After several references to the Almighty Father and an extended prayer before the meal, Isabella says to her grandfather, "If you like God so much, why don't you make a cardboard cut out of him and you can just eat with him?"
Looking for the sunscreen...
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Rural Weaves
So, full disclosure: I didn't write this. The Husband did. He wrote it after Isabella's dance recital last spring. I ran across it this afternoon, and it made me laugh. So, I'm going to share it with you and hope it makes you laugh, too. He didn't make any of it up, by the way.
Dictionary.com defines a weave as a process in which a hairpiece is interwoven with real hair to conceal alopecia or increase the thickness or length of the hairstyle. Why am I sitting here thinking about weaves? We’ll get to that.
As many of you are aware, I went to an "urban" high school. Thusly, I am familiar with the concept of a weave. Generally, it was part of an insult hurled from one girl to another.
For instance, “Don’t shake your head at me! Your sorry weave’ll fall out!” Or, “Don’t come with that fake attitude that goes with your fake hair!”
These, of course, are approximations as said insults usually came with very demonstrative body language and peppered with some, um, colorful word choices. This rendered them more specific and a whole lot funnier.
So why am I sitting in rural America pondering weaves? Because I just witnessed more flying fake hair than when a classmate of mine didn’t keep both of his girlfriends far enough apart. It made me nervous then, maybe because one of the girlfriends turned on Ronny armed with a stapler and an extremely bad attitude. Unfortunately my advanced age hasn’t provided me any sort of understanding regarding the concept.
Saturday evening, I dutifully attended my daughter’s dance recital. No, that’s not exactly right. That makes it sound easy. Saturday I cleared everyone out of my wife’s way for hours as she helped Isabella with her hair, makeup and costume. This included providing encouragement, running errands, complementing her progress and most importantly, flawlessly reading her mind to anticipate each of these needs.
Then, I met my in-laws, kept my two younger children quiet and well-behaved during all 36 dance numbers and purchased a rose for Isabella after the event.
The dancing wasn’t entirely painful. Some of the groups were really quite good, and many of the music selections were enjoyable. With the exception of one adult male, who apparently had daughters in almost every number, only teenagers screamed out names during the dances.
There was also a significant decrease compared to last year in the obnoxious posturing and videotaping. For some reason, there seemed to be a drastic uptick in the use of weaves.
I do understand that here in rural America there might not be the level of experience on the subject that was available to the girls in my neck of the woods, so I would like to offer a bit of advice on the matter. Consider it to be my little urban contribution to my new home.
First of all, it really works best if you try to match the color of the weave to the color of your daughter’s actual hair. Sometimes the girls I knew would weave in different colors, but to pull this off you have to go all in. In 1989, it was fashionable to braid in your school colors or match your neon leg warmers. But, putting a platinum blonde weave on a sort-of blonde child just makes it look as if you got tired of shopping.
Second, you should carefully select the style. Unfortunately, stick-your-finger-in-a-light-socket curly appears to rank very high on the popularity scale here. There are other options. Ones that don’t look like Wil E. Coyote after he accidentally detonated a trap for the Roadrunner. You might consider a bit more variety. A bunch of little girls with fake hair is mildly disturbing, but a bunch of little girls with identical fake hair is a bit too Stepford Wives for many of us.
Lastly, we really need to discuss the importance of the weave actually staying on the head. I witnessed some fights in high school where even a well-applied, vicious yank wasn’t enough to budge a weave. Admittedly, I’m not sure of the methods they used to secure their hair, but I would think that with a bit of ingenuity and some pins you could come up with something that would make it through more than one tumbling pass.
By the end of a number, one mat looked as if it were full of sad, lost woodland creatures with little balls of curls dotting the area. And, back to the hair matching point, I’m not sure how the girls sorted out which little tuft was whose.
I hope these tips were useful. I’m still not convinced that weaves are a necessary part of the dance recital experience. My daughter looked just beautiful and all my wife needed was a one-inch curling iron and some Aussie freeze spray. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of her in high school and she definitely came to the table with some big hair experience on her resume.
All things considered, the day could have been much worse. My daughter did great and was very proud of her performance, my wife made it through with only limited amounts of sedatives, and I ended up being entertained.
Aside from the joy it brought my daughter, the cost of the monthly lessons, the costume (which, by the way, cost more than a whole month of lessons), and all of the little extras such as the make up and curling iron were all worth it to see a $40 weave fall off of a four-year old and her horrified mother look on as the girl tossed it up in the air repeatedly instead of participating in the dance. Priceless. And a sure-fire guarantee that I’m going to buy a video.
By the way, my new favorite hairspray is Aussie because of their instructions for use on the bottle. “It’s hairspray. You put it on your hair.”
Dictionary.com defines a weave as a process in which a hairpiece is interwoven with real hair to conceal alopecia or increase the thickness or length of the hairstyle. Why am I sitting here thinking about weaves? We’ll get to that.
As many of you are aware, I went to an "urban" high school. Thusly, I am familiar with the concept of a weave. Generally, it was part of an insult hurled from one girl to another.
For instance, “Don’t shake your head at me! Your sorry weave’ll fall out!” Or, “Don’t come with that fake attitude that goes with your fake hair!”
These, of course, are approximations as said insults usually came with very demonstrative body language and peppered with some, um, colorful word choices. This rendered them more specific and a whole lot funnier.
So why am I sitting in rural America pondering weaves? Because I just witnessed more flying fake hair than when a classmate of mine didn’t keep both of his girlfriends far enough apart. It made me nervous then, maybe because one of the girlfriends turned on Ronny armed with a stapler and an extremely bad attitude. Unfortunately my advanced age hasn’t provided me any sort of understanding regarding the concept.
Saturday evening, I dutifully attended my daughter’s dance recital. No, that’s not exactly right. That makes it sound easy. Saturday I cleared everyone out of my wife’s way for hours as she helped Isabella with her hair, makeup and costume. This included providing encouragement, running errands, complementing her progress and most importantly, flawlessly reading her mind to anticipate each of these needs.
Then, I met my in-laws, kept my two younger children quiet and well-behaved during all 36 dance numbers and purchased a rose for Isabella after the event.
The dancing wasn’t entirely painful. Some of the groups were really quite good, and many of the music selections were enjoyable. With the exception of one adult male, who apparently had daughters in almost every number, only teenagers screamed out names during the dances.
There was also a significant decrease compared to last year in the obnoxious posturing and videotaping. For some reason, there seemed to be a drastic uptick in the use of weaves.
I do understand that here in rural America there might not be the level of experience on the subject that was available to the girls in my neck of the woods, so I would like to offer a bit of advice on the matter. Consider it to be my little urban contribution to my new home.
First of all, it really works best if you try to match the color of the weave to the color of your daughter’s actual hair. Sometimes the girls I knew would weave in different colors, but to pull this off you have to go all in. In 1989, it was fashionable to braid in your school colors or match your neon leg warmers. But, putting a platinum blonde weave on a sort-of blonde child just makes it look as if you got tired of shopping.
Second, you should carefully select the style. Unfortunately, stick-your-finger-in-a-light-socket curly appears to rank very high on the popularity scale here. There are other options. Ones that don’t look like Wil E. Coyote after he accidentally detonated a trap for the Roadrunner. You might consider a bit more variety. A bunch of little girls with fake hair is mildly disturbing, but a bunch of little girls with identical fake hair is a bit too Stepford Wives for many of us.
Lastly, we really need to discuss the importance of the weave actually staying on the head. I witnessed some fights in high school where even a well-applied, vicious yank wasn’t enough to budge a weave. Admittedly, I’m not sure of the methods they used to secure their hair, but I would think that with a bit of ingenuity and some pins you could come up with something that would make it through more than one tumbling pass.
By the end of a number, one mat looked as if it were full of sad, lost woodland creatures with little balls of curls dotting the area. And, back to the hair matching point, I’m not sure how the girls sorted out which little tuft was whose.
I hope these tips were useful. I’m still not convinced that weaves are a necessary part of the dance recital experience. My daughter looked just beautiful and all my wife needed was a one-inch curling iron and some Aussie freeze spray. Of course, I’ve seen pictures of her in high school and she definitely came to the table with some big hair experience on her resume.
All things considered, the day could have been much worse. My daughter did great and was very proud of her performance, my wife made it through with only limited amounts of sedatives, and I ended up being entertained.
Aside from the joy it brought my daughter, the cost of the monthly lessons, the costume (which, by the way, cost more than a whole month of lessons), and all of the little extras such as the make up and curling iron were all worth it to see a $40 weave fall off of a four-year old and her horrified mother look on as the girl tossed it up in the air repeatedly instead of participating in the dance. Priceless. And a sure-fire guarantee that I’m going to buy a video.
By the way, my new favorite hairspray is Aussie because of their instructions for use on the bottle. “It’s hairspray. You put it on your hair.”
Simple
Completely out of the blue, Isabella rolls up on me while I was cooking dinner.
"Mom, did you know that boys and girls have different types of humors?"
"Really?"
"It's true. Girls' humor is complicated and based mostly on memories. Boys... well boys have something called simple humor."
"You're absolutley right, dear. Do you know what else? They never grow out of that."
"I know. Sad."
"Mom, did you know that boys and girls have different types of humors?"
"Really?"
"It's true. Girls' humor is complicated and based mostly on memories. Boys... well boys have something called simple humor."
"You're absolutley right, dear. Do you know what else? They never grow out of that."
"I know. Sad."
Friday, December 17, 2010
Seal of Approval
The girls both take dance lessons. I don't know how their teacher does it. Emily's class has 14 girls all about age 6. And she manages to get them all doing the same thing in front of a big mirror with noisy shoes on. That, for those of you who are not familiar with small girls, is nothing short of a miracle. I suspect she is either blessed with an inordinate amount of goodwill and kindness, or she does a healthy amount of drugs. Either way, she does a great job.
This week is the dance class Christmas party. I procured a gift for Ms. Jamie, one for Taylor (the high school girl who helps her), a snack and a grab bag gift. The gift I chose was an assortment of very loud nail polishes and nail stickers - mostly sparkles. Emily called me with some concerns.
"Mom. Why is there wine in the stuff to go to my party?"
"That's Ms. Jamie's present."
"You bought her ALCOHOL!??!"
"Yes"
"Do you think she will drink that?"
"I do. And if she doesn't, she should."
"Well, that's between you and her. By the way, I looked at the gift I'm taking. You know, the nail polish and the stickers and they are acceptable."
Glad to hear it, your majesty.
This week is the dance class Christmas party. I procured a gift for Ms. Jamie, one for Taylor (the high school girl who helps her), a snack and a grab bag gift. The gift I chose was an assortment of very loud nail polishes and nail stickers - mostly sparkles. Emily called me with some concerns.
"Mom. Why is there wine in the stuff to go to my party?"
"That's Ms. Jamie's present."
"You bought her ALCOHOL!??!"
"Yes"
"Do you think she will drink that?"
"I do. And if she doesn't, she should."
"Well, that's between you and her. By the way, I looked at the gift I'm taking. You know, the nail polish and the stickers and they are acceptable."
Glad to hear it, your majesty.
Golden Years
Emily informed me (she does very little talking, asking or discussing - she mostly informs) that when she's an adult, I'll be old. I asked her if she would take care of me when I get old.
"Oh sure! I'll bring you zucchini every day!"
Awesome.
"Oh sure! I'll bring you zucchini every day!"
Awesome.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
To the Moon
It was a momentous day in parenting. For the first time, a child of mine showed up at home with a referral from school. Apparently my son punched a kid on the bus. I told him I was proud of him and took him out to dinner.
Now, before you call the cops or something, let's back this train up for a second. I am probably the most peace-loving hippie you know. I don't own Birkenstocks, but other than that, I'm there. I believe in diplomacy instead of war, I think we overspend on the military and underspend on education, I compost and recycle, I have a garden, I shop farmer's markets and use CFL light bulbs. My kids always say please and thank you, they are hyper-polite to servers and they do not smash bugs. So why am I totally okay with Declan smashing a kid's face in on the bus? Because the little fucker deserved it.
Everybody seems to be concerned with the rash of bullying going on these days, and they should. It's horrible. But you know what? It was horrible when I was in school, too. I'm not going to go all "back in my day when I walked to school eleventeen miles every day uphill in the snow sharing shoes with my brother" crap on you, but the fact is that people have always been horrible to each other. Do you know why it didn't get as far when I was in high school? Because if you were a jerk for too long, someone would eventually kick your ass and that would make you less of a jerk. If it didn't guess what? Yep. Ass kicked again.that process was repeated until the system worked.
The kid that Declan punched is most certainly a jerk. He is constantly mocking other kids and pushing them around. He demanded a candy cane from Declan, and when he didn't hand it over, the kid shoved him off the seat onto the floor. Declan came up, grabbed the back of the kid's sweatshirt and started throwing hooks to the face. The kid had a bloody lip and I'm guessing a whole new attitude about my son. I tell my children that they are never, under any circumstances, allowed to initiate a fight or to be mean for any reason. But, they are allowed to defend themselves and each other.
So, this peacenik treated her son to Chinese for beating a kid up on the bus. You know what? I bet he never has a problem with that kid again. Referral? Worth it. And they still are not allowed to smash bugs. A Mom's gotta have her standards.
Now, before you call the cops or something, let's back this train up for a second. I am probably the most peace-loving hippie you know. I don't own Birkenstocks, but other than that, I'm there. I believe in diplomacy instead of war, I think we overspend on the military and underspend on education, I compost and recycle, I have a garden, I shop farmer's markets and use CFL light bulbs. My kids always say please and thank you, they are hyper-polite to servers and they do not smash bugs. So why am I totally okay with Declan smashing a kid's face in on the bus? Because the little fucker deserved it.
Everybody seems to be concerned with the rash of bullying going on these days, and they should. It's horrible. But you know what? It was horrible when I was in school, too. I'm not going to go all "back in my day when I walked to school eleventeen miles every day uphill in the snow sharing shoes with my brother" crap on you, but the fact is that people have always been horrible to each other. Do you know why it didn't get as far when I was in high school? Because if you were a jerk for too long, someone would eventually kick your ass and that would make you less of a jerk. If it didn't guess what? Yep. Ass kicked again.that process was repeated until the system worked.
The kid that Declan punched is most certainly a jerk. He is constantly mocking other kids and pushing them around. He demanded a candy cane from Declan, and when he didn't hand it over, the kid shoved him off the seat onto the floor. Declan came up, grabbed the back of the kid's sweatshirt and started throwing hooks to the face. The kid had a bloody lip and I'm guessing a whole new attitude about my son. I tell my children that they are never, under any circumstances, allowed to initiate a fight or to be mean for any reason. But, they are allowed to defend themselves and each other.
So, this peacenik treated her son to Chinese for beating a kid up on the bus. You know what? I bet he never has a problem with that kid again. Referral? Worth it. And they still are not allowed to smash bugs. A Mom's gotta have her standards.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Advanced Spelling
Somewhere in the middle of her monologue about the day at school, Emily proudly informed me that she learned how to spell a new word.
"Oh yeah? What word is that?"
"m-y-t-f"
"Huh. What word does that spell?"
"My tooth. I thought you could spell, Mom."
"Oh yeah? What word is that?"
"m-y-t-f"
"Huh. What word does that spell?"
"My tooth. I thought you could spell, Mom."
Quote of the Day
Isabella (shouting): Declan are you in the shower again?? Isn't it your second one today??
Declan (poking his head out from behind the shower curtain and also shouting): I take my hygiene very seriously.
Declan (poking his head out from behind the shower curtain and also shouting): I take my hygiene very seriously.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Pestilence
I'm sick. It sucks. Hence, my writing today will probably be terse, tangential and a bit angry. Continue at your own risk.
My kids got me sick. All three were ill earlier this week. While it is never fun to have three sick kids, I did find it to be an interesting study in gender psychology. The girls were slowed down a bit - not as loud, not as mobile and a little whinier. The boy, on the other hand appeared on death's very door. He attached himself to me whenever I wasn't moving with the subtlety of a Nerf sucker dart. He insisted on thoroughly discussing each of his symptoms to be sure that none were the early stages of a horrible demise, and insisted on medication. Immediately.
When The Husband delivered him the bottle, he studied it carefully, asked what he weighed, and confirmed his dose with me. Two teaspoons every four hours. He, like magic, appeared in the kitchen every four hours after that for two days. On the nose. Without fail. The girls declined the medicine. Apparently grape-flavored medicine is "nasty" and not worth the promised relief.
Before I was struck with the pestilence myself, I was sharing with a coworker and she laughed. "Well, what did you expect? He's a boy. And they don't grow out of that crap - it just gets worse. How's your husband feeling?"
Great. I'd better go take some medicine or something. I'm going to need to get better fast.
My kids got me sick. All three were ill earlier this week. While it is never fun to have three sick kids, I did find it to be an interesting study in gender psychology. The girls were slowed down a bit - not as loud, not as mobile and a little whinier. The boy, on the other hand appeared on death's very door. He attached himself to me whenever I wasn't moving with the subtlety of a Nerf sucker dart. He insisted on thoroughly discussing each of his symptoms to be sure that none were the early stages of a horrible demise, and insisted on medication. Immediately.
When The Husband delivered him the bottle, he studied it carefully, asked what he weighed, and confirmed his dose with me. Two teaspoons every four hours. He, like magic, appeared in the kitchen every four hours after that for two days. On the nose. Without fail. The girls declined the medicine. Apparently grape-flavored medicine is "nasty" and not worth the promised relief.
Before I was struck with the pestilence myself, I was sharing with a coworker and she laughed. "Well, what did you expect? He's a boy. And they don't grow out of that crap - it just gets worse. How's your husband feeling?"
Great. I'd better go take some medicine or something. I'm going to need to get better fast.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
A Cootie Problem
So, Isabella rolls up on The Husband the other day and asks a very odd question.
"Dad, when you were little, was there ever someone who loved you and you couldn't stand them?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Well, there's this boy Jessie at school who is in love with me."
"You don't like him?"
"NO! He is telling everyone that he wants me to be his girlfriend!" Insert exasperated eye roll here.
"Why don't you like him?"
"Well, he has a bit of a cootie problem."
"A cootie problem? What's that?"
"He has been in love with every single girl in the entire school! That's definitely a cootie problem!"
"Dad, when you were little, was there ever someone who loved you and you couldn't stand them?"
"I don't know, why?"
"Well, there's this boy Jessie at school who is in love with me."
"You don't like him?"
"NO! He is telling everyone that he wants me to be his girlfriend!" Insert exasperated eye roll here.
"Why don't you like him?"
"Well, he has a bit of a cootie problem."
"A cootie problem? What's that?"
"He has been in love with every single girl in the entire school! That's definitely a cootie problem!"
Ryan
Ryan died on Monday.
I had held out hope that the doctors had underestimated his stubborn nature and he would wake up any day to demand beer and wings. They hadn't and he didn't. So, yesterday I dressed up the kids, stocked my purse with tissues, tied a tie on The Husband and set off for the funeral.
I knew it would be unspeakably sad. Ryan was only 31 years old, and a death that young is always extra hard. What surprised and delighted me was how much laughter and joy Ryan's family managed to include. Since he wasn't religious, the service was a series of eulogies separated by songs he loved. Pink Floyd, The Beatles and Nirvana. What made me truly grateful was that the speakers, his sister, best friend and mother, spoke lovingly and frankly about Ryan. His sister spoke about the horror of not being able to date in high school because he didn't approve of anyone. His best friend talked about skipping school and unfortunate drug use. His mom, and much of the family, wore Chicago Bears gear because he had asked them to.
I had never met most of the people at the funeral yesterday. While almost all of us wept through the entire service and little after-lunch, there was also a collective joy I'd never felt at a funeral before. Everyone loved Ryan for all the same reasons. He was funny, kind, loyal, sharp as a tack and one of the finest people I'd ever met. Yesterday we all shared the pain of losing that from our lives, but we also shared the privilege of our lives having been touched by Ryan in the first place. The funeral was very sad, but it wasn't only sad.
I think Ryan would have been very pleased. Go Bears.
I had held out hope that the doctors had underestimated his stubborn nature and he would wake up any day to demand beer and wings. They hadn't and he didn't. So, yesterday I dressed up the kids, stocked my purse with tissues, tied a tie on The Husband and set off for the funeral.
I knew it would be unspeakably sad. Ryan was only 31 years old, and a death that young is always extra hard. What surprised and delighted me was how much laughter and joy Ryan's family managed to include. Since he wasn't religious, the service was a series of eulogies separated by songs he loved. Pink Floyd, The Beatles and Nirvana. What made me truly grateful was that the speakers, his sister, best friend and mother, spoke lovingly and frankly about Ryan. His sister spoke about the horror of not being able to date in high school because he didn't approve of anyone. His best friend talked about skipping school and unfortunate drug use. His mom, and much of the family, wore Chicago Bears gear because he had asked them to.
I had never met most of the people at the funeral yesterday. While almost all of us wept through the entire service and little after-lunch, there was also a collective joy I'd never felt at a funeral before. Everyone loved Ryan for all the same reasons. He was funny, kind, loyal, sharp as a tack and one of the finest people I'd ever met. Yesterday we all shared the pain of losing that from our lives, but we also shared the privilege of our lives having been touched by Ryan in the first place. The funeral was very sad, but it wasn't only sad.
I think Ryan would have been very pleased. Go Bears.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
sad
One of my friends is going to die this week. I don't know that for sure I guess, but that what his doctors say and I'm pretty certain they don't say that unless they are confident in that fact. It's not fair. Ryan is only 30. He wasn't in an accident or anything tragic, he's just sick and is going to die.
I've never had a friend die before. I'm not sure what to do. People in my life have died, but they've either been old or not very close. Ryan isn't either. I should have made more time to see him, invited him over more, all that stuff. But damn it, he's fucking 30. He's not supposed to die on us. He's supposed to be here for Thanskgiving and the zoo in the spring and to watch baseball next summer. He's not supposed to die.
I'm going to go see him in the hospital on Thursday. I don't want to, and I hate myself for that. I want to say goodbye, and I want to hug him and tell him I love him. But, I am going to cry. A lot. I'm going to be hopelessly sad and I don't want his last week to be sad. I want him to come over for wings and scones and beer and sit on our couch and watch baseball and talk about nothing for hours and just be a part of our weird little family for a day. But, he can't. I'm going to go see him in a sterile, horrible hospital that smells like death. He's probably going to be hooked up to tubes and shit and it's not going to be normal, there will be no baseball and there will definately be no beer. And, I'm afraid I'm not going to know what to say.
I'm angry. I'm distraught. I'm guilty. But most of all, I want him back. He's a beautiful soul and it's not fair that he's leaving.
I love you Ryan. I'll see you Thursday.
I've never had a friend die before. I'm not sure what to do. People in my life have died, but they've either been old or not very close. Ryan isn't either. I should have made more time to see him, invited him over more, all that stuff. But damn it, he's fucking 30. He's not supposed to die on us. He's supposed to be here for Thanskgiving and the zoo in the spring and to watch baseball next summer. He's not supposed to die.
I'm going to go see him in the hospital on Thursday. I don't want to, and I hate myself for that. I want to say goodbye, and I want to hug him and tell him I love him. But, I am going to cry. A lot. I'm going to be hopelessly sad and I don't want his last week to be sad. I want him to come over for wings and scones and beer and sit on our couch and watch baseball and talk about nothing for hours and just be a part of our weird little family for a day. But, he can't. I'm going to go see him in a sterile, horrible hospital that smells like death. He's probably going to be hooked up to tubes and shit and it's not going to be normal, there will be no baseball and there will definately be no beer. And, I'm afraid I'm not going to know what to say.
I'm angry. I'm distraught. I'm guilty. But most of all, I want him back. He's a beautiful soul and it's not fair that he's leaving.
I love you Ryan. I'll see you Thursday.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Aspiring Princess
Emily was not pleased. I had the nerve to ask her to clean her room. Gasp! She put her hands on her hips and very patiently tried to explain to me where I had gone so horribly wrong.
"Mom.
I am a princess.
And princesses don't clean their rooms.
Princesses order someone else to do it.
So, I think YOU should do it!"
In the interest of not incriminating myself I will not give all the details of what happened next, but Her Majesty went and cleaned her room after some introspection and an attitude ajustment.
"Mom.
I am a princess.
And princesses don't clean their rooms.
Princesses order someone else to do it.
So, I think YOU should do it!"
In the interest of not incriminating myself I will not give all the details of what happened next, but Her Majesty went and cleaned her room after some introspection and an attitude ajustment.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Picking your Battles
I yelled at my son yesterday. I really try to avoid doing that, but sometimes I snap.
A few days ago, I made homemade chicken noodle soup. It was amazing. But, the best thing about making a big vat of soup is that for the next few days we get to have leftover soup. For the woeful beings who eat their soup out of a can, I'll let you in on a secret. Leftover soup is vastly superior to fresh soup.
So all of us were dishing and heating bowls of deliciousness, and I went to get a spoon. I opened the drawer and saw that Declan had spilled about half a cup of soup inside the drawer, picked up a clean spoon and went about his evening. Are you fucking kidding me? I lost it. He did not respond well.
Though Declan did scrub the drawer, he also launched into one of his epic fits. And I mean epic. This son of mine is known for his commitment to his own anger. His first preschool teacher only taught one year. I don't believe it had anything to do with having to carry him, kicking and screaming, back to school from an unfortunate attempt at a field trip to the public library. At any rate, because I dared demand he clean up after himself, Declan bunkered in at the top of the stairs and would use toys as projectiles to anyone who dare approach. Great.
I sent The Husband up to try and talk him down from the ledge. Literally.
Declan gave up his position and fled to his bedroom behind the safety of his door. The Husband called through the door and offered to go in and talk through it. This was completely unacceptable to Declan, and he told The Husband "Don't you come in here! I have a wrench and I'm ready to GO!"
The Husband quickly weighed the risk. Though he thought it was probable that Declan did not, in fact, have a wrench and an even slimmer chance that he would actually use it, he knew that the boy does have an impressive and very accurate throwing arm and decided it would be best to give him some space.
Before long, Declan came downstairs on his own brandishing only a sheepish apology. We discussed the appropriate and inappropriate uses of hand tools, and everyone enjoyed some soup.
A few days ago, I made homemade chicken noodle soup. It was amazing. But, the best thing about making a big vat of soup is that for the next few days we get to have leftover soup. For the woeful beings who eat their soup out of a can, I'll let you in on a secret. Leftover soup is vastly superior to fresh soup.
So all of us were dishing and heating bowls of deliciousness, and I went to get a spoon. I opened the drawer and saw that Declan had spilled about half a cup of soup inside the drawer, picked up a clean spoon and went about his evening. Are you fucking kidding me? I lost it. He did not respond well.
Though Declan did scrub the drawer, he also launched into one of his epic fits. And I mean epic. This son of mine is known for his commitment to his own anger. His first preschool teacher only taught one year. I don't believe it had anything to do with having to carry him, kicking and screaming, back to school from an unfortunate attempt at a field trip to the public library. At any rate, because I dared demand he clean up after himself, Declan bunkered in at the top of the stairs and would use toys as projectiles to anyone who dare approach. Great.
I sent The Husband up to try and talk him down from the ledge. Literally.
Declan gave up his position and fled to his bedroom behind the safety of his door. The Husband called through the door and offered to go in and talk through it. This was completely unacceptable to Declan, and he told The Husband "Don't you come in here! I have a wrench and I'm ready to GO!"
The Husband quickly weighed the risk. Though he thought it was probable that Declan did not, in fact, have a wrench and an even slimmer chance that he would actually use it, he knew that the boy does have an impressive and very accurate throwing arm and decided it would be best to give him some space.
Before long, Declan came downstairs on his own brandishing only a sheepish apology. We discussed the appropriate and inappropriate uses of hand tools, and everyone enjoyed some soup.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Stalking for Dummies
One evening, Emily was gushing about her "boyfriend". I always protest this; I just don't like my five-year old talking about boys yet. I know it will happen eventually and that she will, despite her father's best efforts, someday date. But, I really feel as if I should have been able to enjoy the delusion of the contrary a bit longer.
At any rate, she was quite a way into her diatribe when she dropped the boy's name. It was a different name than I was used to hearing. Awesome. I made a mental note to start going through her bag to remove the covert belly shirts and hoochie pants when she turns 13.
"Really? I thought your boyfriend was Tyler. How's he going to feel about Parker being your new boyfriend?"
"Mom. Parker isn't new. They can both be my boyfriend."
"Yeah, that usually doesn't work out so well, Emily. Boys don't like to share girlfriends."
This caused her pause. She had never considered that this wouldn't be a plan eagerly embraced by all.
She thrust out a hip, planted her hands on her waist and made her decision.
"Hm. Well, I guess they're just going to have to have a fight then."
Hopefully in ten years remote tracking devices that can be embedded at the base of a skull will become more reasonably priced.
At any rate, she was quite a way into her diatribe when she dropped the boy's name. It was a different name than I was used to hearing. Awesome. I made a mental note to start going through her bag to remove the covert belly shirts and hoochie pants when she turns 13.
"Really? I thought your boyfriend was Tyler. How's he going to feel about Parker being your new boyfriend?"
"Mom. Parker isn't new. They can both be my boyfriend."
"Yeah, that usually doesn't work out so well, Emily. Boys don't like to share girlfriends."
This caused her pause. She had never considered that this wouldn't be a plan eagerly embraced by all.
She thrust out a hip, planted her hands on her waist and made her decision.
"Hm. Well, I guess they're just going to have to have a fight then."
Hopefully in ten years remote tracking devices that can be embedded at the base of a skull will become more reasonably priced.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Quote of the Day
Emily, how was Kindergarten today?
"Well it was great we had free play today but we could only play with certain toys so that doesn't make it free play it makes it table time and I played at recess with Amy and Madison and we were kittens like we always are at recess but usually it is me and Madison and Bailey but today Bailey didn't want to be a kitten so we substituted Amy and she did okay and everybody was really good today and nobody's worm even moved off the green apple to the yellow one not even Anna because her worm moves every day but not today because we were all so good and we got a new alpha friend today and you'll never guess what letter it was Mom it was N and he's not an animal at all he's a NOODLE and his name is Nyle isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard A NOODLE alpha friend and we learned a new song about him and this is how it goes..."
And she started singing.
I don't remember the song, sorry.
Longest Quote of the Day ever.
"Well it was great we had free play today but we could only play with certain toys so that doesn't make it free play it makes it table time and I played at recess with Amy and Madison and we were kittens like we always are at recess but usually it is me and Madison and Bailey but today Bailey didn't want to be a kitten so we substituted Amy and she did okay and everybody was really good today and nobody's worm even moved off the green apple to the yellow one not even Anna because her worm moves every day but not today because we were all so good and we got a new alpha friend today and you'll never guess what letter it was Mom it was N and he's not an animal at all he's a NOODLE and his name is Nyle isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard A NOODLE alpha friend and we learned a new song about him and this is how it goes..."
And she started singing.
I don't remember the song, sorry.
Longest Quote of the Day ever.
My Gifted Child
So, my oldest was placed in Talented and Gifted Reading. I was not as excited as you may think. First off, the former teacher in me does not like pull out classes at all. I don't like the idea of her leaving her regular class. From an instructional point of view, an integrated classroom just benefits everyone - especially the kids that are having trouble.
Anyway, we got the letter and she was in. I knew we were in trouble when we read the little introductory note from the teacher. Most of it was about how organized the class would be and the penalties for the students if they do not display the appropriate levels of organization and structure. Organization and structure? My kid is doomed. Since Isabella is exactly like her father, I knew it would be only a matter of time before the meetings would be called. It took less than a week.
Isabella does not have that internal voice that tells her to comply. She views instructions from adults as suggestions and pretty much sees school as a cafeteria plan. While I think this critical assessment of everything will serve her well later, it does cause problems when one is in the third grade.
Well, Isabella brought to class only the supplies with which she was interested in working, and completed only the assignments she felt were valuable or interesting. Which was none. On day four of TAG, The Husband got an email from the teacher that suggested Isabella did not belong in the class. Which is not the way to build a strong working relationship with parents. "Hi! I've never met you before, but your kid isn't smart enough to be in my very important class." Yeah, someone should not be teaching TAG. Or at least should try to avoid grammar and spelling errors and limit herself to only one punctuation mark at the end of each sentence.
Anyway, we scheduled the meeting with the principal, regular teacher and the genius TAG teacher. We also lectured Isabella and instructed her to do her work, even if it was stupid or boring.
Two days later, I was driving Isabella to dance. I asked how TAG went that day.
"Oh... yeah... Mom. I don't remember."
"Isabella. It was today."
"Oh! TAG! Yeah it was great!"
"Really? What did you do in class today?"
"We took our test over The Dollhouse Murders."
"Yeah? How did you do?"
"Great!"
"So you did finish reading the book, then?"
"Hmmm. Well, sadly Mom, I did not actually finish the book."
"If you didn't finish the book, how did you do great on the test?"
"Well, it only had three questions on it! Isn't that awesome?!?"
"Isabella. In my entire life I have never seen a test with three questions on it."
"Hm. Well, Mom, I guess you should have been in TAG today, huh?"
Yep. I guess I should have been.
Anyway, we got the letter and she was in. I knew we were in trouble when we read the little introductory note from the teacher. Most of it was about how organized the class would be and the penalties for the students if they do not display the appropriate levels of organization and structure. Organization and structure? My kid is doomed. Since Isabella is exactly like her father, I knew it would be only a matter of time before the meetings would be called. It took less than a week.
Isabella does not have that internal voice that tells her to comply. She views instructions from adults as suggestions and pretty much sees school as a cafeteria plan. While I think this critical assessment of everything will serve her well later, it does cause problems when one is in the third grade.
Well, Isabella brought to class only the supplies with which she was interested in working, and completed only the assignments she felt were valuable or interesting. Which was none. On day four of TAG, The Husband got an email from the teacher that suggested Isabella did not belong in the class. Which is not the way to build a strong working relationship with parents. "Hi! I've never met you before, but your kid isn't smart enough to be in my very important class." Yeah, someone should not be teaching TAG. Or at least should try to avoid grammar and spelling errors and limit herself to only one punctuation mark at the end of each sentence.
Anyway, we scheduled the meeting with the principal, regular teacher and the genius TAG teacher. We also lectured Isabella and instructed her to do her work, even if it was stupid or boring.
Two days later, I was driving Isabella to dance. I asked how TAG went that day.
"Oh... yeah... Mom. I don't remember."
"Isabella. It was today."
"Oh! TAG! Yeah it was great!"
"Really? What did you do in class today?"
"We took our test over The Dollhouse Murders."
"Yeah? How did you do?"
"Great!"
"So you did finish reading the book, then?"
"Hmmm. Well, sadly Mom, I did not actually finish the book."
"If you didn't finish the book, how did you do great on the test?"
"Well, it only had three questions on it! Isn't that awesome?!?"
"Isabella. In my entire life I have never seen a test with three questions on it."
"Hm. Well, Mom, I guess you should have been in TAG today, huh?"
Yep. I guess I should have been.
Earning Great Kids
I was emailing with the principal of my kids' school last week (who is totally great and I think should make $100,000 a year) (seriously) and he closed one of his messages with "you are blessed to have such great kids". First of all, we absolutely are. They are beautiful, athletic and have a very high capacity for intelligence. No bias.
But, we have also worked our asses off to have great kids. Starting from day one. One week after I went back to teaching, The Husband quit his job to stay home with our daughter. We decided that we were going to raise her, not a daycare. There are some amazing day cares out there for sure, but our decision was not to go that route. As a result we were poor. Really fucking poor. Go without power for a week until you can pay the bill and eat spaghetti for a month straight poor. The Husband starting driving a cab and we would eat based on how much money he made in tips. If he made $3 in a night (and sometimes he did you cheap fuckers) then we had spaghetti with the ghetto canned sauce.
The point is not to feel sorry for us, just to illustrate that we made huge sacrifices to spend time with our kids. We did not have cable and spent a lot of time watching Street Smarts and NYPD Blue reruns. We did not have a cell phone. Either of us. We shared one crappy car. I did not go to the salon. All of our clothes came from Goodwill. We did not eat out and did nothing recreational that cost a penny. We even had *gasp* DIAL UP INTERNET!
Do you know what we did do? We read to our kids. We went to state parks and walked trails. We visited family - partly for the free food. We hung out, played games and talked to our kids. Actually talked to them. Got to know them. Watched them grow. One of us was there for every single milestone.
And you know what? None of them remember eating ghetto spaghetti. They don't remember not having cable and they didn't know it was weird that our family only had one car and basically no technology. They do remember us. They remember our experiences and they still like hanging out all together.
We are a tight family. We hang out. Things are better financially, and we do have cable and fast internet and a couple cars. But we still have each other. We still go camping for vacation. We still go hiking and we still read. Now my kids are recommending books to me. And we talk. A lot. The reason I have so many great stories about my kids and my friends pestered my into this blog is because I actually hang out with my offspring. I like them. I enjoy spending time with them. I don't shove them off on my parents every weekend so I can go get drunk with my friends. I would rather read Wimpy Kid books or watch iCarly.
Do you know what else? All of my kids are the very best in their class at reading. They get great grades, and all love school. And, this may be a bit of wishful thinking, but I think I'm going to have great teenagers, too. I'm sure they will make bad decisions sometimes, but because I've been interested in them their entire lives I think they'll do okay.
We do have great kids. But, we didn't get them by magic. It has been hard fucking work. But, I think the payoff will be some excellent people with whom I will enjoy sharing my life. Who knows what life will bring. Maybe someday the Husband and I will be eating ghetto spaghetti again. But, I know that if that happens I'll have a table full of people that I love. Nothing else matters.
But, we have also worked our asses off to have great kids. Starting from day one. One week after I went back to teaching, The Husband quit his job to stay home with our daughter. We decided that we were going to raise her, not a daycare. There are some amazing day cares out there for sure, but our decision was not to go that route. As a result we were poor. Really fucking poor. Go without power for a week until you can pay the bill and eat spaghetti for a month straight poor. The Husband starting driving a cab and we would eat based on how much money he made in tips. If he made $3 in a night (and sometimes he did you cheap fuckers) then we had spaghetti with the ghetto canned sauce.
The point is not to feel sorry for us, just to illustrate that we made huge sacrifices to spend time with our kids. We did not have cable and spent a lot of time watching Street Smarts and NYPD Blue reruns. We did not have a cell phone. Either of us. We shared one crappy car. I did not go to the salon. All of our clothes came from Goodwill. We did not eat out and did nothing recreational that cost a penny. We even had *gasp* DIAL UP INTERNET!
Do you know what we did do? We read to our kids. We went to state parks and walked trails. We visited family - partly for the free food. We hung out, played games and talked to our kids. Actually talked to them. Got to know them. Watched them grow. One of us was there for every single milestone.
And you know what? None of them remember eating ghetto spaghetti. They don't remember not having cable and they didn't know it was weird that our family only had one car and basically no technology. They do remember us. They remember our experiences and they still like hanging out all together.
We are a tight family. We hang out. Things are better financially, and we do have cable and fast internet and a couple cars. But we still have each other. We still go camping for vacation. We still go hiking and we still read. Now my kids are recommending books to me. And we talk. A lot. The reason I have so many great stories about my kids and my friends pestered my into this blog is because I actually hang out with my offspring. I like them. I enjoy spending time with them. I don't shove them off on my parents every weekend so I can go get drunk with my friends. I would rather read Wimpy Kid books or watch iCarly.
Do you know what else? All of my kids are the very best in their class at reading. They get great grades, and all love school. And, this may be a bit of wishful thinking, but I think I'm going to have great teenagers, too. I'm sure they will make bad decisions sometimes, but because I've been interested in them their entire lives I think they'll do okay.
We do have great kids. But, we didn't get them by magic. It has been hard fucking work. But, I think the payoff will be some excellent people with whom I will enjoy sharing my life. Who knows what life will bring. Maybe someday the Husband and I will be eating ghetto spaghetti again. But, I know that if that happens I'll have a table full of people that I love. Nothing else matters.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Quote of the Day
Declan: "You know, Dad, I don't think I'm going to get a wife when I grow up."
Dad: "Well, that's up to you. Why not, though?"
Declan: "Well, I don't think I want someone telling me what to do all the time and stuff."
Dad: "Yeah, well there is that."
Dad: "Well, that's up to you. Why not, though?"
Declan: "Well, I don't think I want someone telling me what to do all the time and stuff."
Dad: "Yeah, well there is that."
Monday, November 1, 2010
Quote of the Day
My kids and I were discussing Katy Perry being disqualified from Sesame Street for wearing a slutty outfit. I don't actually use the word "slutty" with my kids. I don't need those calls from school. We say "hoochie". It's more fun to say, anyway.
So my oldest two were outraged that Ms. Perry would hoochie out on Sesame Street.
"That's just stupid." "Doesn't she know that little kids watch Sesame Street?!?!" "If little kids see her dressed that way, they might grow up and think that it's okay to be a hoochie!"
My youngest had just been taking it all in, but here she interjected "Hoochies are for grown ups! Especially if they are drinking beer."
Indeed they are, my dear. Indeed they are.
So my oldest two were outraged that Ms. Perry would hoochie out on Sesame Street.
"That's just stupid." "Doesn't she know that little kids watch Sesame Street?!?!" "If little kids see her dressed that way, they might grow up and think that it's okay to be a hoochie!"
My youngest had just been taking it all in, but here she interjected "Hoochies are for grown ups! Especially if they are drinking beer."
Indeed they are, my dear. Indeed they are.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Quote of the Day
"Mom! I need and ice pack!"
"Why"
The youngest pulls down her shirt to reveal large red streaks on her upper torso.
Voice of oldest sister from upstairs... "Because Declan was using her for a sled"
Down the stairs.
Awesome.
"Why"
The youngest pulls down her shirt to reveal large red streaks on her upper torso.
Voice of oldest sister from upstairs... "Because Declan was using her for a sled"
Down the stairs.
Awesome.
How I Met Your Father
Everyone always asks The Husband and I how we met, presumably expecting a story full of magic and rainbows. That's not how it happened. There was no glitter, no fuzzy bunnies. In fact, I wasn't even interested in him at first. So, that crap about how "you just know" the moment you meet someone and there is singing and bright lights and frolicking unicorns is crap. Unless you're high. Which I wasn't.
Anyway, I wrote this as a guest columnist for an editor friend of mine on an exceptionally slow news day.
Pay attention in school, kids. I know that message is bombarded at our youth from all directions. Everyone says it – celebrities in slick pseudo-cool ads, teachers, parents, loveable animated characters. The reasons everyone gives are as varied as the groups from which they come. You’ll get a better job, you’ll get into a better college, and you’ll stay out of trouble. But, the simple fact is that you just never know when what seems like a useless bit of information may someday come in very handy. Allow me to illustrate.
I met my husband in a bar. That’s not generally what we tell people, so if you could keep that little tidbit close to your jacket, I’d appreciate it. Usually we say that we met in a book store. Before the black hole of free time that is our children, we both read quite a bit so it’s plausible. And, our families feel a little better believing that we frequented Borders more often than bars. Whatever. We were in our 20s. Good for us for reading something without pictures ever.
So anyway, I’d gone to a horrible meat market bar with a group of girls I didn’t know very well. I was 26, and most of my group was 21 or 22. I was also the only one sporting an entire shirt. I had grown out of midriff cutouts and being recently free from an absolute train wreck of a marriage had zero interest in meeting guys. On the other side of this story is Future Husband. He had agreed to accompany a motley crew of wrestlers that he’d coached as one of them was turning 21 that night. His basic job was to make sure that nobody got arrested. If you think that last line was an exaggeration for literary effect, then you should go drinking with some wrestlers sometime, but only if you have plenty of medical insurance and know someone who can afford bail. The birthday boy chose the same bar my scantily-clad friends did, and the stage was set.
Showing the forethought of seasoned hunters, the wrestlers had arrived early and selected a long table with plenty of extra seats. Before long, the half-shirts lured the birthday boy over and he invited our table to join their table. With little squeals, the girls bounced up and followed his musclely lead. I was not as enthused. I was still wearing my coat and already had my cell phone out of my purse, to make sure I wouldn’t miss one of the many people I’d called to make alternate plans. By the time I’d finished my eye rolling and gathering of my things, the only seat at the table left was next to Future Husband.
At the time, Future Husband was sporting platinum blonde hair and an impressive amount of jewelry. I’ll pause for those of you who know him to let that image really set in… Given his appearance and the rowdy company he kept, it’s safe to say he was starting out a bit in the hole. After a few minutes of concentrating heavily on my drink, I mean book, and ignoring him completely, Future Husband leaned over and said “My friends are going to think I’m a total tool if I don’t at least try to talk to you.” I turned my head, narrowed my eyes and replied “What exactly had you planned on talking about?” He stopped drinking and spent the next hour asking me about myself, my hometown and anything else he could think of. All were met with terse, one-line answers.
He had extracted earlier that I was taking a grammar class in Lincoln at the University of Nebraska. He asked what we had discussed that day. I remember being very pleased at the question. The class was a 400-level grammar class that was very difficult. I had decided almost immediately that a rowdy, bleach-blonde wrestler would have the approximate intelligence of a garden vegetable, so this was my chance to embarrass him away. There was no way he could hang with me on this.
“Gerunds. We spent the entire four hours today talking about gerunds.” Ha! Game, set, match!
What I had not counted on was Dr. Jergen Shaver. He was apparently a battle-axe of an honors English teacher that had subjected Future Husband to an entire quarter of grammar and sentence diagramming his ninth grade year. At that moment in the bar, when a good answer would get him a wife and three kids and a bad answer would be rewarded with a night of supervising drunken wrestlers and belly-shirted girls, Future Husband reached back to ninth grade, looked at me and said, “Gerunds. Aren’t those verbs that get used like nouns?”
I blinked a couple of times, wondered why I hadn’t noticed before that he was really very handsome, and said, “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
So kids, before you close that biology book because you’ve decided that insect phyla are something you’ll never need to know, reconsider. Someday you might end up sitting next to the person of your dreams and he or she might be studying entomology. You just never know. The celebrities and cartoons and even your parents are exactly right, doing well in school will probably result in a better job and all those other things. But, it can also result in impressing someone you find attractive someday – and that is something that always comes in handy.
Anyway, I wrote this as a guest columnist for an editor friend of mine on an exceptionally slow news day.
Pay attention in school, kids. I know that message is bombarded at our youth from all directions. Everyone says it – celebrities in slick pseudo-cool ads, teachers, parents, loveable animated characters. The reasons everyone gives are as varied as the groups from which they come. You’ll get a better job, you’ll get into a better college, and you’ll stay out of trouble. But, the simple fact is that you just never know when what seems like a useless bit of information may someday come in very handy. Allow me to illustrate.
I met my husband in a bar. That’s not generally what we tell people, so if you could keep that little tidbit close to your jacket, I’d appreciate it. Usually we say that we met in a book store. Before the black hole of free time that is our children, we both read quite a bit so it’s plausible. And, our families feel a little better believing that we frequented Borders more often than bars. Whatever. We were in our 20s. Good for us for reading something without pictures ever.
So anyway, I’d gone to a horrible meat market bar with a group of girls I didn’t know very well. I was 26, and most of my group was 21 or 22. I was also the only one sporting an entire shirt. I had grown out of midriff cutouts and being recently free from an absolute train wreck of a marriage had zero interest in meeting guys. On the other side of this story is Future Husband. He had agreed to accompany a motley crew of wrestlers that he’d coached as one of them was turning 21 that night. His basic job was to make sure that nobody got arrested. If you think that last line was an exaggeration for literary effect, then you should go drinking with some wrestlers sometime, but only if you have plenty of medical insurance and know someone who can afford bail. The birthday boy chose the same bar my scantily-clad friends did, and the stage was set.
Showing the forethought of seasoned hunters, the wrestlers had arrived early and selected a long table with plenty of extra seats. Before long, the half-shirts lured the birthday boy over and he invited our table to join their table. With little squeals, the girls bounced up and followed his musclely lead. I was not as enthused. I was still wearing my coat and already had my cell phone out of my purse, to make sure I wouldn’t miss one of the many people I’d called to make alternate plans. By the time I’d finished my eye rolling and gathering of my things, the only seat at the table left was next to Future Husband.
At the time, Future Husband was sporting platinum blonde hair and an impressive amount of jewelry. I’ll pause for those of you who know him to let that image really set in… Given his appearance and the rowdy company he kept, it’s safe to say he was starting out a bit in the hole. After a few minutes of concentrating heavily on my drink, I mean book, and ignoring him completely, Future Husband leaned over and said “My friends are going to think I’m a total tool if I don’t at least try to talk to you.” I turned my head, narrowed my eyes and replied “What exactly had you planned on talking about?” He stopped drinking and spent the next hour asking me about myself, my hometown and anything else he could think of. All were met with terse, one-line answers.
He had extracted earlier that I was taking a grammar class in Lincoln at the University of Nebraska. He asked what we had discussed that day. I remember being very pleased at the question. The class was a 400-level grammar class that was very difficult. I had decided almost immediately that a rowdy, bleach-blonde wrestler would have the approximate intelligence of a garden vegetable, so this was my chance to embarrass him away. There was no way he could hang with me on this.
“Gerunds. We spent the entire four hours today talking about gerunds.” Ha! Game, set, match!
What I had not counted on was Dr. Jergen Shaver. He was apparently a battle-axe of an honors English teacher that had subjected Future Husband to an entire quarter of grammar and sentence diagramming his ninth grade year. At that moment in the bar, when a good answer would get him a wife and three kids and a bad answer would be rewarded with a night of supervising drunken wrestlers and belly-shirted girls, Future Husband reached back to ninth grade, looked at me and said, “Gerunds. Aren’t those verbs that get used like nouns?”
I blinked a couple of times, wondered why I hadn’t noticed before that he was really very handsome, and said, “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
So kids, before you close that biology book because you’ve decided that insect phyla are something you’ll never need to know, reconsider. Someday you might end up sitting next to the person of your dreams and he or she might be studying entomology. You just never know. The celebrities and cartoons and even your parents are exactly right, doing well in school will probably result in a better job and all those other things. But, it can also result in impressing someone you find attractive someday – and that is something that always comes in handy.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Hardest Question
My oldest, who is now nine, has an awesome imagination. She entertains herself with a pantheon of imaginary friends and doesn't give a shit at all what anybody thinks about that. My favorite is the duck named Pondulious.
Anyway, she asked me several months ago why some kids at school make fun of her for having imaginary friends but they believe in God. She wanted to know what the difference is.
I have yet to come up with a good answer for her. Thank goodness the child is creative and patient.
Anyway, she asked me several months ago why some kids at school make fun of her for having imaginary friends but they believe in God. She wanted to know what the difference is.
I have yet to come up with a good answer for her. Thank goodness the child is creative and patient.
Reason Number 237 Why I Will Never be PTA President
This happened last summer, but I was told that I'm required to include it here, so here it goes.
The Husband and I couldn't have been raised more differently when it comes to religion. He was raised to be atheist. I was reared so conservatively and Christianly that for all intensive purposes I grew up in the 50's. Neither really ended up working out for us. So, when we started having kids, we had no freaking idea what to teach our kids about religion. We decided, more as a proverbial punt than anything else, to educate our kids on as many different religions as possible, teach them love and tolerance, and celebrate whatever choice they eventually made. If you think that's a cop-out: 1. suck it 2. according to the principal, I have the nicest kids in the school.
This dogma (or lack thereof, I guess) is in stark contrast to the small, rural town in which we live. Everyone else is basically Catholic or Lutheran. And not those crazy ELCA Lutherans, but good solid Missouri Synod Lutherans. As one might imagine, this leads to considerable suspicion and some uncomfortable situations.
Case in point:
My son is seven. He is nothing if not a very logical, fact-embracing, rules oriented kid. Those are obviously all recessive genes, but that's a topic for another day. Anyway, this son of mine comes home from practice this summer, obviously disgusted. He throws his glove on the floor and proclaims that his friends are all stupid.
"First of all, don't say people are stupid. And, just out of curiosity, why do you think so?"
"All of my friends actually think that they were made by GOD!"
Fuck! What the hell am I going to say? How am I going to explain that? What should...
"Don't they know that they were made because their parents had sex with each other?!?!?"
FUUUUCK!
"Honey, ... did you say that to your friends?"
"No."
"Okay! Do you want a snack or something?"
Sometimes you just have to take the Scarlett O'Hara approach and think about it tomorrah.
The Husband and I couldn't have been raised more differently when it comes to religion. He was raised to be atheist. I was reared so conservatively and Christianly that for all intensive purposes I grew up in the 50's. Neither really ended up working out for us. So, when we started having kids, we had no freaking idea what to teach our kids about religion. We decided, more as a proverbial punt than anything else, to educate our kids on as many different religions as possible, teach them love and tolerance, and celebrate whatever choice they eventually made. If you think that's a cop-out: 1. suck it 2. according to the principal, I have the nicest kids in the school.
This dogma (or lack thereof, I guess) is in stark contrast to the small, rural town in which we live. Everyone else is basically Catholic or Lutheran. And not those crazy ELCA Lutherans, but good solid Missouri Synod Lutherans. As one might imagine, this leads to considerable suspicion and some uncomfortable situations.
Case in point:
My son is seven. He is nothing if not a very logical, fact-embracing, rules oriented kid. Those are obviously all recessive genes, but that's a topic for another day. Anyway, this son of mine comes home from practice this summer, obviously disgusted. He throws his glove on the floor and proclaims that his friends are all stupid.
"First of all, don't say people are stupid. And, just out of curiosity, why do you think so?"
"All of my friends actually think that they were made by GOD!"
Fuck! What the hell am I going to say? How am I going to explain that? What should...
"Don't they know that they were made because their parents had sex with each other?!?!?"
FUUUUCK!
"Honey, ... did you say that to your friends?"
"No."
"Okay! Do you want a snack or something?"
Sometimes you just have to take the Scarlett O'Hara approach and think about it tomorrah.
I am a blogger. The awesomeness consumes me.
Well. Here it is. My very own blog. I'm obviously going to need to acquire some design skills, as this thing has all the visual panache of a can a generic beer. I'll work on that.
So let's bring you up to speed. I have a husband and three kids, a job that I like sometimes and a dog. This will probably end up being mostly about the kids, because they suck most of my energy, time and money. That's actually fine with me. I love my kids and really, really enjoy hanging out with them. That will work out best for you, too as the kids are vastly more entertaining than I am. Oh, I'm also going to write under a pseudonym. Now don't get all "Ooohhh. Who IS She?!?!?" and start trying to figure it out. I'm not somebody cool or important or famous. I've always wanted to write under a pseudonym and this is my blog damn it, so I am. If it makes you feel better, you are all welcome to comment under fake names, as well!
So let's bring you up to speed. I have a husband and three kids, a job that I like sometimes and a dog. This will probably end up being mostly about the kids, because they suck most of my energy, time and money. That's actually fine with me. I love my kids and really, really enjoy hanging out with them. That will work out best for you, too as the kids are vastly more entertaining than I am. Oh, I'm also going to write under a pseudonym. Now don't get all "Ooohhh. Who IS She?!?!?" and start trying to figure it out. I'm not somebody cool or important or famous. I've always wanted to write under a pseudonym and this is my blog damn it, so I am. If it makes you feel better, you are all welcome to comment under fake names, as well!
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