This afternoon, Teacup and I sat down to jot down her birthday list. She's turning five years old. Here's what she enthusiastically asked for:
1. Jewelry Box
2. Princesses (which one? All princesses!)
3. Make-up
4. Polly Pockets
5. Princess Game
6. Princess Purse
7. Guitar
As we finished eating dinner, she said, "Oh yeah. One more thing. Mom can you get me HOMEWORK for my birthday?"
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Phone Preview
With Daddio focused on the NCAA basketball tournament during dinner, the girls and I ate dinner together. Okay, they watched me eat my dinner and they talked about their respective days. After I finished my meal, theirs untouched, I took the opportunity to practice using the telephone. Teacup knows the important telephone numbers - the house phone and my cell phone number, including area codes.
To date, she's never let her fingers do the walking.
I gave her the house phone and held onto my cell. To start, she practiced calling my cell. Getting the hang of it, we switched and she called the house phone from my cell.
Making telephone calls is no longer intuitive. When you tell someone to "hang up" the phone, there's nothing to hang up. Telephones rarely hang from the wall anymore. Furthermore, it's rare to see a telephone receiver attached to a long, spiral cord (unless you live in California and deal with earthquakes).
One day, when I'm old, grey and wrinkled (more-so than my current state), the phrase "hang up the telephone" will become obsolete, if it hasn't already. (Teacup blankly stared at me as I instructed her to "hang up the phone" this evening.) At some point, I imagine a youngster asking me the origination of that silly, meaningless phrase. What will people say when they can no longer explain the derivation of the phrase? "Press the button" just doesn't have the same connotation. Given all the various buttons in our lives, which button do you press? Even "end the call", still doesn't seem to cut it. Maybe I'm just old-school.
I regress.
Teacup enjoyed the telephone exercise. Then, Scooter wanted to get involved. I handed over the telephones and walked away (yet still nearby).
I captured this moment:
and fear the teenage years.
To date, she's never let her fingers do the walking.
I gave her the house phone and held onto my cell. To start, she practiced calling my cell. Getting the hang of it, we switched and she called the house phone from my cell.
Making telephone calls is no longer intuitive. When you tell someone to "hang up" the phone, there's nothing to hang up. Telephones rarely hang from the wall anymore. Furthermore, it's rare to see a telephone receiver attached to a long, spiral cord (unless you live in California and deal with earthquakes).
One day, when I'm old, grey and wrinkled (more-so than my current state), the phrase "hang up the telephone" will become obsolete, if it hasn't already. (Teacup blankly stared at me as I instructed her to "hang up the phone" this evening.) At some point, I imagine a youngster asking me the origination of that silly, meaningless phrase. What will people say when they can no longer explain the derivation of the phrase? "Press the button" just doesn't have the same connotation. Given all the various buttons in our lives, which button do you press? Even "end the call", still doesn't seem to cut it. Maybe I'm just old-school.
I regress.
Teacup enjoyed the telephone exercise. Then, Scooter wanted to get involved. I handed over the telephones and walked away (yet still nearby).
I captured this moment:
and fear the teenage years.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Deluge of Incoming Information
Recently, I've been drowning in paperwork. There seems to be this increasing, insurmountable amount of mail, junk, semi-junk, and non-junk amassing in my kitchen. Among those three mail categories there are school flyers, notes and documents that must be sorted.
They must be sorted and there is only one person able to do the sorting. Me. I'm self-appointed. I schedule the calendar. I know what's worthy of keeping and what can be chucked. Why? Because I chose to serve as the family manager. Plus, in my past life (pre-children), I was incredibly organized. I was so organized I had my spice rack in alphabetical order.
So what happens if I don't sort it? What will I miss? A bill payment? A book fair? A birthday party? Camp registration? Another credit card offer? A birth announcement (seems to be a baby boom among our friends)? Introduction to Libby Lu's Pooch Parlor?
Having recently sorted one of the many paper piles on my kitchen counter, I noticed that we receive more credit cards offers than is prudent, or financially healthy, for any household. I don't know how many trees have been sacrificed to propose consolidated credit or an incredibly low APR. It never matters what we're offered because I submit these overtures immediately to the shredder, located ten feet from the amassing paper piles.
Then, a friend enlightened me to the small print found at the bottom of every credit card offer.
1-888-5-OPT-OUT
I could have saved so many trees by now. I should have done more.... but who reads this junk anyway?
They must be sorted and there is only one person able to do the sorting. Me. I'm self-appointed. I schedule the calendar. I know what's worthy of keeping and what can be chucked. Why? Because I chose to serve as the family manager. Plus, in my past life (pre-children), I was incredibly organized. I was so organized I had my spice rack in alphabetical order.
So what happens if I don't sort it? What will I miss? A bill payment? A book fair? A birthday party? Camp registration? Another credit card offer? A birth announcement (seems to be a baby boom among our friends)? Introduction to Libby Lu's Pooch Parlor?
Having recently sorted one of the many paper piles on my kitchen counter, I noticed that we receive more credit cards offers than is prudent, or financially healthy, for any household. I don't know how many trees have been sacrificed to propose consolidated credit or an incredibly low APR. It never matters what we're offered because I submit these overtures immediately to the shredder, located ten feet from the amassing paper piles.
Then, a friend enlightened me to the small print found at the bottom of every credit card offer.
1-888-5-OPT-OUT
I could have saved so many trees by now. I should have done more.... but who reads this junk anyway?
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Way To Go, Daddio!
Daddio ran the LA Marathon today.
When he hobbled into the house after the race, his three girls were lined up and thrilled to see him!
Teacup shouted out, "Daddy, daddy, did you win?"
Daddio, smiled, and responded, "No, honey. I didn't win. But, at least I finished the race!"
I interjected, "But in our eyes, Daddio, you won!"
Way to go, Daddio! You are our hero!
When he hobbled into the house after the race, his three girls were lined up and thrilled to see him!
Teacup shouted out, "Daddy, daddy, did you win?"
Daddio, smiled, and responded, "No, honey. I didn't win. But, at least I finished the race!"
I interjected, "But in our eyes, Daddio, you won!"
Way to go, Daddio! You are our hero!
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Life Is Short
And for some, life is even shorter.
I signed on to be a sorority advisor at CSUN last August. It's the same sorority I became involved with during my college years. As an active member many years ago, the sorority served it's purpose. I made some friends, I learned how to make small-talk at parties. I learned how to organize and conduct meetings. I wasn't the most enthusiastic member, but I wasn't entirely apathetic either. Eventually, I outgrew the group and closed that chapter of my life. But, I have loosely maintained a connection to the women's fraternity to find acquaintances when I move to a new locale.
Since the beginning of the current school year, I have advised these young women on matters of Academic Excellence, whether or not I'm qualified. More than anything, it's interesting to see how far I've come in the last thirteen years of my own life since leaving the college scene.
Early this morning, I received a telephone call from a fellow advisor. Surprised to hear a voice instead of reading an email, she informed me that the outgoing chapter president celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Hollywood last night. Apparently, a drunk driver hit her. She passed away early this morning.
The shock of the news is mind-numbing. While I had only met this young, twenty-one year old woman a handful of times, I am keenly aware of her charisma and presence. Overall, I'm paralyzed. I don't know what to say or do. I can only think about this tragedy from the viewpoint of her parents, whom I have never met. I empathize with them despite having never lost a child of my own. It's not supposed to happen this way....
We know that we raise our children to be independent, to make their own decisions. As parents, we teach, we guide, we support. Subconsciously we know that our protective shield is finite, but it's hard to accept this fact. We tell ourselves to trust that our children will be safe in the world without us. We tell ourselves this, but deep down, we know this is a self-comforting fabrication which allows us to go on with our own lives. When tragedy strikes, the truth comes crashing down around us.
Life is fragile.
So, in my fog, I bend down to hug my kids throughout the day, for no apparent reason, other than that I love them.
Life is short.
As Abraham Lincoln once wrote, "In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."
I signed on to be a sorority advisor at CSUN last August. It's the same sorority I became involved with during my college years. As an active member many years ago, the sorority served it's purpose. I made some friends, I learned how to make small-talk at parties. I learned how to organize and conduct meetings. I wasn't the most enthusiastic member, but I wasn't entirely apathetic either. Eventually, I outgrew the group and closed that chapter of my life. But, I have loosely maintained a connection to the women's fraternity to find acquaintances when I move to a new locale.
Since the beginning of the current school year, I have advised these young women on matters of Academic Excellence, whether or not I'm qualified. More than anything, it's interesting to see how far I've come in the last thirteen years of my own life since leaving the college scene.
Early this morning, I received a telephone call from a fellow advisor. Surprised to hear a voice instead of reading an email, she informed me that the outgoing chapter president celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Hollywood last night. Apparently, a drunk driver hit her. She passed away early this morning.
The shock of the news is mind-numbing. While I had only met this young, twenty-one year old woman a handful of times, I am keenly aware of her charisma and presence. Overall, I'm paralyzed. I don't know what to say or do. I can only think about this tragedy from the viewpoint of her parents, whom I have never met. I empathize with them despite having never lost a child of my own. It's not supposed to happen this way....
We know that we raise our children to be independent, to make their own decisions. As parents, we teach, we guide, we support. Subconsciously we know that our protective shield is finite, but it's hard to accept this fact. We tell ourselves to trust that our children will be safe in the world without us. We tell ourselves this, but deep down, we know this is a self-comforting fabrication which allows us to go on with our own lives. When tragedy strikes, the truth comes crashing down around us.
Life is fragile.
So, in my fog, I bend down to hug my kids throughout the day, for no apparent reason, other than that I love them.
Life is short.
As Abraham Lincoln once wrote, "In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."
Friday, March 17, 2006
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Snow Day
When I was a kid, between December and March, I longed for as many snow days as Mother Nature could afford in any given year. I didn't want one during the weekend. What a letdown when that happened! The idea was that snow days meant "holiday", like winter break, spring break or pupil-free days. But, those days were less appealing being scheduled.
The allure of a snow day was the spontaneity of it. Instead of doing math problems and answering reading comprehension questions, I wanted Mother Nature to throw a wrench in the teacher's lesson plan allowing me and my friends to build snowmen, pummel one another with ice balls, and more than anything, sled down the schoolyard hill on our toboggans in the fresh white powder. Triumphantly, we would glimpse the dark, icy windows of our classrooms while repeatedly marching up the hill and sledding down in the schoolyard. If we were as advanced as kids are today, we probably would have waved our middle fingers toward those empty halls. Eventually, we trudged home with chattering chins, stomped our moon boots clean and begged for a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
That was Iowa.
Living in sunny Southern California, my kids don't experience snow days as I know them. Out here, snow is imported on snow day. It's a planned activity conveniently scheduled in the teacher's lesson plan, right after the math problems and before reading group. In fact, the teachers send home a note to ensure that parents send appropriate clothing for the snow. Perhaps they fear the kids will contract frost bite.
Imported and scheduled snow is not really snow. Not the white fluffy kind that beautifully lines the trees and freezes your nose hairs. California snow is brought to the kids' schools by the ton. It's made from giant ice cubes ground into little ice granules that immediately stick together, harden and melt. To me, there's no fun in it. It's like removing the presents from Christmas or the chocolate bunny from Easter.
Don't get me wrong. I have no intention of moving back to the chillier four-season climates experienced by much of the rest of this country unless I'm handcuffed to a moving van. I have little interest in purchasing another shovel to clear paths to my car or the mailbox. I've done my fair share of scooping and blowing snow.
But a part of me feels like my girls are missing out on the realities of snow day. They are overly excited to wear hats, gloves, scarves, winter coats and snow pants. Honestly, they don't need that apparel, it's more for fun. It's like dressing up for Halloween or being a princess for a day. If anything, they are more likely to encounter heat exhaustion around here on snow day than frost bite.
In fact, one teacher wore a skirt, sneakers with no socks, gloves and a white tank-top as she pushed kids on a toboggan down a hard, manmade snow hill on Scooter's snow day. The external temperature gauge read 74 degrees in my car. Not a cloud hung over our heads. It was clear and sunny. For us, snow day required little more than the use of sunglasses and sunscreen.
Only in California!
The allure of a snow day was the spontaneity of it. Instead of doing math problems and answering reading comprehension questions, I wanted Mother Nature to throw a wrench in the teacher's lesson plan allowing me and my friends to build snowmen, pummel one another with ice balls, and more than anything, sled down the schoolyard hill on our toboggans in the fresh white powder. Triumphantly, we would glimpse the dark, icy windows of our classrooms while repeatedly marching up the hill and sledding down in the schoolyard. If we were as advanced as kids are today, we probably would have waved our middle fingers toward those empty halls. Eventually, we trudged home with chattering chins, stomped our moon boots clean and begged for a steaming cup of hot chocolate.
That was Iowa.
Living in sunny Southern California, my kids don't experience snow days as I know them. Out here, snow is imported on snow day. It's a planned activity conveniently scheduled in the teacher's lesson plan, right after the math problems and before reading group. In fact, the teachers send home a note to ensure that parents send appropriate clothing for the snow. Perhaps they fear the kids will contract frost bite.
Imported and scheduled snow is not really snow. Not the white fluffy kind that beautifully lines the trees and freezes your nose hairs. California snow is brought to the kids' schools by the ton. It's made from giant ice cubes ground into little ice granules that immediately stick together, harden and melt. To me, there's no fun in it. It's like removing the presents from Christmas or the chocolate bunny from Easter.
Don't get me wrong. I have no intention of moving back to the chillier four-season climates experienced by much of the rest of this country unless I'm handcuffed to a moving van. I have little interest in purchasing another shovel to clear paths to my car or the mailbox. I've done my fair share of scooping and blowing snow.
But a part of me feels like my girls are missing out on the realities of snow day. They are overly excited to wear hats, gloves, scarves, winter coats and snow pants. Honestly, they don't need that apparel, it's more for fun. It's like dressing up for Halloween or being a princess for a day. If anything, they are more likely to encounter heat exhaustion around here on snow day than frost bite.
In fact, one teacher wore a skirt, sneakers with no socks, gloves and a white tank-top as she pushed kids on a toboggan down a hard, manmade snow hill on Scooter's snow day. The external temperature gauge read 74 degrees in my car. Not a cloud hung over our heads. It was clear and sunny. For us, snow day required little more than the use of sunglasses and sunscreen.
Only in California!
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Flat Stanley
Flat Stanley arrived safely at our house yesterday afternoon. He was sent to us from my niece in the midwest.
I hadn't even heard about the Flat Stanley Project until my sister called me about it last week. Apparently, Stanley Lambchop has even been in the news.
Stanley has a very busy schedule while visiting the Los Angeles area. He plans to accompany Scooter to school this afternoon, Daddio to work tomorrow, and may make an appearance for Teacup's "share day" on Thursday. So far, he's been an asset to our family.
He helped Teacup discover the lost bagel from last week and accompanied us to gymnastics. He's a great car companion, since he never screams or whines. Her certainly doesn't add to our already mounting laundry pile and surprisingly he doesn't eat us out of house and home. He's been perfectly well-behaved. We shall see what sort of cultural experiences we can give him over the next few days.
I hadn't even heard about the Flat Stanley Project until my sister called me about it last week. Apparently, Stanley Lambchop has even been in the news.
Stanley has a very busy schedule while visiting the Los Angeles area. He plans to accompany Scooter to school this afternoon, Daddio to work tomorrow, and may make an appearance for Teacup's "share day" on Thursday. So far, he's been an asset to our family.
He helped Teacup discover the lost bagel from last week and accompanied us to gymnastics. He's a great car companion, since he never screams or whines. Her certainly doesn't add to our already mounting laundry pile and surprisingly he doesn't eat us out of house and home. He's been perfectly well-behaved. We shall see what sort of cultural experiences we can give him over the next few days.
Monday, March 13, 2006
"Te Amo!"
Last night, or early this morning, I was in a deep sleep. Normal people do this at some point after sundown. Subconsciously, I must force myself to sleep deeply in order to survive the heavy breathing, some might term snoring, emanating from my copilot.
In my state of oblivion, unaware of the digits on the nearby clock, I heard "Te Amo" bellow through the baby monitor. It continued, steadily, "Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!" Pause.
I knew there was only one thing responsible for interrupting my beauty rest.
Lizzie!
Between pauses, I waited for someone else in the house to awaken and sob over the disturbance. Surely someone else would be abruptly awoken besides myself and this dumb doll! It must have been that subconscious "mommy instinct" kicking in during the wee hours.
Silence. I returned my head to the pillow and closed my eyes.
"Te Amo!" Pause. "Te Amo!"....
I don't know if I adjusted to the intermittent "Te Amo!" announcement, or my daughter rolled her head away from Lizzie's knee, the one you press to learn how to say, "I love you!" in Spanish.
By four am, my copilot's alarm-clock rang at eight minute intervals. No less than four minutes after the snooze button was pressed, Lizzie would declare, "Te Amo!" through the monitor.
Aware enough, I forced myself out of bed, trudged fifty paces down the hallway, into the dark, pink kids' bedroom and grabbed Lizzie from underneath Scooter's sweaty head. I wanted to shake that doll and scream, "Don't you know it's 4 am and everyone in their right mind is SLEEPING???"
Instead, I moved her to the toy-box, in the event she had a short-circuit. I returned to my own bed in hopes of resuming a state of REM.
Note to self: Don't EVER let a child take her Language Littles doll, or any talking doll to bed. If it happens by mistake, at least turn off the monitor.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Oh! The Miles You'll Drive!
When Daddio and I agreed to procreate, I knew at some point we would have to drive our offspring around town to various attractions and activities. But, that was when we lived in Brooklyn, NY. The subway was our primary mode of transportation. When we envisioned uprooting and moving out of our NYC borough, we assumed our furthest destination would be across bridges and tunnels to settle somewhere in the Garden State, the Constitution State or in Westchester County.
Back then, we hadn't a clue that we would ever relocate across the country in one of the most public-transportion-challenged cities of our country - Los Angeles. Now that the inconceivable has become our reality, I realize that Los Angeles is a car-lovers dream, but a small-town girl's traffic nightmare.
To avoid encounters with traffic jams and other Los Angeles realities, I've limited our lifestyle the last two and a half years to a ten-mile radius. Only when we purchase Wiggles tickets or visit a museum, do we have to leave our bubble. And those excursions are special and rare occasions.
My bubble forcibly burst when the kids started school and made friends. A child making friends is a parent's dream, but the convenience of these friends is equally important. It's hard to encourage a friendship when you have to drive 30 miles for a play-date. Apparently, this is normal out here.
Today, I drove 63 miles round-trip for a birthday party. It was a typical party. The kids played, they ate pizza and they sang Happy Birthday to their friend. Will anyone besides the birthday boy remember this party in two weeks or three years from now? Was it worth the 63-miles? Ask Teacup because my view is tainted.
If only I could encourage my children to choose friends based on their proximity to our residence....
Back then, we hadn't a clue that we would ever relocate across the country in one of the most public-transportion-challenged cities of our country - Los Angeles. Now that the inconceivable has become our reality, I realize that Los Angeles is a car-lovers dream, but a small-town girl's traffic nightmare.
To avoid encounters with traffic jams and other Los Angeles realities, I've limited our lifestyle the last two and a half years to a ten-mile radius. Only when we purchase Wiggles tickets or visit a museum, do we have to leave our bubble. And those excursions are special and rare occasions.
My bubble forcibly burst when the kids started school and made friends. A child making friends is a parent's dream, but the convenience of these friends is equally important. It's hard to encourage a friendship when you have to drive 30 miles for a play-date. Apparently, this is normal out here.
Today, I drove 63 miles round-trip for a birthday party. It was a typical party. The kids played, they ate pizza and they sang Happy Birthday to their friend. Will anyone besides the birthday boy remember this party in two weeks or three years from now? Was it worth the 63-miles? Ask Teacup because my view is tainted.
If only I could encourage my children to choose friends based on their proximity to our residence....
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
PTA Purgatory
Does anyone really LIKE being a PTA mom? Or, is it something mothers of school-aged children are enforced to endure? For me, it's the latter.
For better or worse, I've become a PTA mom. I don't appear at every PTA-sponsored activity, but I admit to having attended every PTA meeting this year, so far. I hope I'm not one of THOSE superior-acting PTA moms, just someone trying to endorse my children's education. More than anything, it's a signal to my kids that school is important. When I show up at school and Valerie sees me, the light on her face is reward enough.
For now, I'll withstand the cronyism, cattiness, and mind-numbing crap the teachers ask me to do. I'll put on a smile (albeit sometimes a fake one), talk with people I wouldn't otherwise associate with and try to get by until my time is over - which is fifteen years from now. Why did I quantify that? FIFTEEN LONG YEARS ahead of me!
I guess, being a PTA mom helps me to get to know better my children's classmates' families. I may not normally associate with the majority of these people, but my daughters will likely enter these people's homes. To the extent it involves MY off-spring, I want to know what goes on behind closed doors.
Furthermore, I want to advocate for my kids. If I don't, who will? If I see something I like, I'd be happy to support it, even if it involves spending a day cutting hearts out of red felt. If I see something I don't like, I hope to constructively address the issue. Most of the time, I plan to quietly follow directions. I don't want to be one of those loud action-less complainers that I've already encountered so often. The complainer population is growing like guppies.
A few months ago, 20/20 did a segment entitled "Stupid In America" in which the reporters largely blamed teachers' unions and the US government for the failure of our education system. I can't say that I disagree with their report. But, I would like to add that parents, also, are failing their kids.
In my short involvement as a PTA-parent, I'm aghast by the lack of parental support and involvement at the school. So many have strong opinions on not just WHAT should be done, but also HOW things should be done. So, with all of these opinions, why is it that only a handful of parents appear at the monthly PTA meetings? Because it's a private school, do parents expect tuition dollars to buy everything? A checkbook doesn't buy parental involvement. Lack of parental support is a growing epidemic in our educational system.
Currently, I am preparing and recruiting parents to help make costumes for a school event. Yeah - it sucks. I can't sew and my creative ability is largely deficient. Fortunately, the costumes involve scissors, fabric glue, and duck tape (no joke). As I do this, I am tired of hearing, "How do you have time to do it?" "I don't like doing this kind of stuff." "I figure someone else will do it!"
First, I DON'T have a lot of extra time, but I MAKE the time. I opted not to watch Oprah today!
Second, I DON'T want to do this crap any more than anyone else does. But, maybe if we did it together, it would take less time and BOTH of our kids would be proud.
Third, no one else is going to do anything. Everyone has something to offer. And even if you don't have anything to offer, help is always welcome. Please leave the complaints at home.
When I recently lamented about the age-old PTA subject to my own mother, she offered, "Been there, done that. Better you than me!"
One day in the future, I look forward to telling my daughters the same.
For better or worse, I've become a PTA mom. I don't appear at every PTA-sponsored activity, but I admit to having attended every PTA meeting this year, so far. I hope I'm not one of THOSE superior-acting PTA moms, just someone trying to endorse my children's education. More than anything, it's a signal to my kids that school is important. When I show up at school and Valerie sees me, the light on her face is reward enough.
For now, I'll withstand the cronyism, cattiness, and mind-numbing crap the teachers ask me to do. I'll put on a smile (albeit sometimes a fake one), talk with people I wouldn't otherwise associate with and try to get by until my time is over - which is fifteen years from now. Why did I quantify that? FIFTEEN LONG YEARS ahead of me!
I guess, being a PTA mom helps me to get to know better my children's classmates' families. I may not normally associate with the majority of these people, but my daughters will likely enter these people's homes. To the extent it involves MY off-spring, I want to know what goes on behind closed doors.
Furthermore, I want to advocate for my kids. If I don't, who will? If I see something I like, I'd be happy to support it, even if it involves spending a day cutting hearts out of red felt. If I see something I don't like, I hope to constructively address the issue. Most of the time, I plan to quietly follow directions. I don't want to be one of those loud action-less complainers that I've already encountered so often. The complainer population is growing like guppies.
A few months ago, 20/20 did a segment entitled "Stupid In America" in which the reporters largely blamed teachers' unions and the US government for the failure of our education system. I can't say that I disagree with their report. But, I would like to add that parents, also, are failing their kids.
In my short involvement as a PTA-parent, I'm aghast by the lack of parental support and involvement at the school. So many have strong opinions on not just WHAT should be done, but also HOW things should be done. So, with all of these opinions, why is it that only a handful of parents appear at the monthly PTA meetings? Because it's a private school, do parents expect tuition dollars to buy everything? A checkbook doesn't buy parental involvement. Lack of parental support is a growing epidemic in our educational system.
Currently, I am preparing and recruiting parents to help make costumes for a school event. Yeah - it sucks. I can't sew and my creative ability is largely deficient. Fortunately, the costumes involve scissors, fabric glue, and duck tape (no joke). As I do this, I am tired of hearing, "How do you have time to do it?" "I don't like doing this kind of stuff." "I figure someone else will do it!"
First, I DON'T have a lot of extra time, but I MAKE the time. I opted not to watch Oprah today!
Second, I DON'T want to do this crap any more than anyone else does. But, maybe if we did it together, it would take less time and BOTH of our kids would be proud.
Third, no one else is going to do anything. Everyone has something to offer. And even if you don't have anything to offer, help is always welcome. Please leave the complaints at home.
When I recently lamented about the age-old PTA subject to my own mother, she offered, "Been there, done that. Better you than me!"
One day in the future, I look forward to telling my daughters the same.
Honey, Where's the..... My Head?
I've succumb to the slow and steady depletion of wrinkles in my brain. I imagine my cerebrum appears more and more like a cue ball, round and smooth. Certainly, I'm not happy about this development, I just seem to lack control over the slow, steady ooze of brainpower depletion. So, embracing the glass-is-half-full attitude, I've opted to accept the facts.
In my daily rush to get out the door, I packed into a Ziploc baggy the uneaten plain mini-bagel with cream cheese from Scooter's breakfast. She begs for snacks when I take her to Child Watch at the YMCA while I sweat and get a mental grip on life. I don't work out because I actually like my appearance in spandex, I do it so that I can eat more treats (six Girl Scout Cookies last night) and maintain some mental sanity.
In my rush to prepare breakfast, supervise getting dressed, make Teacup's lunch, load up her backpack, and get out the door, I managed to misplace the uneaten mini-bagel smothered with cream cheese in a Ziploc baggy.
Desperate to find it, but more to convince myself that I wasn't losing my mind, I searched the refrigerator, garbage, pantry, laundry room, family room, backpack, and bread-box.
It's a day later and I still haven't found it!
Eventually, it's turn up. When it reappears, will it be located by sight or smell?
When losing your mind, do the senses start to deteriorate, too? I can only hope.
In my daily rush to get out the door, I packed into a Ziploc baggy the uneaten plain mini-bagel with cream cheese from Scooter's breakfast. She begs for snacks when I take her to Child Watch at the YMCA while I sweat and get a mental grip on life. I don't work out because I actually like my appearance in spandex, I do it so that I can eat more treats (six Girl Scout Cookies last night) and maintain some mental sanity.
In my rush to prepare breakfast, supervise getting dressed, make Teacup's lunch, load up her backpack, and get out the door, I managed to misplace the uneaten mini-bagel smothered with cream cheese in a Ziploc baggy.
Desperate to find it, but more to convince myself that I wasn't losing my mind, I searched the refrigerator, garbage, pantry, laundry room, family room, backpack, and bread-box.
It's a day later and I still haven't found it!
Eventually, it's turn up. When it reappears, will it be located by sight or smell?
When losing your mind, do the senses start to deteriorate, too? I can only hope.
Sunday, March 5, 2006
Role-Playing
Lately, Teacup often suggests that we take on different roles around the house. She gets to be the baby and Scooter gets to be the big sister. Yet, why am I always assigned to play the "mom"?
Admittedly, I limited my role-playing options when Valerie offered to be the mommy awhile back. A little too enthusiastically when she offered to be the "mom", I answered, "Cool! You can be the mommy! That means, you get to do the laundry, drive everyone around, sort through the deluge of incoming papers...."
With fervor, Valerie shouted, "Yeah! I'll be the mommy!"
"... and you get to make dinner, too!" I continued.
Apparently, THAT was the show-stopper. She sorrowfully stated, "But mommy, I don't know HOW to make dinner!" (As though she could reach the buttons on the washing machine without a ladder or push the accelerator and check the rearview mirrors while backing out of the driveway.)
Pleading, I offered, "Oh, dinner's easy. I'll show you how to do everything. And if that doesn't work, we could always order out!"
"No.... I guess, I'll be the baby and YOU can be the mommy!" she suggested.
So, that's it! I thought I was stuck being the mommy until today. At age thirty-five, I got to be the "grandma" and Scooter was assigned the role of "mom".
Despite the age factor, I think I just might enjoy "grandmother"-hood one day.
Admittedly, I limited my role-playing options when Valerie offered to be the mommy awhile back. A little too enthusiastically when she offered to be the "mom", I answered, "Cool! You can be the mommy! That means, you get to do the laundry, drive everyone around, sort through the deluge of incoming papers...."
With fervor, Valerie shouted, "Yeah! I'll be the mommy!"
"... and you get to make dinner, too!" I continued.
Apparently, THAT was the show-stopper. She sorrowfully stated, "But mommy, I don't know HOW to make dinner!" (As though she could reach the buttons on the washing machine without a ladder or push the accelerator and check the rearview mirrors while backing out of the driveway.)
Pleading, I offered, "Oh, dinner's easy. I'll show you how to do everything. And if that doesn't work, we could always order out!"
"No.... I guess, I'll be the baby and YOU can be the mommy!" she suggested.
So, that's it! I thought I was stuck being the mommy until today. At age thirty-five, I got to be the "grandma" and Scooter was assigned the role of "mom".
Despite the age factor, I think I just might enjoy "grandmother"-hood one day.
Saturday, March 4, 2006
Crazy for Cosmetics
Being a girl, nearing kindergarten, Teacup has developed an obsession for makeup. When I pick her up from school, her teachers announce that she is playing with her friends underneath the various slides and monkey bars. (In my school years, playground equipment was termed jungle gyms). Apparently, my daughter and her friends give one another makeovers with rocks, pine-cones, leaves and other found fauna.
This interest in maquillage has invaded birthday party goodie bags, to my dismay. This purple goop is disguised in a plastic princess necklace pendant. Not only does this substance smell like grape Bubbilicious Bubble Gum, it stains anything it touches, including skin.
Unfortunately, I found the substance a little too late.
Having survived this particular application of makeup, I opted to address the issue.
"Teacup, did you know that women use makeup to hide flaws? Usually, older people use it to cover up moles and wrinkles. Younger people don't need makeup because their skin is nearly perfect," I tried to explain.
"So, why do YOU wear makeup?" she asked.
Dumbfound, I stuttered and changed the subject! So much for quick wit as a mom.
Since that conversation, I've reduced my already minimal application of mascara, a dab of eye-shadow and lipstick, to my trusty ChapStick®. And, I avoid the mirror.
This interest in maquillage has invaded birthday party goodie bags, to my dismay. This purple goop is disguised in a plastic princess necklace pendant. Not only does this substance smell like grape Bubbilicious Bubble Gum, it stains anything it touches, including skin.
Unfortunately, I found the substance a little too late.
Having survived this particular application of makeup, I opted to address the issue.
"Teacup, did you know that women use makeup to hide flaws? Usually, older people use it to cover up moles and wrinkles. Younger people don't need makeup because their skin is nearly perfect," I tried to explain.
"So, why do YOU wear makeup?" she asked.
Dumbfound, I stuttered and changed the subject! So much for quick wit as a mom.
Since that conversation, I've reduced my already minimal application of mascara, a dab of eye-shadow and lipstick, to my trusty ChapStick®. And, I avoid the mirror.
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
The Tell
I've finally decoded "the tell", as it's called in poker. Phil Gordon taught me that.
It's not that my youngest is trying to bluff. She is often too busy to take the time to dispose of normal bodily functions in a socially acceptable manner.
It's clear as day to me, now.
In Scooter's case, she suddenly appears like the speed tablets she swallowed have kicked-in and she runs in place on her tip-toes. Some kids' "tell" appears when they place their hand on their privates while crossing their legs. It's certain to be number two when they turn quiet, hide in a corner, seem focused on a particular toy and stick-out their rump. If not caught in time, you'll hear grunting.
Regardless, when "the tell" appears, running their naked bottom to the toilet before a downpour of urine runs down the legs and pools on the floor becomes an Olympic sport.
Now that I know "the tell", I just have to react quickly and quietly because I have seconds, not minutes, to spring into action.
It's not that my youngest is trying to bluff. She is often too busy to take the time to dispose of normal bodily functions in a socially acceptable manner.
It's clear as day to me, now.
In Scooter's case, she suddenly appears like the speed tablets she swallowed have kicked-in and she runs in place on her tip-toes. Some kids' "tell" appears when they place their hand on their privates while crossing their legs. It's certain to be number two when they turn quiet, hide in a corner, seem focused on a particular toy and stick-out their rump. If not caught in time, you'll hear grunting.
Regardless, when "the tell" appears, running their naked bottom to the toilet before a downpour of urine runs down the legs and pools on the floor becomes an Olympic sport.
Now that I know "the tell", I just have to react quickly and quietly because I have seconds, not minutes, to spring into action.
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