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.

Great Children's Literature

I love good books and reading them. By the time I was sixteen, I had read almost every major league baseball player's biography I could get my hands on, every science fiction short story and novel I could find, Mark Twain, Mad Magazine, comic books, Edgar Rice Burroughs, etc.

Children's literature at an intermediate reading level is a booming business and is a genre that is not familiar to many adults. By the time your child is an independent reader, you don't read with them much. Therefore, a lot of intermediate level books for children may have escaped your attention.

I have read these over and over and enjoy them every time. Check 'em out. I consider each one a treasure, a gem, a classic.

Redwall
Where the Red Fern Grows
There is a Boy in the Girl's Bathroom
Harris and Me
Tuck Everlasting
Bridge to Terabithia
Old Yeller
Walk Two Moons
Because of Winn-Dixie
Shiloh
Hank the Cowdog (every one of 'em)
A Year Down Yonder

These are just a few of my favorites.

Thar He Blows!

I love class parties. We had a "Cold Weather Is Finally Here!" party on Friday, and we bobbed for apples, played "Heads Up Seven Up" and "Murder", and ate lots of goodies. Here is Melissa bobbing for apples. She sure hesitated a long time.





We had seven different kinds of chips, three different dips including some delicious homemade guacamole, four of five different kinds of sweets including homemade cookies and those little bite sized candy bars, and six different flavors of soda pop including Diet Dr. Pepper (I am on a diet!).

I told the kids at the end of the party that I was so stuffed that I was about to pop. Melissa yelled out, "Fire in the Hole!!" and hit the floor.

More Fodder for His Future Shrink

"Hello?"
"Hi, this is the school nurse calling regarding Jake."
"Ohmygod, is he okay?"
"Yes, I am just calling regarding his hand."
"Oh, yes, well, um, he hurt it last night playing football. I supposed he jammed it."
Ok, you are talking to a nurse. You might not want to diagnose.
"Well, I really think it should be looked at. He came in because it was hurting and I splinted it."
"Oh, well, yes. I mean, I thought the same thing, but my husband..." (of course, Eric's fault)
"Of course. I wouldn't worry. I just would have it looked at to be cautious."

After the call, I sit on the bed, reeling from worry, embarassment, and fever. This is day one suffering from the cold I caught from Jake. Then, because I am the mother, I gather myself and call his pediatrician, who wisely suggests that I take him immediately to the ER for pictures.

Swig of Dayquil. (Did I do one of those already? My head is so fuzzy.) Shower and go get Jake. I can do this. Before I step into the shower, the phone rings and I can see it is my friend Shirli, checking on me.

"Hello?"
"Where are you?" She asks. "I just saw Jake."
"I'm on my way," I tell her. "Is he hurting?"
"Well, he's upset."
Wow. He seemed fine this morning.
"He saw me and asked me to call you to make sure you were coming in time."
Silence from me. What? More fuzziness.
"I'm at the Student of the Month ceremony. Are you going to make it?"

OHMYGOD. This morning--right now--is the ceremony for the Students of the Month, and Jake is one of them. HE WORKED SO HARD FOR THIS. HOW COULD I FORGET? WE JUST TOOK HIM TO DINNER TWO NIGHTS AGO TO CELEBRATE.

I explain to Shirli that I won't be there, as there are a mere five minutes remaining until the lengthy, two-minute ceremony. She, my friend-angel, promises to take pictures and cheer for him.

As I race through my shower and try to remember if I took my cold medicine, it occurs to me that I must stop forgetting important award ceremonies. Because I want to be present when I waste all the other contenders for Best Mother of the Year award.

You Can't Say Christmas, Or Halloween

Twenty-first century Americans are a bunch of mealy-mouthed, scardy-cat, lip zippered, panty-waists, and I am one of them. I have been told a thousand times by society, the newspapers, the press and all the media, pollsters, attorneys, my bosses, and all sorts of politicians, that I should never use the words Christmas and Halloween at the elementary school where I teach. One of the words is Christian in nature ( see the word Christ in Christmas) and the other is historically based on either satan worship or paganism.

So I don't say the word Christmas, despite the fact that the school library has books that go into great detail about Islam and the respect it deserves, the Jewish faith ( the kids and I are about to be provided with our annual historical look at menorahs), Father Sky and Mother Earth, and religious tolerance towards all faiths, yet our library is not allowed to have one, single book on the Christian faith. I have been legally challenged on my chorus's "Winter Program." I am not allowed to use the phrase "Christmas Program," but I have been challenged on my choice of music because many of the songs use the word Christmas (e.g. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer), and I have changed past programs in order to accomodate those complaints. The reason I have done so is because the school district's most influential attorney, who presides in a high rise office that looks like something out of the TV show Boston Legal, told me that despite the fact that the legal interpretation of the word Christmas by a U.S. District Court of Appeals (the case didn't make it to the Supreme Court) is that it is NOT purely religious in nature but also has secular connotations, I would still be terminated by the school district if I forced the issue to be resolved in a court of law. I was warned to just do whatever it takes to appease any complaints, despite the fact that I may be legally correct.

I don't say the word Halloween, either, despite the fact that every Wal-Mart and mall in town is shoveling the word and the accouterments of the holiday down our throats (mmm....chocolate).

So I am having a party today in order to celebrate "Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day." I am about the only teacher in our school that has the gumption to pull this off, despite the fact that I consider myself pretty mealy-mouthed. I tell the kids, bring party supplies, dress appropriately (there will be bobbing for apples), and be ready for "Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day."

Melissa raised her hand and asked, "Mr. R., why do you call it 'Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day' when everyone knows it's a Halloween party?"

Well, Melissa, that's because I celebrate cold weather. I'm too old for Halloween. It's not a Halloween party." (See 'panty-waist' in first paragraph.)

"Well, Mr. R., my parents say that you can't use the word Halloween because you're not supposed to, but you have changed it to 'Cold Weather Is Finally Here Day.' They told me you are supposed to be calling it the 'Venerial Equinox.' How come you don't call it the 'Venerial Equinox'?"

"I don't celebrate that either, Melissa."

Elementary Tactfulness

I have really been working on writing in my fifth grade classroom lately. Class time is allocated during each day to provide students with adequate time to generate completed rough drafts, and then parent volunteers come in three times a week to help students revise and edit their writing assignments. Lately there have been a lot of writing assignments to grade.

Because of this procedure, I grade a lot of papers I have not seen, even in the rough draft stage. One of the students wrote about me, and in a stupendous attempt to be to be tactful, made what I believe is a very clever statement. Here are her exact words:

"When Mr. R. is not getting mad at someone, he is very patient."

I have to agree. It's true.

Awwww, But Hearing You Say That Makes It All Worthwhile

Jake was home sick today. And the real kind of sick; the kind where you can't even study in case you go back to school tomorrow after your friend lugs all your books home from class for you. So for me, it was kind of a "day off". Sure there was nursemaiding to be done, and running after an infant--who as you found out yesterday has learned to walk and now will not sit still--in between water-fetching, and a few regular chores that couldn't be ignored. As I was cleaning the kitchen for like the eighth time (you know how it is when someone's sick), Jake looked up from the couch in the sitting room and asked me, "Mom, is this really what you do all day when I'm at school?"

The woman defenses kicked in. I wanted to explain that actually, this had been an easy day. No running anywhere, no floor scrubbing (no way with both kids at home), and no spa appointments. But why lay all that on a kid who clearly is now of the opinion that I do nothing but tinker on the internet?

"Yes," I answered.

"Whew, no wonder you go to bed so early." he said. "You have a crappy job."

Incommunicado

I know you have been busy as well. We all have jobs, and chores, and children. But really, it has taken a while and a lot of focus to teach Olivia to finally do this:




I won't even go into how much time I spend preparing her nutritious meals.

The Largest Public School Chorus in the United States of America

I have blogged before about the chorus I founded. I have blogged how it is time and energy consuming and how I ought to just let it die. How I am a chump and don't get paid extra to do what some would consider a full time job.

However, I continue to do it, and here is why. Here are some very low-quality PalmPilot photos of what I believe is the largest public elementary school chorus in the United States. This photo was taken Thursday, October 19. Our membership is 156 students, and there were 143 on the risers the day of the photo.





Our accompanist, the effervescent, cheerful and low-paid Mrs. B.

Here is a photo of our chorus director, Miss L., who happens to be a former chorus member and a soloist in quIte a few of our shows before she graduated to middle school and the high school.

If you can't tell from the photos why I continue to make a pendejo out of myself by running this program, then you might not be a music lover or lostinkids. Or maybe you just have to be there. It's quite a sight.

Tutoring

I am tutoring a fifth grader who is struggling in school. I go to his house twice a week and do everything I can to encourage the boy to read. He is decoding (turning printed words on the page into language) at the third grade level, but is comprehending (understanding what the words mean) at only the late second grade level because he is working so hard at decoding. I assessed that much of his problem is a reluctance to read, so I decided to start by motivating him to read. I can't teach him to read if he won't read (practice).

I have been taking his parents' money for three months and was about to think about deciding whether to consider making a decision to analyze the possibilty of whether to wonder if I should give up and throw in the towel on this boy or not. In other words, I am discouraged and feel guilty about taking their money, but I can be relentless and will not pass on even the suspicion of that possibilty to him or his parents.

I finally made progress this Saturday. We had a major "break-through!" Whoa! What a great session we had! The previous four days he had read a lot and seemed to enjoy it. He is finally interested in Scary Stories and Captain Underpants, and is beginning to understand Calvin and Hobbes, which is well above his comprehension level but has him fascinated. I have always had Reese's Peanut Butter Cups on hand to give him as a reward but never had to hand them out. This Saturday he almost cleaned me out of two bags of snack-size bars. I pray for more of those sessions!

No Child Left Behind. Adequate Yearly Progress: Government Run Amok Part 2

I have written an earlier opinion about our federal government's visionary attempts to hold our educational system accountable for individual student success.

Let me speak first of our leaders' vision, and the implications of their attempt to steer the nation into the 21st century. I think that the vision I speak of is the same one that the Soviets developed in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (U.S.S.R.). Government, not its people, run the show. Government is in charge, and government can force change. A good way to do that is to build the premise that the existing system is no good. Convince the citizens that the American educational system is failing. That's a good start. When "everyone" has bought into that, let us, your leaders, pass a few laws that will send shock waves through state and local governments that will fix this problem. What the citizens will actually wind up with is increased bureaucracy, well intentioned yet intrusive regulations, and a directive to teach by consulting legal advice and purchasing approved educational products rather than educational pedagogy.

Teachers' unions must be portrayed as unable to change and unwilling to adapt in order to make essential improvement. No problem there. Lots of teachers are knuckleheads and will feed right into that need.

I find myself spending more and more of my instructional time giving tests in order to demonstrate to a bureaucrat that the students in my class are not being "left behind." Hogwash!

It's Been a Long Time Coming, and, "Honey, Just Please Keep Your Bra To Yourself"

My blended family is not an overnight success. Eric-the-stepfather has been obliged to cram into three years the parenting basics you non-blended families have had the entire length of your childrens' lives to form: united fronts, love through failures, consistent discipline, mosquito-laden childrens' sporting events, and exhausting evenings at Dave and Busters. The problem with the Immersion Parenting program for Eric is that, as we all know, the "instant gratification" of parenting comes, like, twice a year. Add that up and that is less than a week of positive confirmation from Jake that Eric is doing an adequate job. Sometimes he feels underappreciated. Welcome to my world.

This morning required a permission slip for Jake to attend a field trip, along with $10.35. I couldn't locate my checkbook, so we had to gather the correct money in actual cash. I, being the tightwad that I am, would not send in a ten-dollar bill and two quarters, so we rushed around looking for exact change. All with a baby that no longer is satisfied being held, a dog that looks for any opportunity to run around herding us into the laundry room, and a husband that was due at an early-morning meeting. We accomplished the change procurement--hopefully the school will actually appreciate having pennies on hand--with a great deal of laughter and chaos. After loading Jake in the car, and running back into the house for necessities like keys, my purse, and Nuber The Bear, we set off for school. Eric kissed me before we drove off, and said, "Hey, Jay and I got you and Nikki Aerosmith tickets for November." Finding out you're going to be 500 feet from Steven Tyler over morning coffee is such a bonus.

Jake was quiet until we were halfway to school. "Man," he said, shaking his head. "I really am loving this family we're putting together."

Me too, Jake.

Lost In Marriage: A Short Blog

Last night, in a futile effort to get a compliment, I asked my wife what is one of the advantages of being married to me. She replied, "Well, I have developed an immunity to stupid remarks."

R-Rated Blog: The "B" Word

I'm an elementary schoolteacher, yet I hear kids use cuss words and profanity that, if I would have used them under any circumstances as a kid in the 1950's, would have gotten a bar of Palmolive shoved halfway down my esophagus. Things like, and I quote:

"C_ _ p!"

"S_ _ t!"

"F_ _ k!"

"F_ _ k you!"

"F_ _ k you too!"

"E _ t me!"

"B_ _ e me!"

"That s_ _ _ s!"

"She s _ _ _ s!"

"He s _ _ _ s!"

"You s _ _ _ !"

"D _ _ n!"

"D _ _ _ it!"

"That p _ _ _ _ s me off!"

"Holy c _ _ p!"

But there is one word I have never heard any child even whisper, and that's the "b" word. Some kid'll run up to me on the playground and cry, "Mr. R., Johnny called me a b _ _ _ _ _ d, so I told him to go f _ _ k himself, and then he called me a w _ _ _ e, and I told him that meant he was g _ y, and then he......... and then.......... and then he.............. Oh! I can't say it, it's so horrible."

"But you have to tell me! What happened then?" What terrible thing made you come running to see me?"

Mr. R., Johnny then called me.......... he said....................Oh! Mr. R., I can't even say the word."

"Well whisper it. In my ear."

They'll get real close to my ear and then say, "I can't, Mr. R., it's too terrible."

"Well I need to know what he said, so I give you permission. Look here. I have a legal document signed by me, our principal, her boss the school superintendent, the Mayor of our city, the Governor of our state, the President of our country, the Pope, the Dalai Lama, and Lindsey Lohan. This document gives you the right to say the word to me without ever getting into trouble. OK. Now what's the word?"

"The word is................ the word............. it's too............ the word............. Oh! Mr. R., I just can't.

"Well spell the word. Can you spell it?"

"Yes, but that would be like saying it in slow motion."

"Well then tell me the first letter. What does it begin with?"

The kid will then lean very close and whisper, "It starts with a b."

All the other kids in listening distance will put their hands over their mouth in disgust and horror and make a gasping noise.

"Was the word 'bitch'? Was that the 'b' word?"

"Oh My God! I didn't hear that. I can't believe you said it! Oh God! Save us all! Yes! That was it!!"

"Then what happened after he called you the 'b' word?"

"Well then I told him his sister was a h _ _ _ er and his mother was a p _ _ _ _ _ tute, and then he punched me, so I punched him back, and he's laying over there in a pool of blood."

"Well what did you come to see me for?"

"Mr. R.! He used the 'b' word!!!"

Poor Johnny. There are some limits as to what is acceptable in playground mores. He went way over the line. He is now an untouchable. A lower class citizen. A kid that used the "b" word!

Kids Say the Darndest Things Part I

Before every piano lesson I take a minute or two to just talk to the kid about their day, or their week, or whatever. Except for Melissa, they never have too much to say.

I was starting up Sydney's lesson and asked her how everthing was going.

"Fine."

"How's your Mom and Dad?"

"They're OK."

"How's your teacher, Mr. N.?"

He's doing OK."

"Has he said anything brilliant or wise lately?"

"No. Not yet."

Teaching Alexander Pope to a Fifth Grader

Today I finally got through to Arthur, at least on an emotional level. Arthur suffers from a severe case of CryBaby Syndrome. That kid can miscalculate a fraction reduction and he'll be all red-faced, teary-eyed, gulping air, and unable to work for half an hour.

Today he graded one of Paul's tests and gave him a U, which at our school is equivalent to an old-fashioned F. Paul seemed concerned because his paper looked high quality, and I agreed. So we went to Arthur and asked him why he gave Paul a U. He explained that it wasn't a U, that it was an A. I told him that it was a U, and he needed to correct the grade by improving his handwriting. Well, Arthur did that, but he started bawling and got pretty teary eyed. I decided to do something about it and kept him in for recess.

I made him write a sentence ten times. The sentence was Alexander Pope's famous quote, "To err is human, to forgive Divine." I explained the meaning of the sentence before he wrote it, for he didn't know what "err" or "Divine" meant, but I explained them. After he had written the sentence ten times, I asked him what it meant to him. He told me that he didn't forgive himself for making mistakes. I told him he understood, and I added that he didn't seem to ever forgive himself for simple, unimportant errors that shouldn't bother a person. I sent him on his way, but he missed almost the whole recess.

Later that day, the kids were moving desks around, and Arthur spilled the entire contents of Alan's desk out on the floor. I told Arthur to pick up the contents of the desk and to be more careful. He did it with no tears, and I told him, "Good job, Arthur!" Alan said, "He did a good job? He dumped all the stuff out of my desk!" I looked at Arthur and said, "Arthur, what job did you do that was good?" Arthur grinned and said, "I forgave myself." I winked at him and said, "To forgive is Divine." I think the others were a little confused, but Arthur understood.

Wild Beast

I've been meaning to write about one of my piano student's younger brother. I have written about the piano student in a earlier blog, and I referred to him as the Reluctant Pianist. His little brother is a handful, and I shall refer to him as Wild Beast. I'll never forget the first piano lesson with Wild Beast peeking around the corner staring at me to see what I was doin' at his house. He was sportin' a devilish grin, and he has turned out to be as impish as he looked that first time I saw him. He did something today that probably has been done a hunerd million times by some little kid to some adult, but it's just that I'm an elementary school teacher who has never had children and am not around preschoolers that much, so I was caught off guard.

I hate to use my client's bathrooms. I go in their house every week for a piano lesson, and I don't want to make a regular habit of dumpin' or whizzin' my load in their house every time I arrive, so I make sure I relieve myself BEFORE the lesson. That way I have a little class and I don't potty every time I'm there.

Except I had a cold. I'm fightin' this one off with everything I have. Expensive juices, VSC, NyQuil, DayQuil, NoonQuil, and lots of liquids of every kind. What this means is, my kidneys and bladder are workin' overtime. So I'm at the Wild Beast's house preparing his older brother for his first piano recital when all of a sudden I realize I'm not going to make it. I check my watch for the amount of time left, the rapidly swelling bladder, and it doesn't take Stephen Hawkings to calculate that I won't make it back to my house, or possibly even my car. So I ask the mother if I may please use their restroom, and she graciously says yes.

I'm in their bathroom taking a relatively long time because I am in my post radical prostatectomy eager bladder and minuscule urethea days, when the little Wild Beast yells out, "HE'S IN THERE PEEIN'!!" I realize that Wild Beast is standin' outside the bathroom door announcing what I hate to do at any client's home and that's use their bathroom. The one time I do it, it's being announced by a kid with vocal chords stronger than a Bose MAX 6000 public address system. I feared he'd start givin' a play-by-play!

"He's unzippn' his britches! He reaches in and pulls out his _ _ _ _ _ _, grabs it in his hands and makes sure it's pointin' in the right direction because the one time you don't want to aim wrong is at someone else's house. He's holdin' his _ _ _ _ _ _ in his hand and is now lettin' it fly. Oops! It's more of a dribble. How come it's not shootin' out? I bet he's bein' careful not to let it dribble on his pants. He'd have to stay in there for a long time if he wets the front of his pants. Boy, this is takin' some time. I'd be done by now. It's slowin' down. Say, Mom, I think he's almost done. The flow is slowin' down now. I just hear drops. Uh-oh! Here comes more. What is with this geezer? Folks, it's a pitiful display of excretory muscles. If it warn't fer gravity, this pee-pee would never come out. Wait a minute, everybody! I think this is it. He's probably giving it a good shake now because the last thing you want is to reposition your _ _ _ _ in your pants before it's all finished. Grown men hate leakage. He's takin' his _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ and shovin' it back in there. I hear the zipper goin' again. It's official! He's done!!!

When you're at the Reluctant Pianist's house, you don't have to worry about being embarrassed all by yourself. The whole house is in on it, thanks to Wild Beast.

It's Because All of Her Nicknames Are Food-Related

You know by now that Olivia is little. She is all of twenty-eight inches in length and a whopping 16.5 pounds as of her One Year Old Checkup. And that 16.5 pounds includes a saturated diaper that I hadn't changed since eighteen hours before to get her statistics at least "on the charts" in her file. I felt like that episode of Andy Griffith my father loved so much, the one in which Barney couldn't meet the weight requirements of a deputy. They ended up putting the whistle he wore around his neck on a ten-pound industrial chain and he just squeaked by.

The nurse told me that if she hadn't grown in length since the last visit, she'd be worried. But she still had a look of consternation as she left the room. However the doctor succeeded in allaying my fears where she'd failed, adroitly pointing out that with Eric's 5'8" and my 5'4" and 112 pounds, how big were we expecting her to be? My little ballerina.

He queried me on her eating habits and I had brought a hastily scribbled diary of her typical food schedule.

6:00 a.m.: seven ounces of formula
8:30 a.m.: bowl of oatmeal and jar of fruit, sometimes a scrambled egg with that, and if we go to Starbucks together, a croissant.
10:30 a.m.: second bottle, seven ounces
11:30 a.m.: lunch--meat and vegetable, fruit
1:30 p.m.: third bottle, seven ounces
2:30 p.m.: snack (fruit, cheerios)
5:00 p.m.: dinner--meat and vegetable
6:00 p.m.: final bottle, six ounces

The doctors eyebrows confirmed that I was, in fact, giving Olivia enough nutrition. I even omitted the snacks she enjoys throughout the day: just that morning I had fished out of her mouth some carpet, some stickers, a sunflower seed (shell intact), and a portion of Jake's list of classmates . The point is, Olivia eats. She eats, and then eats, and then craves a little more. And woe be the person who traipses by Olivia with their own sustenance. She wants yours, too.

She'll get bigger, inevitably. And we all live in our house quite accustomed to her appetite. As Jake said the other day--without looking up from his homework--as I searched and called for Simon: "Olivia ate him."

Immunity

I am reasonably sturdy regarding my baby Olivia. If kids want to gather round her and touch her little hands, I don't completely sieze up like I used to when Jake was an infant. I feel confident that a side benefit from breastfeeding O for eight months is a killer immune system that could tolerate a bag o' spinach. We won't discuss whether that is fair compensation for the fact that my breasts now require an engineer-designed pulley system tucked neatly into my Wacoal's.

The other day tested my germ-compatability to its limits. I was in line at the airport to get a Coke to drink, and noticed that there was a woman in front of me alone with her little toddler son. He was repeatedly sticking his hands down into the backside of his pants and furiously digging around. "Mommy," he whined. "My butt hurts." She kept retracting his hand and checking for a poopy diaper--if I had wanted a hamburger at this point all desire would be squashed--and trying to distract him. "Justin," she whined back. "Please keep your hands out of your pants." Out of your dirty behind. She made no move to exit the line and hit the bathrooms which to me seemed an appropriate decision.

"Justin, look at Mommy. Uh, Justin look at the lights. Oh, oh, Justin," and here's where apparently my family steps in to assist her, "Look at the baby!"

Justin turns to see Olivia and I behind him. O, in her stroller and unaware of the E-coli incident occuring directly in front of her, smiles and waves. Justin rushes towards us, hands outstretched, and without hesitation, I whip her stroller around me so fast that Olivia goes lurching backward into the seat.

"Justin, don't touch the baby." Her words were on my side, the side of reason, logic, and propriety, but her glare at me showed how she really felt about me. She threw me some really nasty looks until my coke arrived and I ran off with Olivia to board the plane.

And you of course know the rest, that she was on my plane and two seats behind me.

Word to the wise...if you have a ticket on Continental, seat 19B, bring some Lysol.

Reader's Digest Material

Some literature is frowned upon by persnikety snobs, and Reader's Digest is a likely candidate for criticism. However, it was in a Reader's Digest that I read the short story, "The Year the Yankees Won the Pennant" which was the inspiration for the Broadway musical and the movie "Damn Yankees." To a nine year old boy, that short story was a revelation, and I was captivated by it and exposed as a shameful Yankee fan. As my Boston Red Sox brother Jack once said, "Rooting for the Yankees is like hoping that Bill Gates wins the lottery." But I digress.

Lately I have been writing cute comments that belong in Reader's Digest. Just remember....I am a Reader's Digest fan. Here is the latest entry:

Today during spelling in my fifth grade class, I asked the kids to put one of the spelling words in a sentence. "Who can put magnifying in a sentence? Yes, Tanner."

Tanner seemed sure of himself but he said, "I magnified an ant in the sun."

I was skeptical that he knew the correct usage of the word. "Tanner, what do you mean by the word magnify?"

"Well, it's when you burn up ants." (Appropriately, the class laughs.)

"No, I don't think so, Tanner. Magnifying means making something appear larger in size. A magnifying glass makes things appear bigger than they really are. You were using a magnifying glass to fry the ants. Magnifying does not mean frying."

Akira politely and helpfully pipes up, "Well, Mr. R., maybe Tanner was magnifrying the ants!"

A Little Getaway: Lost in Good Food

My wife and I rarely go on a real vacation, but we do go to Taos, New Mexico for little getaways. They last three or four nights, and we go three times a year if we're lucky. We recently went on one of our little getaways this last Labor Day and savored the sleeping, the dozing, the cable TV, and most of all, the exquisite cuisine. Here is a PalmPilot (low quality) digital photo of the almond crusted baked brie at the Apple Tree Restaurant. It was better than it looked.








We also enjoyed the locally grown chantrelle mushrooms over puff pastry topped with fresh asparagus at the Trading Post and the wilted spinach salad and the ravioli with a red pepper coulis at the Downtown Bistro. In fact, everything at the Downtown Bistro is superb, and the Bent Street Deli serves the best Ruebens we have ever had. For snacks I would eat Taos Cow ice cream which doesn't have the cute names that Ben and Jerry have, but the ice cream is heavier and less foamy. It's incredible, and I wish I was holding a scoop each of: Pinon Caramel, Cinnamon, and Cherry Ristra (with cherries, white and dark chocolate chunks, and nuts). Three scoops, by the way, takes two hands to hold. The stuff is heavy (figuratively and literally).

But we're home now and it's back to fat free cheese, turkey bacon, low-fat yogurt, fruit, vegetables, and salads. D!

Melissa Says The Darndest Things Part lll

Melissa, my clever piano student, was on another roll yesterday during her lesson.
I am planning a program for all my piano students that will be held in September, and I am adding a very brief biography about each performer. I asked Melissa to tell me about herself, what interests she has, etc.

"Well, I like using up money. And if I had three wishes, the first one would be to own the Cottonwood Mall. And I really enjoy going to the beauty salon and having my nails done."

"Melissa, I'm not sure we want to put that in the program. Can you tell me more about yourself, about the real you?"

She batted her eyes and said, "We wouldn't want to tell anyone TOO much about me, would we?"

Then, later in the lesson she was playing "If I Had a Hammer."

"Melissa, you need to play 'If I Had a Hammer' with more enthusiasm. Let's look at the words.
'I'd hammer out danger! I'd hammer out a warnin'! I'd hammer out love between my brother and my sister! I'd hammer out justice! It's the bell of freedom!!' You have to play the song like you mean those words. When you play this song, you should be crying out for justice. You should be crying out for it because there is no justice in this world; there is only law and order."

Her face lit up and she cried out, "Yes, and it's been on for seventeen seasons!"

According to the website, she is correct. Seventeen seasons!

Because I Just Don't Believe That The Up And Coming Language Is Chinese

Eric decided that we were being remiss in Olivia's development, so he asked me to purchase a book and DVD on Baby Signing. The book has pictures of how to sign words that are essential in your baby's daily communication, like "milk", and "more". All this of course prevents your child from rendering tantrums in the checkout aisle of Publix for that pack of Gatorade Gum because they are no longer frustrated from not being able to get their needs across to you. As I have a similar problem as a wife, I am waiting for the Marital Aide on Signing to come out soon.

Olivia's favorite object right now is light. So we immediately turned to the extensive glossary to find the word and open up the secret of that universe to her. There was no hand-signing translation for light. I poured through the entire glossary searching (lamp? light? bright?) and ascertained that while I have the tools before me to teach her to say, "Look Mother and Father, the saxophonist is on fire, can I have some more milk?" there was no reprieve for the fact that she is willing to say "wha's zat?" as she points to the overhead one thousand times in a row.

The book outlined for us the way to teach her this new language, and that the future advantages of her communication were extensive. Children that learn to sign at a young age, the book claims, are showing a better overall ability to communicate when older, are higher performing at school, and are exhibiting an ability to hang around the hearing-disabled children at a party and be invited to share their cocaine quicker than the kids who are unable to sign.

Believe me, Olivia seems quite skilled daily in getting her point across without the signing. Much like the time I had Botox on my forehead and one of the mothers--who was a psychotherapist--
pointed out she was concerned about a society that would be unable to get across their emotions and I implored her to trust me, Jake still is conclusively aware when I am angry, I ask that you trust me that I do not unwittingly change her diaper when she is merely screaming for her dinner. But I applaud Eric's commitment to his daughter's contentment. I just wish he were as committed to teaching Jake to sign and perhaps I would get a little peace and quiet around here.

Olivia refuses to say the word Mommy. We have tried everything, and she will oblige with all other sounds. "Rooooaaaar," she says when prompted what does the tiger say. "Shoe", "table", "shit", "woof", "daddy". No problem, Eric convinced me, as he demonstrated the sign gesture for mommy repeatedly.

The fifty dollar investment has already paid off. Imagine my pleasure when she finally presented her own interpretation.

Mr. Doofy's Chorus

Remember how I vowed not to run the school chorus program again? How busy it is to be a teacher and yet also throw in running a one hundred plus member elementary school chorus? Remember how I gave my notice to the principal? And it was final?

The principal called me into her office last May on the second to the last day of school and handed me a stipend voucher for $1620.00 for doing such a good job. I was happily shocked! Then the principal asked me if I would consider doing chorus again next year if another stipend could be found. I told her my answer would come if I started it up next year.

Next year is here, and of course Mr. Doofy (that's me) is organizing a chorus. We have 148 members signed up and they will soon be crammed onto 6 risers. That makes our chorus larger than the Dallas Vocal Majority, with an average age five times younger than their members, and a little over twelve times as entertaining. My new chorus director is an "alumni" of the elementary school, and an ex-chorus member and spotlighted soloist in many of the chorus shows from about six years ago. She is now a junior in high school and willing to take on such a daunting task. How many of you would like to be charge of 148 third, fourth, and fitfth graders for a little over an hour and a half for the purpose of teaching them to sing songs?

I'll blog some photos with reports on how it went after our first rehearsal on September 14.

Signed,
Mr. Doofy

As MBF Tracy Says, It's ALL About Them

Eric and I had an argument this morning. A thundering, bellowing argument. It was regarding a convulated quagmire that I will not drag you into, but it involves Eric and a whole mess of money skipping him (us, m'fing us, which means I don't get this) and going straight to Olivia, when she's presumably too old to snort it right up her nose. As the mom of two (egads) kids, our argument was my fault* because I felt my lioness shackles going up regarding Jake. We gained our control, agreed to talk later, and about five minutes later Jake walked into the room.

Jake ambled in donning a strange expression, and I felt really disappointed in myself. I wondered how damaging this morning would be on him and I inwardly cringed. "Hey," I said to him.

"Hey," he responded. "I heard you guys arguing."

I felt so ashamed. "I'm sorry, dude. Were you scared?"

His eyes lit up. "No! It sounded like you guys were arguing over who loves me more!"

Hey, I'm nothing if not here to make your day.

*You will never hear this again.

Mad Diary 9.5.06

I'm sharing yesterday's meltdown with you because I am relatively assured that most of my days are governed with a modicum of sanity, and I am also blissfully unafraid of my more, uh, interesting side.

Olivia is probably one of the easiest babies in the world, and while that makes for some pretty banal posts, it helps doing this all over again at the crazy age of 43 be more bearable. So when yesterday, from 12:00 on, she decided to be beligerent, stubborn, and incredibly mom-needy, it came as a great shock to my system. But it probably would have been easier for me to handle if Jake hadn't walked through the door with, on top of his regular homework, 21 pages of grammar and sentence structure homework.

I felt the panic rise up within my throat, the wave of maternal drowning crashing over me. Jake, historically, has found ways to make one sheet of homework last an hour. So, we were now possibly looking at retiring for bed after one o'clock in the morning. Olivia must have fed off my panic, because for the first time ever, when I needed her to take a nap--or at the very least play with electrical outlets while in her walker--she simply would not have it. What started as whimpering, turned into full-scall screaming by seven o'clock. And the reason I am jumping ahead to that hour of the evening is that you do not want to hear the details in between, some of which include:

• insanely screaming "Verb, Jake, VERB!!!!" to "assist" him in understanding what a predicate is

• freebasing Ativan.

What the end of last night showed me was that I do not get to ever call Jake unmotivated again. With few outrageous promises, he finished his homework at seven pm sharp, with minimal complaining. Olivia--having performed enough uncontrolled screaming that my babysitter handed her to me, muttered ear infection, and ran--fell asleep after I rocked her and gave her full attention. The house was a veritable rat's nest of dirty dishes, turned over and half-consumed bottles of formula, toys askew. I was unbathed, still wearing the mismatched sweatpants and top I had thrown on that morning to drive Jake to school.

I let everything get out of proportion and lost so much focus. That very focus that my kids depend upon. I should have appreciated Olivia's clinginess. I claim to have wanted that since Jake in his infancy was so very happy to go to anyone who would hold him.

Today I held her with extra special tenderness, and in my newly regained sanity, thanked her for needing me. And Jake, he said it all after I apologized for yesterday. "Mom," he laughed. "You just love me too much, that's what it is."

My Inspirational "Students of the Month" Speech

September the first arrived and I chose the top two students in my fifth grade class, Calvin and Melissa, to be the September Students of the Month. This was the first important honor bestowed on any of my students this year and I wanted the presentation of this award to be a serious and uplifting moment.

"Class, the month of September has arrived and I am about to announce the first Students of the Month. I have carefully reviewed test grades, quality of homework, participation and attentiveness in class, and behavior both in the classroom and on the playground. I am pleased to announce the September Students of the Month are...........................CALVIN AND MELISSA!!" (appropriate applause) "Calvin and Melissa, you are receiving this award because of your outstanding accomplishments in August. However, I want to challenge you to continue your excellent example in September, to continue leading our class to academic excellence and personal achievement as you did in the month of August."

I should have left it at that, but Calvin and Melissa just sat there. I looked at Calvin and he seemed to be in shock or something. I asked, "Calvin, did you understand what I just said? Calvin? Calvin, are you payin' attention?"

"Huh, Mr. R.?" (appropriate laughter)

I should have known what was coming. Melissa saw her chance when I asked, "Melissa, do you understand the challenge, the responsibility I have given you?"

Melissa mumbles loud enough for the class to hear, "Yeah, whatever."

Nurture vs. Nature? It's To Hang Out Where His Friends Are

There has been an positive change in the atmosphere in this house. We are blissfully watching Olivia growing in mind, becoming more aware and enjoyable, and closer to that day that we can legally require her to get after-school employment. Simon is aging and not on his constant biting campaign. But bigger, and better, is the New Jake that has been coming to the table.

I have shared with you before that I have been surprised that, considering my uber-parenting, Jake is able to talk to me as if I were not only the unhippest human on the planet, but also as though I sport an I.Q. that hovers on the low side of the eighties. And just as I was getting used to such treatment, he morphed into someone else. Someone who seems to occasionally give a damn.

Eric and I have been spending the last few days with our mouth hung open. (His can possibly be more attributed to the fact that he had two wisdom teeth wrenched from his jaw bone. It hurt badly enough for me to scrap my earlier, well-thought out plan of bringing him Tylenols while I squirreled away the percs for my later use.) We are basking in the joy of saying something once and by God It Has Been So Decreed. This is previously unheard of, and I am shocked by some of the responses I have been receiving. Ones that include, "Okay, Mom, I'll do it." or "Oh, sorry Mom, I forgot, let me do it now." or "Hey Mom, I put away the clothes that you folded." And these phrases, accompanied with an appropriate pleasing tone, are all actually followed up by the promised actions. Add this on to a week of one hundreds on tests, highest scores available on the weekly behavior reports, and homework finished without cajoling before 4:00. I was floating on a cloud of success, feeling that my mothering had ultimately won. Sweet Jesus, it worked; the way I have been parenting is a panacea, and clearly I need to write a book on childrearing.

It turns out the book content is small, his true motivation for the amazing see-what-I-can-do-and-how-responsible-I-am-now behavior can be reduced to one paragraph, only because I am pithy. It is merely one sentence for people more concise. And for those that would rather not even get a phone call from me about it: it's this link.