A Mixed Bag

Alice Cooper never did a song about going back to school, but he should have. Staples cashed in on that idea brilliantly a couple years back.

In years past, my running joke on the first day of school has been: Ever see a middle-aged fat chick do a cartwheel? I still might dust that one off. I've got a week and a half before the big yellow buses start running through my neighborhood.

But this year is a little different in that I'll be going back, too.

Sort of.

I got a part time temporary gig that corresponds to the school year. It'll keep me off the streets, for the most part. A public service, no doubt.

Now - this will be the first time I've had rather regular hours at a job in - well - in a long time. That will mean lots of things. I'll need better clothes, for one. But also? I'm going to need to anticipate lunch. In my years as a stay-at-home, my lunch habits have become rather - haphazard. Sometimes I skip it. Sometimes I graze through leftovers. Sometimes I forget I'm going to be hungry and grab fast food when I remember. I know. Special kind of stupid. But now I'm going to have to think about packing a lunch when I'm eating my breakfast. This is a little problematic, because I am not a huge fan of sandwiches and that is certainly the go-to lunch food for a reason. Don't get me wrong - I'll eat 'em - I'm just not a huge fan.

Ok, I know I said I wasn't going to do any more product reviews on this site, but - well - I didn't sign a contract or anything. Here's what happened: I was musing over the fact that I would have to pack lunches for work now, when I got an email from a gentleman asking me to review - you guessed it - an insulated lunch bag. I thought to myself, I thought, "Well isn't that weird? Being asked to review a lunch bag just as I'm thinking about packing lunches. That feels sort of like kismet. I think it's time to reconsider my views on product reviews."

So I did.

I reconsidered, not just because of the spooky kismet thing, but also because he and his wife operate this small business and I am a big fan of mom and pop organizations.

I reconsidered, also, because - I've said it here before - I love bags. I have been able to turn down many product reviews and giveaways, but when someone offers me a bag to review? I'm sorry. Saying no goes against my very nature.

The bag arrived more quickly than it took me to decide if I wanted it to say Tam in turquoise, Tammy in fuchsia, or Mommakin in red. (Ask my kids. This was a serious debate.)

It is black, quilted, and insulated - and I opted for Tammy in fuchsia, in case you were dying to know. There is a small pocket on one side and a zippered pocket on the other. I'm thinking cell phone in the side pocket (though it's big enough to hold more) and a granola bar in the zippered pouch for an afternoon snack. The main compartment will easily hold the average lunch. Maybe even a little bigger than average lunch. I think that side pocket might even hold my flask. Not that I'd ever need a flask to get through a work day, but it's nice to know it's an option.

So.

It's functional, it's attractive, it's personalized, it supports small business, and the customer service is out of this world. Not too shabby.It looks just like this (except - you know - it says Tammy, not Ashley. But I bet Ashley digs it, too...)

There would be pictures, but my camera REMAINS out of commission. So if anyone asks me to do a product review for a camera, I'm totally in.

You might be wondering where YOU could get such a swell lunch bag - especially considering that it's back to school time in YOUR neck of the woods, too. Glad you asked. Click here OR the SB link conveniently located in my sidebar, and away you go. (They have a LOT of cute bags! Not just lunch bags!)

Might as Well (Not) Jump

I was going to write a nice little post about my High School reunion. It was gonna be full of old friends and jello shots and puppies and gobs and watermelontinis. You would've loved it. I was going to mention the sound grown women make when they greet each other after such a long time apart (kind of a hybrid of the tween/teen squeeeee! and the college girl/young adult woman wooooo! - and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, 'cause you do). I was going to mention the things that change and the things that don't. I was going to talk about actually putting your arms around someone you've been virtually (((hugging))) for two years - and feeling theirs around you. I might've made a gentle winking reference to reading glasses and pill-minders and hot flashes. It would've been the feel good post of the year.

It would've been those things - it was all written out in my head - I just needed to find some computer time.

Between the time I wrote it in my head and I actually got computer time, though, something awful happened.

Classmates posted their pictures.

And I died.

There were seriously tears as I looked through the first batch, and numb resignation as I looked through each subsequent batch. That is NOT me. How can that be ME?

The pictures weren't the only reminder that things had indeed changed (for me). A lot. Let's just put it this way: If you're significantly overweight and have degenerative arthritis in your knees and David Lee Roth tells you you might as well jump, you should probably ignore him because it will be a very bad idea and hurt for a week. It won't hurt as much as looking at those pictures, but still...

Damn, I wish I could find a way to make the outside match the inside.

I'm not - this.

I'm nothing like this.

I guess you're just going to have to trust me on that one. Can you trust me more than you trust your eyes? Can you take that leap? Can I? Or will what's inside eventually morph into something as ugly as what's outside - just to bring balance to this dichotomy?

I know - there are people in the world with real problems. Hell, there are people in my very immediate world with real problems. People I love are hurting - and I am literally brought to tears because of what I look like. It is shallow and ridiculous and vain. I need to get over myself and put it in perspective.

And yet...

People tell me the pictures are great, and I die even more - because in most cases, the people who are saying this would die - DIE - if they looked in the mirror and saw something that looked like me gazing back at them. (Wow - drama much? Read that sentence again and see if you can't manage to swoon just a little. You know. Before you DIE!)

I just need to avoid cameras. They are a serious buzzkill. And - despite all I've said here - the reunion really DID provide a pretty darn good buzz.

And as badly as my knees hurt now? I'm still glad I jumped.

Antici............................pation

Hello, Classmates!

Can you believe it's been thirty years?

When that invitation arrives in the mail it strikes fear in the heart of most of us who have gone ahead and aged like mortals. I skipped the last one. It's not much fun to be the one who "got really fat" (I hope you read that in a stage whisper so I would/wouldn't hear you...) Who can forget the words of Suzanne Sugarbaker when she accepted an award for 'Most Changed' at her reunion on the They Shoot Fat People, Don't They? episode of Designing Women:

Well, this is quite a surprise. I guess maybe I deserve this award for the Person-Most-Changed, but (pause) not for the reason you think. Last night I got my feelings hurt because I came to this reunion thinking I was beautiful and what I find out was that I'm fat (pause) at least you think I am. But that isn't the biggest change in me. The biggest change is that the old Suzanne wouldn't have shown up here tonight. She would've just gotten thin before the next reunion and then she would have gotten even. But I'm a little older and I hope a little wiser than that person used to be.

A lot of things have happened to me. A lot of things have happened to all of us. Sandy Smothers was killed the night before we graduated. Diane Mitchell's got two sets of twins and Gayland Chadwick's working in the White House. We had a lot of dreams together and there's no point in pretending some of mine came true and some didn't.

I met a little boy from Africa tonight whose family died of starvation and I realized that I spent the whole day at home worrying about the fact that I had too much to eat. I'm not sure the old Suzanne would have appreciated the absurdity of that but this one does.

Some of you men wanted to know about my bra size, but I’d rather talk about my heart because (pause) it's a little bigger than it used to be. The old Suzanne wouldn't have forgiven you for the things that you said, but this one will. Because when I look around this room tonight, I don't see receding hairlines and the beginnings of pot-bellies and crow's feet. I just see all the beautiful faces of old girlfriends and sweet young boys who used to stand on my front porch and try to kiss me goodnight. And you can remember me any way you'd like, but that's how I'll always remember you.

And so I thank you for giving me this award for the Person-Most-Changed, however you intended it. I'm gonna treasure it because #1. I love trophies and #2. I earned it. Thank you.

Suzanne rocked, no doubt.

But I've never had Sugarbaker strength. I am not going into it feeling beautiful. I feel - ashamed. I hate that I will be judged by it, but I will. It's not fair, and it's not right, but it will happen. I don't know if knowing that - like I do - or not knowing it - as was the case for Suzanne - is worse. Just because it won't catch me by surprise, doesn't mean it won't hurt.

So why don't I just skip it, then, for Pete's sake? Well, blame FB for that. I've renewed contact with so many friends from that period of my life. We've shared our stories - our trials and our triumphs. I would hate to deprive myself of the opportunity to spend face-time with these people just because my face now sports an extra chin (or so...).

So I stress about it. I've stressed about it since the invitation arrived months ago. I stressed about it every time I saw a classmate on FB mention that they hoped they could drop ten pounds before the reunion. I could gain or lose ten pounds without it being noticed. I suppose there's a sort of comfort there. Nothing to be done about it - certainly no quick fix. I'm not going to look good - no amount of torture at this point - or at the point where I got the invitation - is going to change that.

I should be packing, today. Packing for our trip, that begins with the reunion and ends with the shore with a lot of relative-visiting in between. I should be packing. I should be making my house ready for the time we'll be away. But I'm not. I'm trying to do a hundred things at once and not doing any of them well. I'm sitting here with a rock in my stomach, certain that I'm going to hurl. I can't concentrate on anything. I am - in a word - manic.

What the hell?

I'm sure I'll be telling you in a few days about how much fun it was.

Pretty sure.

Mostly sure.

But right now? I'm just gonna sit my fat self in a corner and rock. And maybe hurl.

(Last) Lunch With a Loved One

Liv's school had 'Lunch With a Loved One' yesterday. I like this program for a couple reasons. First, they have two a year and they divide the school up. So there is never one day for all the loved ones. On each of the designated days, fully half of the kids will be eating lunch with their buds as usual instead of with a guest. So there is never that one kid eating alone while everyone else eats with their loved ones. And that brings me to the second thing I like: It's not a parents luncheon or a grandparents luncheon; it's lunch with a loved one. Not all kids have parents or grandparents who can make it to the school. Heck, not all kids have parents or grandparents. Asking them to invite 'A Loved One' levels the playing field a little bit. I like that.

So I marked the calendar, but forgot to record what time Liv's lunch was. I told her it was no biggie, I'd just call the school in the morning. She left the following note on the table for me as a reminder. A reminder that I'm a moron...

My teacher is Mr. Geist.
Mr. Geist is not pronounced Geest.
You could probably just say The Green Team.
That would work.

You know. For a simpleton such as yourself who might not be able to get the complicated pronunciation of my teachers name right.

She went on to inform me that I could hug her at school and I could call her any fond nickname I wanted to but that I was not to kiss her under any circumstances because kissing is against school rules. I guess that's good...

So, armed with the accepted pronunciation of her teachers name and the official school policy on PDA's, I showed up at the school right on time with lunch for the two of us. She was happy to see me. I refrained from kissing her. I did not refrain from calling her Punky Punk.

We were joined for lunch by her buddy C. and his mom. Liv and C. were in pre-school together and have had the same teachers almost every year. In the friend department, she could do a lot worse. Liv and C. explained to his mom and I that the school was really showing off. That the lunch they served was much nicer than the usual lunch and that half the students were eating lunch in their classroom to make room for the loved ones, thus providing a much quieter and more civilized environment. The effort did not go unappreciated.

After that we took a quick walk through the hallways to her classroom, artwork was pointed out and admired, and we headed out to the playground. Where I was promptly ditched in favor of younger more agile playmates who were in no danger of forgetting the rules and accidentally kissing her.

I love and hate that part.

I hate being ditched.

But I love sort of getting a glimpse of my child in her natural habitat. I love seeing her interact, not only with her friends but with the whole school community. I love how carefree and happy she looks when she plays outside. I love that she loves her life.

This was my last 'Lunch With a Loved One'. The program doesn't continue into Jr. High and that's probably for the best. I don't think I love ANYONE enough to risk entering a crowded noisy hormone addled Jr. High cafeteria (well, I DO, but, you know, I'd rather not)... So it was a little bittersweet. But mostly sweet.

Go ahead and grow up, my little Punky Punk. But take your time. There's no rush.

And I can still kiss you when you get home, right?

The Obligatory Back to School Post

I just put the last one on the bus.

Ever see a middle-aged fat chick do a cartwheel?

It's not that I don't like having them around. I do. I really like my kids. If anyone had told me this years ago I wouldn't have believed them, but I like them even more the older they get.

My kids are cool.

They're cool little individuals who I'm pretty sure I would like even if they weren't my kids.

They aren't me - although both of them have some aspects of me.

They aren't Tom - although both of them have some aspects of Tom.

They are themselves. They are completely self-actualized. They are awesome.

But...

But I love the thought of being able to get back into some sort of routine. The summer was great. We had a great summer. But there was no routine at all. It's hard to establish one when you're traveling, and when we were home I spent a lot of time getting them from where they were to where they wanted to be. And that's ok - that's right - that's as it should be.

But now Momma can get her routine back.

The house will be cleaner (stop laughing, it will).

My life will be more organized.

THEIR lives will be more organized.

I will go out for coffee more.

I will read more.

I will do my errands all by myself - which isn't as much fun, but it's a lot faster.

It will be boring.

It will be mundane.

And I am looking forward to it.

So...

The hot breakfasts of choice have been served (toaster waffles for Lea; scrambled pancakes for Liv)

The new outfits have been donned (cute, bright and on trend for Lea; dark, black and rockin' for Liv)

The school supplies have been purchased.

The paperwork is (mostly) done.

I'm off to have coffee with my bud. We've neglected this routine far too long.

I may buy a book.

Then I'm going to the yarn shop.

Mommatime!

Smoke 'Em If You've Got 'Em

This Thursday's Trip down Memory Lane is in honor of all of my friends who have been talking on their blogs and on Facebook about their children getting their driver's licenses. Also, it's SORT OF about birthdays. The big 1-6, to be exact. My birthday is Tuesday. I figure this is pretty close. I may do another birthday trip down Memory Lane next week. I'm one of those that doesn't reckon a birthday needs to really be confined to a single day...

Most kids approaching their sixteenth birthday are ready to drive. I was ready to be more independent. I was ready to be more mobile. But I was not ready to drive. My parents took the Driver’s Ed program at the school very seriously. Most kids took Driver’s Ed for the insurance break. I took it to learn to drive.

The first time I slid behind the wheel of a car, it was the Driver’s Ed car. The instructor handed me the keys and said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.” I asked him what exactly I was supposed to do with the keys. He rolled down the windows and lit a Camel.

After that, he always gave me the last turn at the wheel. He always rolled down the windows and lit a Camel as I approached the driver’s seat.

There were a total of three students in the car. The other two drove on the main drags, such as they were, of our town. My turn usually began when we were pretty close to the school parking lot. I won’t swear to it, but I’d bet dollars to donuts that despite his title, the Driver’s Ed instructor had never actually taught anyone to drive from scratch before.

A non-smoker myself with non-smoking parents, I was pretty sure he was going to have lung cancer before I had a driver’s license. I felt just a little bit guilty about that.

I pleaded with my parents to take me out to practice. I didn’t much like feeling like I was in remedial Driver’s Ed. Dad gave in once or twice, but he didn’t like it. He was probably afraid that if he rode with me too much HE’D need to take up smoking, too.

Eventually I got it, of course. I’d like to say it all just clicked, but it was a much more gradual process than that. I would still rather be in the passenger’s seat than the driver’s seat, given a choice. Not long after I got my license, a boyfriend said, “Wanna learn to drive a stick?”

I walked to the nearest convenience store and bought him a pack of Camels.

Commencin' to Live in the Real World

In true Griswold fashion, the first leg of our road trip involved visiting family. My cousin had one daughter graduating from high school and another graduating college. Rather momentous.

Now these two girls have always had a more than special place in my heart. K. was probably the first baby I ever fell truly, madly, deeply in love with. I adored her. Is that redundant? No matter. It can't really be overstated.

A few years later, when my cousin had J., I learned a lesson most folks don't learn till they have their own second child. J. taught me how our hearts can grow. When my cousin asked me to serve as J.'s godmother I was flattered beyond words.

So this weekend my cousin had a party to celebrate her girls. K. graduated college with a teaching degree and J. graduated high school. As we arrived at the party, both girls were there to greet us with hugs. J. got to me first. I hugged her and said, "I'm so proud of you! Congratulations!"

She said something on the order of, "Yeah, thanks."

Then I got to K. I said the same thing to her. "I'm so proud of you! Congratulations!"

She said, "I know, isn't it sad?"

It seems like an odd answer, but I totally understood. I squeezed her a little tighter and said, "I know. It'll be ok, though, I promise."

But I lied a little bit.

Not a lot. Not a big lie. Not even a lie, really, I guess. Because things, of course, will indeed be ok.

But they will never again be college.

K. loved college. She found her peeps in college. She fit. It was good. And now it's over and you know what? That IS sad!

I remember my own college graduation. My parents had a little get together at the house afterwards and I remember watching people arrive and thinking, "Why are so many people coming to celebrate the end of my LIFE?"

(when I complain about my daughter and her drama, I never say she didn't get it honest)

And that was the difference between J.'s experience and K.'s. In semantic terms, J. had a commencement. Finishing high school (with high honors! go J.!) was just a stepping stone - an important step towards the next exciting chapter of her life. A beginning. She is excited about her future. (and K. is, no doubt, thinking right along with me, "well, what's not to be excited about? Her future is COLLEGE!!!) K. had more of of a graduation. An ending, leaving something behind - something beloved. Something she wasn't quite ready to say good-bye to. Where she's going next is a little more uncertain.

Oh, K.

Oh, sweetie.

The post-collegiate world IS scary. And it ISN'T the same. But it can be pretty wonderful, too. Just a different kind of wonderful.

Honest.

School's Out

Back in the early days of my squealy fangirlhood, when I first got interested in going to concerts, the first show I really wanted to see was Alice Cooper. Mom's foot spoke hard on that one. No way, no how, not gonna happen. I hear he kills babies. (Yes, Mom. He kills babies. On stage. With no consequence other than parental disappoval. Sheesh.) The very next month I was allowed to go see my actual first concert. Nazareth. I think she might have thought it was Christian rock. I neither confirmed nor denied.

Anyway.

I have to wonder if Alice Cooper (the band or the man) had any idea how iconic the song "School's Out" would continue to be, decades after its 1972 release. I'm quite certain he couldn't have anticipated appearing in the 2004 Staple's commercial featuring the song. Funnier than Gene Simmons' Dr. Pepper commercial and even Ace Frehley's Dunkin' Donuts commercial. Suck it, KISS. Alice did it all first. And he did it all better.

Anyway.

My girls were singing "School's Out" this morning - and I'll betcha a nickle I haven't heard it for the last time, today.

And I'm a-scared.

I love my girls. I do. But that line, "Well we got no class. And we got no principles." was written, I think, specifically with them in mind.

And they're gonna be here all day. Every day. For three months.

Didn't Alice also say, "lines form on my face and hands"? (totally out of context, I know, but work with me here.)

Didn't Alice also say "only women bleed"? It's a big 'ole hormone cocktail 'round here. And now there will be no respite. For three months.

Someone hold me.

Or pour me a shot.

Or shoot me.

You Can Take the Teacher Out of the Classroom...

I don't volunteer much at my childrens' schools. I know as a SAHM I'm supposed to. But I don't. And it's not out of laziness or lack of interest in my childrens' lives. Honest. I DID volunteer today and I was reminded of EXACTLY why I don't.

Yesterday I was (mildly) lamenting my lack of a professional life, but the truth is that when I WAS a professional, I was a teacher. Our dress code was a little different than that of the women in my husband's office. (and the woman in the picture) Yesterday I was missing something I'd never had. But that's not what I set out to talk about.

I set out to talk about why I don't volunteer.

Today was Liv's Stunts and Studies day. This is an excellent program that our middle school has been doing with it's fifth graders for around 20 years. It combines traditional field day activities with "are you smarter than a fifth grader" type questions. So for each 'stunt' they must correctly answer a question taken directly from the fifth grade curriculum to earn a point for their team. I think it's a really cool way to integrate academics into a fun day. It is also very well organized and both times I've worked it, it has run like clockwork. This cannot be said for every experience I've had in my childrens' schools, so I need to give credit where it is due. It's saying a lot, too - since it involves the entire fifth grade - 18 classes, each with approximately 30 students. Organizing an activity for that many eleven year olds that runs that smoothly is impressive indeed.

And you're thinking, "That's swell, Tammy, but you're off on a tangent again. I thought you were going to tell us why you don't volunteer. All you've done so far is brag on your kid's school and tell us what a great experience this is. Have you been tested for adult ADD? Because you can't stay on topic for love or money, and I should know. I've offered you both."

Isn't it amazing? My ability to read your mind? And I would totally stay on topic for money.

Ahem.

I was not off-topic. I was merely setting the stage.

As soon as I was given my assignment, I went into teacher mode. And THAT is why I don't volunteer. I was not there to be a teacher, I was there to be a parent. I just have never been able to properly sort out those roles in a school setting. Right from the start - we were given name tags. I wrote my name on mine before I saw anyone else's. As I started to see them, I saw things like "Mr. Jeff (Mark's Dad)" and "First Name/Last Name Go Team Blue!" and things like that. Mine said "Mrs. Howard". It was printed very neatly and legibly in letters an appropriate size for the name tag so that nothing was scrunched and there wasn't a lot of white space. I didn't put any thought into that, that's just what I automatically did.

I immediately took charge of the sixth grade students who had been assigned to help me. When they got out of line, I didn't hesitate to get out of my chair and remind them of their responsibilities. Other parent volunteers were treating the sixth grade volunteers like equal members of their team. Not me. I had to be in charge. (And you can bet that before the busses arrived this afternoon, "Mrs. Howard is a bitch." was uttered at least once. Perhaps not erroneously.) I found myself instructing the other adult volunteer on my team, too. (Which might not have been necessary if she'd put down her phone and just read the instructions she'd been given. But I digress.)

I was in charge, and I liked it. Except that I had next to no authority. Didn't stop me for a second from acting like I did.

I learned before Lea was out of kindergarten that I needed to stay out of the classroom because these teachers had asked for a parent volunteer, not a mentor. I'd taught for so long - I knew a thing or two about - and what you need to do here is... I would have hated a parent like me when it was my classroom. I didn't want to be that parent. I couldn't NOT be that teacher. I just had to step away from the whole situation.

I quit teaching completely almost a year ago. I haven't taught young people in over seven years. I thought maybe it was safe to go back into a classroom.

I thought wrong.

So I can't volunteer. I'll continue to support in my own ways. It's cool.

Lunch With a Loved One

Lunch with a loved one. Because parent luncheons didn't work because too many parents couldn't consistently make it. Grandparents? Too many lived far away. Or no longer lived at all. So lunch with a loved one was conceived as a catch-all phrase to cover anyone special in the child's life that could make it to lunch with them.

I have never missed a lunch with a loved one for either of my girls. I like them. I like them a lot. I like the opportunity to see my child in her natural environment. That makes it sound like I'm observing monkeys in the zoo. I'm not going to edit it.

I like meeting their friends and I love having special one-on-one time with each child - away from their sibling. All about them. I love the proud way they show me around their classroom and their school. I've even learned to accept (if not love) that they'll ditch me in a minute to play with their friends. I like watching them interact with their friends. I like the way their face lights up when they initially see me, waving at me like little maniacs. Like they hadn't seen me just a couple hours before. There's something special about being where you usually aren't.

I'm lucky, and I know it. I am a stay-at-home mom with no obligations other than those which I impose on myself. I'm lucky I get to experience this every year, twice a year. I'm lucky.

Less lucky are those kids who do not get a lunch date and those parents who, usually due to circumstances way out of their control, can't make it to these events. It is often just unreasonable to expect parents to be able to rearrange their whole day so that they can spend half an hour at their child's school. I'm sure many of them would love to. It's just not always feasible.

I've watched kids from preschool on up during these events. As they get older, they do seem to be better equipped to understand that their parents (or grandparents, or general loved ones) can't always make it. Or maybe they just get better at masking their disappointment.

Because of this, I really don't think days like this are a good idea.

I say that with a heavy heart, because I personally adore them. I'm lucky. But fighting to keep them because I enjoy them when they make so many kids and parents sad is just full-on selfish. Yet I don't want it to be taken away from me, even though I know it's an inherently bad idea.

I realized that this was not completely unrelated to the feelings I experienced when my university's mascot changed from the politically incorrect and offensive 'Indians' to the more benign 'Crimson Hawk's'. I understood the need to switch. I even agreed with it. But dammit, I wasn't a 'Crimson Hawk', I was an 'Indian'. My alumni magazines used to be greeted with enthusiasm, but now they just go straight to the recycle bin. It's not my school anymore.

That's ok. Time goes by, things change, it's not all about me (or so I'm told). It's not all about what makes me comfortable and/or happy. There is a whole community, nation, world to consider.

Sometimes that means I lose, for the greater good.

For now, though? I get to continue to enjoy lunch with my loved ones once a year. And I pull as many of those kids without a grown-up lunch date to our table and offer them a cookie and listen to their stories.

And that's ok, too.

Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

My first true memories date to the year I started kindergarten. Most of them are vague, but a couple are very specific.

I distinctly remember being on the bus when some of the older kids looked out the window and commented on the pretty Lassie dog. I proudly and knowledgably informed them that that particular breed was actually a collie, and Lassie was just the name of the dog on TV, because Lassie was a collie, too. I went on to inform them that there had been several Lassies over the years and some of them had been boys. Then I giggled about all the times Timmy said, “Come here, Lassie! Come here, girl!” And it was really a boy! That is some seriously hi-larious stuff when you’re 5. Get it? He’s really a boy and they call him a girl. In front of EVERYone! Yeah, I know. The older kids on the bus weren’t very impressed, either. But I didn’t quite learn the lesson that no-one likes a know-it-all. Not at that point, anyway.

Another very salient memory from kindergarten occurred one day during nap time. We were half-day students, so we didn’t actually nap, but we did have quiet time after milk and cookies during which we were expected to put our heads on our desks and shut our eyes. On one particular day, my mom had casually relayed a story to me over breakfast. The story involved a boy who, through some sort of shenanigans, put his eye out. She surely meant it as a cautionary tale. I tended to respond pretty well to those, at least when I was that young. Well, this was no exception. She mentioned it casually, but it stayed with me all day, eating away at me. I considered this poor boy and the lifelong consequences he would have to pay for one moment’s curiosity. (I sure do wish I could remember how he’d done it!) When nap time rolled around, I couldn’t relax for thinking about this poor boy. So I started to relay the story to the little girl resting next to me. Not sure how I thought that would help, but I knew I couldn’t keep that disturbing story inside me for another moment. I remember covering one eye to simulate what it must be like to live like that. Forever. It was right about then that the teacher looked at me sternly and reminded me that nap time was quiet time. She didn’t even raise her voice, just reminded me that I was off task. The tears welled up, then, and I couldn’t stop them for anything. Tears for myself for being reprimanded, for sure - I still don’t care very much for that – but tears, also, for that (possibly fictional) little boy from the cautionary tale who would only have one eye to see out of for the rest of forever.

Turns out I didn’t like disappointing my teacher, or anyone in authority, so, for the next couple years or so I became ridiculously compliant.

Once, while watching a magic show at the mall, the magician asked me onstage to help with a trick (illusion, if you prefer…). He told me to hold my breath for a moment. A few seconds later my mother had to interrupt his act to ask him to tell me it was now okay to breathe. I was starting to change color and sway. I was going to hold my breath till I passed out, because I had been told to by someone in authority (clearly I interpreted that term rather loosely).

Another clear memory from kindergarten involved a boy in my class who had mastered the left/right thing that I was having a lot of difficulty with. He mastered everything before everyone else, but I was usually close on his heels. The left/right thing I just couldn’t grasp. He was leaving me in the dust and I was pissed. I clearly remember the teacher – my beloved teacher – my revered authority figure – fawning over him. She even invited him to the front of the class to help her teach the concept. I couldn’t even hear her words – and I certainly couldn’t hear his – through the pounding jealousy that was occupying more than its fair share of space in my brain. I didn’t have cusses in my vocabulary yet, not even unspoken ones, but if I had, the vilest of them would’ve been hurled at this boy. This smugly superior boy who acted like knowing your right from your left was like second nature or something. Jerk. Boogerhead.

One more salient memory from kindergarten: I was a bit of a show-off. I loved attention and the world hadn’t squelched my inhibitions yet. The teacher, as most kindergarten teachers are, was pretty indulgent regarding this trait. So one day, during show and tell time I decided to treat the class to a solo of a song I’d picked up somewhere. The song was “Never on a Sunday”, a song from a movie of the same name about a prostitute. My five year old self sang, most sincerely, that you could kiss me any day but Sunday, as that was my day of rest. This was the mid-60’s, and kiss was a thinly veiled euphemism for – oh, I already told you it was about a prostitute. Perhaps one who was the opposite of Julia Robert’s ‘Pretty Woman’ character and only kissed? No such luck. I like to hope that the teacher was amused, but my mother was mortified. I tried to remember that in later years, as a teacher myself, when kids came into my classroom singing lyrics that were too mature for them to possibly understand with sweet baby-voiced sincerity. Obscenity is in the eyes of the beholder, and all that…

So at five, these lifelong aspects of my personality had already taken a hold: I was a know-it-all who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. I had an almost inherent need to please people, particularly those with some degree of authority over me. I was a show-off who didn’t always worry whether or not my actions were going to be appropriate, as long as they’d get me some attention (and wouldn’t get me in trouble). And I was jealous to the point of distraction of people who had more than I did. I was also, to be fair, compassionate towards those who had less. Bleeding-heart levels of compassion, actually.

Liv's No Good Very Bad Day

I am turning the keys over to my youngest daughter, Liv, who is eleven. She had a day she thought was blog-worthy and I offered up my forum for her. Give her some love!

Okay, it started off as a normal day. I got up, ate breakfast,and went to the bus stop. When I got there I start ice skating on the ice, next thing I know, I am lying flat on my back with my butt hurting really badly. So I get up, and realize that I have a social studies test that I forgot to study for. I also realize that I have a spelling bee. Skipping to the bee. I go to the microphone, a smile on my face, my heart pounding like an elephant running. The teacher says,"Your word is erroneous." I try to spell the word. "Ere...on...i...ous." The teacher says,"That is incorrect." Skipping to art class. Mrs.BO Says, "Time to clean up!" So I stand up, and I realize that it feels uncomfortable. So I look down, and I find out that I'm on my period. The odd thing is, we were painting and on the board a sign said,"Avoid bleeding" so I laughed. Then I thought, oh crap, I'm on my period in the middle of class and my pants are soaked through! I try not to cry when telling this to the substitute, but don't succeed. Mom came and picked me up and we went to Don Patron. I felt bad and wanted to show off, so I said, "Obsequious, O-B-S-E-Q-U-I-O-U-S." Then I felt a little better.

Me again. Pretty crappy day for my baby girl, eh? Here are some parts of the story that she left out: While her first round word was 'erroneous', and one equally unlucky gals first round word was 'haughtiness', most of the kids were getting words like 'sausage' and 'murmur'. She totally got a raw deal. Luck of the draw. I know that. She knows that. But it doesn't make it suck any less... As for the 'avoid bleeding' sign in the art room - really - would a day like this be complete without a little irony? How awesome is it that - in the midst of being embarrassed to the point of mortification - my baby girl saw that and laughed? She rocks so hard, I swear. When the nurse called and told me what happened, I knew what needed to be done. Home for a quick change of clothes then off to Don Patron. Liv loves the spinach quesadilla. And of course we finished it off by splitting an order of flan. Because Liv is too young for a margarita, silly. Food is love? Nah. But some alone time with Mom didn't hurt a darn thing. When she spelled 'obsequious' I laughed and asked her what that meant. She informed me, with a huge smile, that it wasn't a definition bee...

The Eyes of Love

Liv's school had a dog show today and Liv asked me to enter Molly.

I was reluctant. Molly is relatively old. Sometimes she is hard to handle. She gets overwhelmed. She doesn't do any tricks and she doesn't really behave very well.

But Liv was adamant.

And I had nothing else to do.

When she saw me getting the leash down in the middle of the afternoon, she got very excited. She hopped into the car with the exuberance of a puppy.

We arrived at the school as other parents were beginning to arrive with their dogs. She hasn't spent a lot of time around other dogs, so this disoriented her quite a bit. We had to go into the school to sign her in. There was a lot of barking (not Molly), jumping (miraculously not Molly) and butt sniffing (not Molly. Ok, maybe a little bit Molly). Molly just whimpered and wrapped her leash around my calves. She clearly just didn't know what to do with herself.

After we signed in, we were directed out the back door to the playground to wait for our kids. As we walked out the door, other kids were still out at recess. They MOBBED the dogs - the kids just went nuts. Molly had hands all over her and she was happy as a daisy. She tried to greet each one of them.

We mingled with the other dogs and their owners while we waited for our kids to come out for the dog show.

Liv came out and made a beeline for Molly. She fell to the ground hugging her and kissing her. Molly, by this point, was shaking like a leaf and crying. Liv assured her that she was the cutest and best dog there. All around us, dogs were practicing their tricks. Molly was whining and getting her own paw caught in her leash.

The regular cast of characters were all there; the folks I expect to see anytime I go to a function at my kids' schools. The bevy of soccer moms with their bob cuts and their big sunglasses paying more attention to each other than to the kids (or the dogs, for that matter), the asshole with a bluetooth conducting business throughout the whole event (so very important, don'tcha know?), the indulgent grandparents who think the sun rises and sets by their grandbabies, you know the crew.

The show goes off without a major glitch.

The dogs are being judged in four categories: biggest, smallest, best trick, and cutest. Molly, a nine year old Golden Retriever with no discernible talents didn't stand a chance. But Liv didn't see it that way. She told Molly, "that Chihuahua is the smallest and Bear (a St. Bernard, maybe?) is the biggest. You didn't do a trick. But you are DEFINITELY the cutest." As they announce third cutest and second cutest, she whispered to Molly, "next is gonna be you!" I looked around at all the puppies and the well-groomed designer dogs. Then I looked at old Molly, finally relaxing in Liv's arms and thought, if there were a prize for most cherished, she just might have a shot.

Back to School

Well, the last child just got on the bus.

This is the part where I usually dust off some variation of: Have you ever seen a middle-aged fat chick do cartwheels?

But it doesn't feel like that this year. Perhaps it's because they're getting older and they weren't so demanding on me this summer. They were just downright fun to be around (most of the time).

Perhaps it's because with one in middle school and one in jr. high, they'll be home so damn early I'll barely get a chance to miss them. And, by the way, how did my babies get to be in middle school and jr. high? Wasn't it just last year that they were waving at me from the kindergarten bus?

Cliche, I know. But like most cliches, it got to be that way for a reason.

So it begins. Both of them in a new school. Another chance to try to get it right. I'm personally torn between envy and relief. I envy the chance to have a fresh start. I envy the chance to meet new people and learn new things in a new environment. On the other hand, I am so relieved that I will never have to face jr. high again. (I never had a middle school, so I have no personal frame of reference there). Kids are so mean. Bodies are changing. Hormones are flying around all over the place - someone's bound to get hurt. Cliques are formed. Exclusion is rampant.

Oh, baby, get off the bus! It's not too late to homeschool!

I can only hope that they find their respective niches, I suppose.

And I can make sure there are warm chocolate chip cookies waiting when they get home.

stepping into the 21st century

I figured it was time to step into the 21st century - only a couple years late - and put my thoughts out there for public consumption. I've kept a private journal (sporadically) for years and have always found writing to be cathartic, so this seems like a pretty obvious venue to explore.

Things I'm thinking about today:

The Weather: Is Spring EVER going to come? The little tease last week was almost cruel. I need me some sunshine!!!!!

School: Finals are right around the corner - have I taught my material well? Will my students grades reflect this? But mostly - how the hell am I gonna manage next quarter with all this new technology? I fear change. Mostly I fear it will take a course I really love and turn it into something I don't recognize.

My Health/Body: Okay, get used to this topic - I've been obsessing on it a lot lately. I'm so angry with the changes age has made/is making. I can't think of a single thing about the physical me right now that makes me happy. I used to be happy when I went to the gym, but after over a year of REALLY hard work with barely negligible results, it just feels like a waste of time. I just am having a very hard time making it make sense. I don't feel (on the inside) like the person I present as (on the outside). It's so frustrating.