."

"What does the duck say?"
"Quack, quack."

What does the mouse say?"
"Eeeek, eeeek."

"What does the bear say?"
"Oyee, oyee, oyee."
This one is a mystery to us, as well.

"What does Simon say?"
"Woof, woof."

My friend continued with all sorts of prompts, the cutest one being that Olivia identifies my new computer as "Apple." After she had exhausted all the words she knew Olivia enjoyed saying, she threw out one just for fun, knowing she would not be able to retort. "What does Mommy say, Olivia?"

"Damn."

School Is Starting Up Again

We were supposed to have two weeks and two days off from school due to Christmas and New Year, but Albuquerque got hit with near record snowfalls. The side streets and school parking lots were too dangerous for school buses, so we were given an extra three days which means we had three (3) whole weeks off!

I bet I irritate some of the kids with my enthusiastic, energetic, excited-to-be-back, cheerleading, rah-rah, sis-boom-bah attitude towards school. I can see some of their sad, tired faces in my mind. Poor babies. They are going to have to deal with a teacher who is happy to be back in the classroom.

For one thing, I'll have two new/old students. When I "looped" with this class, I taught them fourth grade last year and took the same class to fifth grade except for two students who moved. They have both, by chance, moved back to Albuquerque and our neighborhood over the holidays. Just a simple thing like two new students (that everyone already knows) will change the "chemistry" of social interaction in the classroom, hopefully for the better.

I am also excited about and proud of the hours and hours and hours and hours and days and days I spent on my "New & Improved, Standards-Based Lesson Plans!" To think that I did what the bureaucracy wanted and did a bunch of useless, senseless, fallow, unavailing, valueless, inane, good for nothing busy work. It makes me want to hold my head up with great pride; this is an important step for me. I usually whine and complain, upset middle and upper management, and get in trouble for refusing to do dumb tasks that bureaucracies dump on me. I am so proud of myself for going ahead and doing it.

I can look my students right square in the eyes and say, "If some of this work I'm givin' ya seems stupid, well that's just too bad. You're gonna have to tough it up, ride it out, put on a stiff upper lip, get over it, move on, quit whining, take off yer diapers, put on yer big work pants, and just...........do it. I KNOW I DID! I was told by the federal government and the state government and the local school district to do a bunch of stupid, worthless, brain deadening work, AND I DID IT!! So just shut up!!" But I digress.

I'm sure most of the kids will be joyous to be back. There will be a few sad sacks, but I'm not one of them. I'll be glad to see the little nippers. And hopefully, I can concentrate on them and processing my craft as a teacher, rather than stupid "No Child Left Behind" stuff.

Outsmarting as an Artform

Okay, I have been in hiding. For a month. And if you've been wondering where I am or why I haven't written, well, heck. I HAVE A TODDLER. That, and, has anyone else been paralyzed with wonder about how Rosie O'Donnel is dealing with the fact that Donald Trump thinks she is fat?

The holidays left me disorganized and befuddled. I cannot tell you where my days go, or what one productive thing I manage...ever. But let me drop Olivia off at your house for half an hour and we'll see what you do with that time.

Eric is really a fine father. He works hard and comes home to cheerfully parent Jake and Olivia and doesn't complain that he never is going to put a golf club back into his hand again. And I allow him his victories and try very hard to not burst his bubbles.

Last week Olivia had decided to play with his work computer. She put her hands on the keys and banged. "No, no," he said firmly. "Not for Olivia." She smiled at him her favorite crinkly nose smile and attempted to type in her resume again. "No, no," he repeated. "NOT for Olivia."

She retracted her hand and looked around on the floor for a certain toy to play with. "See," he noted triumphantly. "She is really great at listening to my no's."

Olivia picked up a ball and threw it past Eric. And as soon as he turned around to retrieve the ball and participate in her little game, she banged the computer as hard as she could.

Lost In Marriage 2

My wife has been on a roll and really zinging away at me again. Here are some recent examples:

I'm lyin' on my backside in the bed watching television, all snuggly and warm and happy. My little dog Wookie is lyin' beside me and gettin' petted, and all is right with the world. I'm watchin' a sitcom and the couple starring in the show are talking about a married couple they know who are going through a divorce. It seems the woman wanted "......one last chance at love and romance" and was willing to give up her marriage for that youthful feeling that stirs the heart. Peggy turns to me from her ironing and says, in a very stilted voice, "Oh Walter, I don't want a divorce. I don't want to give you up. I don't want love and romance. I want.........YOU!"

Hmmm.



The very next day, I did something stupid and worrisome. I asked Peggy a question, a question of no great importance, but she gave me a concerned look and anxiously said, "Punkin', you just asked me that question about five minutes ago. I'm worried about you and the state of your mind."

I got a little concerned too, because I didn't remember asking her, and I certainly didn't remember the answer. I thought, "I'm getting Alzheimer's or maybe Halfzeimer's, and it's startin' at a mighty early age. What's gonna become of me in the next twenty years if this is my pitiful condition at this early stage of the game?"

Realizing my impending old age was drawing near, I earnestly pleaded, "Baby, please don't leave me. Stay with me."

Peggy dropped her voice and said, "I won't. I've got too much time and energy invested in you already."

Hmmm.

Holiday Ramblings

I’m a fifth grade school teacher and have no kids, so the ideas for blogs have come to a screeching halt. All I’ve done since school let out has been to watch videos and gain weight. However, I did spend the afternoon with Warren, a sixth grade boy I mentor. Warren has a wonderful life……..........................
if you live in Darfur. He lives in a rundown, 385 square foot apartment with his uneducated, minimum-wage earning mother who was abandoned by her felonious boyfriend who left her with Warren and a black eye.

I took Warren to the movie theater, and we didn’t go to the dollar theater where I usually go. No sir! We went straight to the top, to the Cineplex 24, with the recliner seats, arm rests with built-in cup holders, a sloped floor so even if a woman with big hair sits in front of you it’s still a great view, a surround sound stereo system, a projector with a brand new light bulb so you can see what’s happening on the screen, and a heater that was turned up so high people were taking their coats off indoors. (There’s nuttin’ quite as heartwarming to the tightwad as the frosty breath of a dollar movie theater audience.)

Halfway through the movie, “Night at the Museum,” the film looked like it caught on fire. I thought for a second that the movie was doin’ a takeoff on the opening of "Ponderosa," the old TV show that opened with a map catching on fire and burning up from the middle out to the edges. Only it wasn’t a takeoff of "Ponderosa;" The film had really burnt up, or melted, or mutated into a quivering blob of plastic goo. A teenager came in and informed the audience that the projector would be fixed and the movie would start again in a few minutes, but I knew better, so Warren and I headed to another screen.

We watched a few minutes of “Rocky Balboa,” and though it didn’t appear to be a foreign film and there were no subtitles, both of us were having trouble understanding WTF the actors were saying. The main problem with the film was it just wasn’t Warren’s cup o’ tea. I could tell by the way he sat in his seat, so we got up and left.

By this time, the line to give everyone watching “Night at the Museum” a refund or readmission tickets was short. We got in the back of the line and just before it was our turn to get our readmission tickets from the manager, I turned to the last guy in line who was right behind me and whispered, “Watch carefully. You and I are in the back of the line and that means a golden opportunity awaits us. Follow my lead.” I told the manager I didn’t want two tickets for my boy and me. I wanted TWO tickets each: one to finish a movie we didn’t get to finish, and one for our troubles.

She was adamant. “I can’t do that sir. You get just one ticket for each person.”

I said, “But that’s only a ticket for half a movie. We’ve already seen half of it, so we have to come back and watch the first half all over again and THEN get to finish the movie.

“That’s means you owe me. You get to see a movie and a half for the price of just one movie.”

I scowled and said, “Well that makes me an unhappy camper. I spend my time and my gas and the boy and I are just plain disappointed. I’m gonna leave here unhappy with the Cineplex 24. Instead, why don't you give me two tickets for each of us, and I’ll be extolling the greatness of the magnificent Cineplex 24.”

She rolled her eyes and gave me four tickets. The guy behind me was giving the same pitch to her as we walked off.

Warren was disappointed, so I took him to get a hamburger at Fuddrucker’s, arguably the best burger in our fair city. Fuddrucker’s hangs old toys, bikes, and signs from the ceiling and on the wall, and they have an eclectic assortment of statues and motorcycles all over the place. Warren was eating his hamburger in record time, excited about the décor, and making me feel old.

“Look there, Mr. R.! It’s an antique baseball glove! There’s an old, old, wagon. And there’s an antique bicycle.”

Of course I’m older than all the antique toys there. Anyway, Warren then adds, “That bike is an old one like Einstein made. Einstein invented the bike.”

I just had to play school teacher and give Warren a very simplified and succinct explanation of Einstein’s contribution to mathematics and his famous formula E = mc2. However, I left out the latest anti-male propaganda our society uses to emasculate men. I didn’t tell Warren that Mrs. Einstein was really the genius in the family. The man of the family, Albert, was merely the unkempt front man, the shill if you will, for the brains of the operation. This anti-man stuff is getting’ out of control. Last Sunday my wife whispered to me in church, “Say, pass the hermnal.”
But I digress.

Right after I explain that Einstein was a mathematician, not an inventor, Warren says, “Look at that statue of Long John Silver. He has a wooden leg because one of his legs was circumcised.”

I nearly fell out of my chair. I told him that Long John Silver had burnt it badly while deep fat frying a batch o’ fish, and his leg had been amputated, not circumcised.

Warren. I love being around kids, and I’m looking forward to school and the kids who provide me with my blogging ideas.

Merry Christmas

I don't have children of my own; I am just a school teacher, and I teach them. That means I don't have to/get to select and purchase Christmas gifts for kids. I do have piano students, so I get to buy for them. It is really wonderful to watch a little girl's eyes light up at the jewelry box, or to watch a boy's face realize the gift card I bought him for the sporting goods store is enough to buy heelies.

It is possible I have spent so much on myself that I don't need anything anymore, but I prefer to believe it really is better to give than to receive.

I won't say "Happy Holidays." Even Scrooge said, "A merry Christmas, Bob!"

Merry Christmas to Us, Every One!

Spelling Sentences

I'm old school and still teach spelling, and I also expect the fifth graders to know how to use their spelling words in sentences. I know that children will say, and with certainty, that they know how to use the word. I can say, with certainty, that many times they are unable to correctly use the word. Here are some examples of my fifth graders' sentences. I will leave them untouched , without embellishments or embroidery of any sort except to highlight the spelling word. Just verbatim sentences:

"The man had to betray his boss and not kill the cow."

"The man died when his radiation exploted."

"The president did'nt know what he was doing in the deficit."

"The fatter you get the more you are at risk of becomeing obese."

"I found my perspective in my room."

"Albert Einstein was so busy he didn't have time to comb his hair."

"Santa Clause isn't real because if he could go fast enough to go around the world in one night his body would be crushed by the sleigh and he would be turned into a quivering blob of pink goo."

No One is Perfect...Shucks!

I know that no one is perfect, but there are people that seem perfect. One of my piano student's father is one of those men that reveals no flaws. He is intelligent, handsome, articulate, friendly and engaging, a good provider, his lovely and personable wife is content, his two precious daughters run to greet him at the door when he comes home from work, his home is kid-friendly, and everyone in the family seems well-adjusted, loving, loved, and happy.

So when I heard this story about him I was a little surprised. I know he isn't perfect, but that was only in theory; until I heard the story I had no proof that he wasn't. It isn't much of a mistake and really doesn't qualify him as an ignoramus in the category of Yours Truly, but it is proof that even Mr. A. isn't perfect. His wife told me that he was putting Christmas lights in the front yard tree. This year he planned to do a better job than last year, so he went up a little higher. However, he went up too high, became frightened, and was unable to climb down, so he hung there on a little branch for awhile and then called his wife on his cell phone. She said he seemed fairly calm, but he wanted her to help talk him down. If he couldn't make it, they'd have to call the fire department. The wife and his two daughters talked him down with encouragement and offers of hugs and cookies and hot chocolate if he'd just take those first few steps down.

I won't bring it up to him, and I won't mention the fact that his Christmas lights are REALLY low in the tree this year. I used to take secret pleasure when other men would do somethin' stupid or silly like that, but nowadays I am saddened. It's as if my own ability to at least appear perfect has somewhat diminished, which should no longer concern me since my motor mouth destroyed all pretensions of perfection long ago.

Progress Reports vs. Report Cards and the TV Burden

It was "progress report" time at our school last week.........time to hand out what used to be called "report cards" to my fifth graders. A progress report sounds better, doesn't it? When you get reported, that's bad. "I'm gonna report you to the principal." "If you don't behave I'm gonna report you to the police." Yes, the term progress report is much gentler, and it is implying that, "I am going to give a report on your progress, and how much better you're doing, and how much improvement you've made." Definitely better. More politically correct. I bet some administrator got a promotion, a pay raise, or both, on that one idea.

All the progress reports I handed out during parent/teacher conferences went quite well, except for one. Daniel cried a lot, and in my opinion, way too much for a fifth grade boy. Of course, he got two D's and that caused his eyes to water, but the real sobbing occurred when I discovered that his single Mom has a new job that has her working until 11:00 pm, and in the meantime Daniel watches television the whole night staying up for her (or for Conan O'Brien) instead of doing his homework correctly. He whimpered a little and told his Mom that the homework was hard to understand sometimes. His mother and I gave him my home phone number and the phone number for the Homework Hotline. It was those phone numbers that brought him to sobs.

I must be cold-blooded. I have no pity for him. He needs direction, guidance and limitations. Tea and sympathy? Yes. Pity? No. I bet he won't call.

I have read that the average kid in the United States watches six or seven hours of television a day, or some unholy amount. One of Daniel's classmates, Royce, is only allowed to watch four hours a week. I guess Daniel is just trying to pick up some of the slack and attempting to carry his and some of Royce's fair share o' the load.

Teaching Teenagers and a Sub Story

Every now and then a teacher will tell me a memorable anecdote, and last week a substitute teacher at our elementary school told a group of fourth and fifth grade teachers a unique experience she had at the nearby middle school.

That's what we call 'em here in New Mexico. Middle schools. In other parts of the country they call them junior high schools, but they're the same thing, and they are filled with kids who, when interrogated, will state their unequivocal belief that they are smarter than me. I don't teach teenagers. Or at least I try not to, except for that one moment when I got conned to teach teenagers.

It happened at my church, for heaven's sake. I was having a grand time teaching fourth and fifth grade elementary Sunday School. However, there was a class of about nine or ten junior high and senior high school teenagers without a teacher, and somebody asked me to switch classes and teach the teenagers.

I told them, "Oh no! I'm not doin' that! I'm not stupid. I can't teach kids that age."

The congregation member/Christian /salesperson / shimmy shyster /snake oil peddler on the other end of the conversation said, "But you're a professional teacher with capabilities and experiences far beyond that of any normal human adult. And don't forget, you'll be teaching children who are believers in Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, and they will be at Sunday School ready to learn more about God's Word found in the Bible. And you have been through five years of BSF and are very knowledgeable on the Old and New Testament. If anyone can handle this job, you can."

I'm ashamed to say I fell for that crud, and replied, "Yup. Yup. Dat's me. I can do dis. Gives me da job!"

Five Sundays later I quit, with a resignation letter to the Sunday School Superintendent, informing her that the God-fearing teenagers in our congregation had emotionally driven me to bended knees on a dead end street. Half of them had told me on more than a dozen occasions that they were far more intelligent than me and any of their previous Sunday School teachers, and they were always askin' me what in tarnation I was mumblin' about, and they told me that everything I said and ever would say would be under immediate scrutiny as a lie, and they asked where was my hair, and then after gettin' personal like that and leavin' me exposed, so to speak, they questioned my credentials as a Bible teacher. One of the boys had expressed his concern, on more than a few occasions, that I apparently was an evil man who was corrupting God's Word, was on my way to Hell, and mentioned something about Dante's Inferno, and brought up the idea that maybe my imminent and welcomed death would necessitate a tenth level of hell being developed especially for human frailities such as myself, and one of them told me to quit asking them to sit down and pay attention, followed by an aside about different learning styles and that some people were "mobile learners."

I told that story to that lady, that substitute teacher at our elementary school, and she agreed. "Oh I hate subbing at middle schools. The kids have no respect for authority and are incorrigible."

Then she said something that caught everyone's attention in the teachers' lounge. Everyone stopped chewing and listened as she told us this inspirational story.

"I do have one shining moment as a substitute at the middle school. One day I was subbing in a seventh grade classroom, and during social studies I was hit in the face by a spit wad. It was a big, wet, juicy spit wad. I didn't see who did it, and I felt humiliated, and I was upset, and I asked the class, 'Who was it that threw that spit wad?' Of course, no one answered, so we went back to reading the textbook, but I was so upset by the incident that I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and prayed to God. I prayed, 'Dear God. Please help me find out who it was that threw that spitwad. It isn't right that this student gets away with that type of abuse to a woman they don't even know. I know it's impossible for me to find out who it was, but I would appreciate some intervention on your part, Almighty Creator, to help me do the impossible and reveal to me the perpetrator. Please help me find out who it was.' At the very instant I finished my prayer, I opened my eyes, looked up, and lo and behold, there was one of the boys in the class with his arm rared back and ready to hit me with another one o' those nasty spit wads. I caught him right in the act! It was wonderful!"

All of the teachers in the elementary school teachers' lounge nodded their heads in agreement, expressed acknowledgment of and appreciation for the Creator working in our lives, and offered up a silent thankful prayer to the Infinite Being and Lord of Lords for making us elementary school teachers.

Daniel Boone

I was completely vegged out in Taos, New Mexico. To be vegged out in Taos, New Mexico, one must aspire to heights of laziness and laid-back-ness that transcend normal human levels of do-nothing-ness. My wife and I were unable to get out of bed and do all the hard work required to attend to society's minimum levels of expectations for public appearances, so we didn't even get maid service in the motel a couple of days.

By Sunday evening I was doing some school work, which meant lesson plans and grading papers, and I was listening to my wife express frustration at the Notre Dame football team's lousy performance against a superior USC team. I was poring over a lot of writing that my students had turned in lately, and one of the stories had some quotes worth mentioning. They were from Thomas' "Daniel Boone" story. The assignment? If you could go back in a time machine and meet a famous person in history, who would it be? What questions would you ask them? What would you, a person from the future, want to tell them that would be of interest to them? Here are some highlights from Thomas' "Daniel Boone" report. These are exact quotes. Thomas is a good speller; there are no misspelled words or punctuation errors.

"I would want to find out what life was like when Daniel Boone was adopted by Native Americans..............I would ask him how he made it through the gauntlet and what it was like running the gauntlet........... I would tell him that in the future we have a very different military. I would show him some ground beef and some ice cream."

Hmmm. Kit Carson is a local Taos hero, and the town has a museum honoring his life and accomplishments. I wonder if Kit Carson would be interested in ground beef and ice cream. I wonder if he had to run the gauntlet?

Profoundly Understanding "Appreciating What You Have", While Living in Boca

Jake and I started Thanksgiving morning with a few quiet minutes alone. In between icing a cake, and preparing to start cooking The Bird, we snuck off to Starbucks. He and I don't find it easy to get time with "just us", and sometimes that's hard for both of us. Especially considering the fact that for many years it was twenty-four/seven "just us".

We had a soulful discussion on this beautiful, non-materialistic holiday. He shared his feelings on having a wonderful family and what joy that gave him. We confabulated, with great sincerity, on how hard it must be to be born opressed, or in poverty. With less than a half-hour of communicating, I could see that my son's priorities were in check, despite the influences of Boca Raton or brief exposures to friends' copies of Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City.

As we walked back out to the car, arm in arm, he added a last bit of wisdom to our discussion. I had my hot espresso, he a cold apple juice.

"You know what would be great, Mom?" he asked me.

World peace? Health for all our friends and family?

"If we had refrigerated cupholders in the car."

Just Give Me a Chance to Wake Up, Will Ya?

Because Ultimately Everything Is Used Against Me

Simon The Wheaten is thirty-five pounds of fluffy puissance that barrels through our home like a tornado. Olivia--armed with an ankle-breaking walker--and he race through the house, all monstrous eighteen-hundred square feet of it, so I end up most of the day hollering, "OUT!" as he races into forbidden zones like my bedroom.

I often wonder what it is like for Olivia to grow up with such a large fireball of a pet. I longed for a dog my whole childhood, and I am happy that she is fortunate enough to be able to take it for granted that he's around. And as much as he can be a nuisance (i.e.: almost every one of Olivia's toys has the head chewed off), I like to think that he's an addition to the family that teaches the children wonderful life lessons.

He does. Olivia and I were in her room playing, and she picked up one of her ususal tidbits from the floor (dirt, thread, paperclip) and slyly attempted to put it into her mouth. I, due to months of training, was too quick for her and swept it away with a firm No.

She looked right at me and pointed to the door: "OUT."

But What's Important Is That I Had a Fun Time

The entire house is keeping me up. And it has made me irritable. Eric has dreams so strong that he wakes me up at night thinking I am, in fact, the intruder/ghost/Jake/boss/barmaid. If he doesn't, then Olivia wails at 2:00 a.m., and if they both require sleeping straight through, they tag Jake to stumble in to me. Going back to sleep immediately seems to be a bargain I had with my youth. I guess as I am getting older my clock is aware that the time left is on the less side, so any sleep disturbance tells me to get up by god you could be watching Erik Estrada sell property and in a few years you won't be able to.

Yesterday I awoke feeling so tired. But I refused to succumb to the desire to put her in the playpen, crawl in there as well, and try to nap while she bangs blocks into my head. I ambitiously showered, got dressed, and met my friend for coffee and shopping with my credit card poised in my fist with that hey, I deserve it passion.

And that kind of resolve pays off, my friends. I had fun. We laughed, and successfully shopped for clothing that requires I not eat until next Tuesday, and Olivia--who has lately despised the stroller--was enough of an angel to inspire us to grab some sushi before heading home to wait for our children. Olivia slept through the first half of the meal and woke with a pleasant, demure smile. I was armed with her favorite babyfoods. Life was good.

As I talked with my friend, I felt like I had done something wrong. I looked down quizzically; I felt that something was askew. A texture had felt different, a routine move incorrect. And just as I looked over at Olivia, I realized that I had spooned a mouthful of wasabi from my plate into her mouth.

Here's where the sleep deprivation showed itself. I was of zero help to my own daughter. In my panic I grabbed my coke and tried to coax her to drink some, out of the straw she has not yet learned to master. In my frenzy to look around for help--a doctor, the sushi chef, someone to raise this baby other than me--it was my friend Shirli who put her hand on my arm and urged me to relax, wait, it was okay.

Olivia's face was beet red and she had tears from the wasabi. Her breathing was comprised of short little gasps to cool her mouth, and she had clenched fists. But no crying. She had swallowed the wasabi like a champ. She looked at me through her watery eyes uncritically and kindly. And then, politely, she opened her mouth for the next bite.

When I print off these pages and hand them to her in lieu of a beautifully crafted baby book, I think I will neglect to print this page. So, please, don't tell her.

Lost In Marriage

My wife came up with another zinger again. Lately Peggy has been nagging me to help her more around the house (for about twenty-seven years). She has made some good points about the percentage of my time and effort spent on housework type of stuff compared to other, more frivolous endeavors, and after twenty-seven years of marriage, I am thinking, “You know, actually, come to think of it, when it gets right down to it, upon reflection, and in all due honesty, it would be possible to admit that maybe I could do more around here.”

So I’m at the television watching a really good movie, and on a spur of the moment thing, kind of out of the clear blue sky, on a lark, and without any notification of my intentions, I mosey into the bedroom where I find my love pedaling away on her exercise bike. I can tell she didn’t just get on the thing, for she is slumped over on the handlebars, breathing hard through her mouth, and her otherwise lovely hair all sweaty and stuck to her face. Her appearance says, “My butt is sore as hell from this seat being shoved way up in there, and both legs are really burning like they’re on fire, and I’m almost done in.” I am thinking that her day is about to change for the better, so with a cheerful tone in my voice in order to perk up her day, to make this a radiant moment, I ask my sweetheart, “Peggy, is there anything I can do for you? Is there anything I can bring you? Can you think of any chores for me to do around the house or anything I can do to help out in any way?” She bolts upright in her seat and says, “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

Top Ten List of Free Advice for Kids

Here are the top ten pieces of free advice I have for today's kids. Be forewarned. This list will contain no pipe dreams like "World Peace." Pipe dreams are unachievable. Fear never qualifies an attainable, desirable goal as a pipe dream.

1. All computers should work. Don't expect them to do a thousand frickin' things. Just expect them to do a few things reliably. If they are at a public school system, they have to work, period, or somebody should go to jail. No one should ever have to say, "The server is down." If you can't get the computers to work, put the mechanics in charge of the computers and the computer geeks in charge of the cars, but be ready. Within ten or twenty years the computers will be simplified, operator friendly, and reliable, but nobody will be able to go anywhere because the cars will be down.

2. If you have to vote, don't expect to stand in a long line. Don't experience history by reenacting what it feels like to be a Soviet Russian in Leningrad during the 1960's, just a-standin' there waitin' your turn to buy stale groceries.

3. The President should act like a normal person and mingle with real people. If he can't for security reasons, then there is too much insecurity. He needs to be forced to be brave and take his chances like all the rest of you.

4. Take control of your neighborhoods. When and where can kids just play? I'd say at this time, it's limited to recess at the schools, and there are schools that are eliminating recess.

5. Quit judging people by their looks. Oops! Now this is a real pipe dream.

5. Nobody is being left behind who is in school. People with no school, now that's being left behind. Study to help yourself. Then help those who have no school.

6. Let older kids continue to mutilate themselves with ear piercings, baggy clothes, and tattoes. Then sit back and wait to see what YOUR generation will consider fashionable. It's going to be difficult to top that one in its sheer ability to achieve a 10 out of 10 on the Masochist Scale.

7. Don't try to top the previous generation's sins, and don't think you've done it. Every generation has its own sins, yet each generation assumes their sins are the worst the world has ever seen. Don't rate your sins so high that a few religious nutcases are going to be able to convince some of your screwballs that Armageddon Is Coming (see Hal Lindsey). Armegeddon ain't coming because your generation is the worst the world has ever seen.

8. Quit eating! Get in shape! I am definitely overweight, out of shape, and 58 years old, but I can still, with a little warm-up, outrun nineteen of the twenty-two fifth graders in my class.

9. Stop and smell the roses. It's a lost art. Recapture it.

10. Quit religious fanatacism, including some American versions of it, and start worshipping our Almighty Creator. So it's a pipe dream. It's my list.

A Ballerina Defeats Luke Skywalker

My New Best Friend, Thy Name is Cake

Jake has always been such an easy eater with a fun and relatively healthy relationship with food. He will try almost any dish (excluding some of the more stomach-wrenching ones he witnessed Anthony Bourdain try on his food/travel series). At just ten years of age he has gulleted raw oysters, sushi, and shows a preference at any meal for mussels. His favorite foods are not common for this MacDonald's generation: baby lamb chops, oysters on the grill, lobster, veal chops, artichokes. So when his eleventh birthday rolled around on Tuesday, he requested--with the same deliberance one would choose a last meal--Weinerschnitzel, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and cake for dessert.

I grilled him hard about dessert. He is not a sweets consumer, but he is a sweets procurer. Halloween night, like with every other child, was spent rifling through his bounty. The difference was that he had a trashcan by the bed, into which he tossed unfortunate tootsie rolls and dum-dums. Valentine's Day has to include chocolate, but I'll be throwing away the uneaten portion by mid-March. "Are you sure you want a birthday cake?" I pushed him. "You really love strawberry shortcake." He was adamant. He wanted the presentation that a grand cake provides.

I set to work Tuesday morning after dropping him off. I thought a three-layer caramel cake might interest him, since previous coconut and Italian creme cakes have left him unimpressed. I put turtles on the outside edge, and caramalized pecans on top. And he did love the look of the cake when he arrived home from school, probably as much as he loved the pile of presents on the table. His patience, in both dessert devouring and present opening, is so much better than mine. I have been known to pester my birthday gift givers to the point of their feeling complete hatred of the entire month of May, but Jake walked by the dining room table without a finger in the icing, nary a poke of a package.

He adored dinner, entirely appreciated the presents, and contemplated his all-important birthday wish until the candles had almost burned themselves out. And as Eric and I consumed the cake with numerous sighs and eye rolling, Jake ate a bite and said, "I'm just not a cake person." I wish I weren't. There's a pair of leggings in my closet I am petrified to wear because the cakes are so darn good.

Meanwhile, I have told you how often I scoop things out of Olivia's mouth, namely every little thing that is on the floor. She has helped me relax a little, since her little tastebuds have begun to rely on my startled, fearful No! when she dexteriously pincers a delectable tidbit like a paper shred or a staple. Unfortunately on Tuesday night, however, a crumb of caramel cake apparently hit the floor, surely from Jake's portion. And my Wednesday morning No! did not come until after it had hit her tongue, and her look at me was heartwrenching. In that moment, her eyes told me, she learned the truth about the gastronomic floor wonders I had been been denying her. So now she is back at it again, scouring the floor, shoving unknown items into her mouth with the same fervor as a second-time heroine user, searching for that amazing caramel cake high that changed her life forever.

My days are once again spent frantically vacuuming while she naps, chasing her every step and wiping her hands off. And it will be a long time before she trusts that, maternally, my every goal is not to keep her from experiencing pleasure. Oh, wait a minute--yes it is.

What Is He Thinking?

Laura's last blog, the one just below, reminded me of an ongoing tough time I am having with a boy in my fifth grade class. I am glad she wrote that blog. It has me reflecting on all that has transpired lately concerning the boy, and I want to share it with you.

Last year I took this boy into my fourth grade class from another teacher's class on his mother's premise that he needed a male teacher because his father had recently died. I'm not so sure that the boy needed a father figure as much as he needed reassurance from his mother that all would be well, but, hey, she obviously had her mind made up so the school administration abided by her strong wishes. All seemed to go well last year.

As my readers may know, I "looped" with this class, which means I am teaching the same group of students who are now fifth graders. This year started off reasonably well, but by September I saw a tendency on this boy's part to argue with me. By October he started displaying anger towards his classmates. His arguing and anger increased, so I called his mother. I tried on several occasions to talk to her on the phone, but she was always asleep and did not return my calls. Alarm bells went off inside my head, and sure enough, he came to school a week later and informed me that his mother was going into rehab for a month. I asked him why, and he told me it was for drinking. I asked him who he would be staying with, and he replied that he would be living with his aunt and uncle until his mother's return.

Then, three days later, all hell broke loose. He was arguing with me relentlessly, almost suicidally. Worst of all, he was losing his friends. If he had been given a BB gun, I am sure he would have tried to shoot both eyes out.

I promptly sent him to the principal for a strong conversation, and to our wonderful school counselor for emotional healing. Moving the problem up to the administration and to a professional counselor raised the stakes, and I saw immediate results.

I am hoping and praying for this boy. I am also doing all that I can to help him, including but not limited to avoiding confrontation. That may mean sidestepping a desire on his part to "rumble" with his teacher. I'll also hope that his mother's rehabilitation includes the ability to let him be a little boy rather than a spousal substitute, which I felt at times may have been taking place.

I could go into all kinds of heavy duty, professional reflection, and thought provoking gobbledy-gook about this boy, but to tell you the truth, I am not sure I know what in the hell is going on. I find myself mystified and amazed at human beings. I don't consider myself an expert on them, and I am one, for cryin' out loud.

I know that progress reports (report cards) are coming up, yet this boy's grades are of little importance in his life compared to other priorities at this time.

Because That's What Marriage Is, Dammit

Sometimes a child begins a long, downward cycle of repetitious, improper behavior, and the child drags an adult into their circle of negativity by not responding to criticism or punishment.
Mr. Holland

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
Albert Einstein



And yet, in a brief misguided but hopeful moment of solidarity I turn to Eric and ask him, "What do you think of my new purse?"

What Halloween Really Means To Retailers

is that mothers all over the country are doing everything they can to walk past this siren's call while their children are at school and in valiant efforts to do so will run away from the house to the mall and drop over three hundred dollars at places like Victoria's Secret.