Category: Defies Categorization

. . . because not everything fits in a box. Sometimes, you have to use a bag.

Pushing the Pause Button

I’m standing in a little square pause in my day, waiting.  Oh, the chicken is sizzling and I hear little footsteps upstairs.  But the light is waning.  The glow from the light-bulbs seems brighter as the day fades away.

I pause.  I’m waiting. 

I’m waiting for kids to come home and kids to go home.  I’m waiting for my husband to return, change into shorts and turn on the news.  I’m waiting for the big hand on the clock to move ahead two giant spaces indicating it’s time for Judo.  I’m waiting to change into my exercise clothes and to run myself into a lather.  I’m waiting for Judo to end, for kids’ bedtime to arrive and for darkness to settle over our house.

And under the surface of all that waiting, I’m waiting for the weekend to arrive, waiting for the month to end, waiting for the New Year, waiting for kids to grow, waiting for everything to change while hoping things stay the same.

The buzzer rings.  Dinner’s done.  Kids wander into the kitchen.  Time to move from this pause and step forward.

Don’t Squeeze My Brain

I have a fear.  I worry that my brain has reached capacity, like a sponge that’s soaked in water . . . poke it, and it will start to leak. 

What happens if I just can’t shove another fact into my brain or learn anything new or retain additional information?  I want to do more and be more than the woman who sweeps the floors and matches socks.  But what if my brain has liquefied like jello left out in the sun? 

I worry about my spongy brain. 

(And where is my remote control, anyway?  I dug into the furniture.  I did everything but body cavity checks on the children.)

See?  I can’t even think a coherent, straight-line thought without distracting myself.

Sponge-brain.  That’s me. 

My Failure to Abolish the High-Five

I declared twenty years ago that I do not high-five.

At the time, it was a matter of dignity.  As a woman of substance (that’s a polite way of describing my, uh assets) I was not comfortable waving my arms in the air, causing all sorts of jiggle and other unladylike happenings.  So, I said, rather haughtily, “I do not high-five.”  I may have even punctuated those words with the arch of my left eyebrow.  (I also emphasized that I also did not cartwheel, though I can’t remember exactly why I was so emphatic about that.  It’s not as if I was daily being encouraged to cartwheel.)

Alas, the trend of high-fiving has continued, unabated, despite my distaste for the gesture.  I mean, seriously, how many times does an intended high-five end in a lame, awkward joining of hands?  I know that I, personally, never anticipate a high-five and thus, miss slapping hands at the appointed time.  This is not festive, nor joyous nor celebratory.  This is stupid.  That’s right.  S-T-O-O-P-I-D.

I intended to start a world-wide campaign to Abolish High-Fives.  But then, I stumbled upon this wry website and I lost heart.  I mean, check out “High Five Style” here.  Clever, yes?  Amusing?  And so, I relented.  No World-wide campaign.  (What will I do with all these campaign signs?)

     

But still.  Do not high-five me.  I might, emphasize MIGHT, bump fists with you a la the germ-phobic Howie Mandel.  But I will not return a high-five.

A girl has to draw the line somewhere, and I draw the line at performing gestures best suited to the basketball court.  I am a Lady.  And ladies do not high five.  (I just said so, that’s who.) 

I mean it.  (Instead of abolishing high-fives, maybe I’ll do something easy like curing cancer or solving world hunger.  Or maybe finishing the laundry, but let’s not get overly ambitious.)

     

  

Full-Day Kindergarten? No Thanks

A few weeks ago, I came across this newspaper editorial about legislating full-day kindergarten. I am adamantly opposed to the idea of mandatory full-day kindergarten for all public school students in this state, so I read the whole article. (I’ll wait, if you want to go read it, too.)

The article quotes a school superintendent whose number one personal priority for new funding would be full-day kindergarten, because, she says, students are arriving in kindergarten “who haven’t been read to, and who don’t know their numbers or their ABCs.”

I can hardly imagine a child who reaches the age of five (or six) without knowing these things. My kids seem to learn by osmosis, which doesn’t explain why my daughter keeps counting in Spanish, because I only speak English–for that, I thank Dora the Explorer. How can parents not read to their kids, not speak to their kids, not teach their kids during their time spent together?

I am not naive. I do understand that some children are growing up in difficult circumstances . . . but adding a half-day of kindergarten is going to solve these problems? Might not funding be better spent intervening in these high-risk families?

For a long time, I’ve been annoyed by the (possibly imagined) pressure I feel to send my children to preschool. I’ve never done so and my children seem to be fine (although on bad days with my Reluctant Student, I would tell you that I am clearly a horrible failure of a mother and if I’d sent him to preschool, perhaps he’d be a genius). Not that there’s anything wrong with preschool, mind you. But I don’t think it is necessary.

Is this the first step? Will four year olds soon be required to attend preschool? Will three years olds be the next target for enrollment? Will our two-year olds be sent to mandatory daycare where underpaid young women will chant their ABCs and count until everyone is dizzy? Where does this all stop? And why do I get the feeling that the state thinks parents aren’t qualified to educate their own preschoolers?

More and more, kindergarten seems like first grade and preschool seems like kindergarten. Children are rushed faster and faster to grow up quicker and quicker. At the Veteran’s Day program, I noticed a bunch of second-grade girls with highlights in their hair and pantyhose and high-heels on their feet. Slow down! What’s the big rush? You’ll have to get a job and pay taxes soon enough, little girl!

In movie theaters, I see children watching movies intended for adults. You know as well as I do that at home, children see even more inappropriate material as parents cuddle up on the couch watching movies with their kids–and sometimes, in concession to Parent Guilt, they cover their children’s eyes at the worst parts. I know 3-year olds who watch rated PG-13 movies and I can’t stop feeling judgmental about that. It’s just not right to expose children to mature themes and images.

The school district officials will tell you that full-day kindergarten will help more kids graduate from high school. I doubt it. But legislating such a law will keep lawmakers busy and will pad the salaries of school teachers and will give the appearance of making children a top priority.

Kindergarten should be a gentle introduction to school. None of my kids could have lasted through a full day of school that first year. And that first year, it took us all morning just to get ready for kindergarten.

And while I’m talking about school, can I just request an immediate halt to homework for elementary school kids? I hate kids’ homework! But the school requires it–not the individual teachers, but the school administrators. Perhaps if the school wasn’t so busy teaching children non-essentials and preparing the kids for yet more mandatory state testing, they’d finish their seat-work while still at school.

I love my local public school. I really do. I love the shiny checkerboard hallways and the festive bulletin boards with seasonal displays and the flickering fluorescent lights. I fondly remember my own school days. I want my children to love their school days. (At least I have hopes for the younger two . . . the 12-year olds’ hate school now.)

I just want those full-time days to start in first grade. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

It Creeps and Crawls and Lives Indoors Now

I have a single tent caterpillar imprisoned in a plastic cassette case sitting on my desk. My youngest son found this delightful creature in the mud behind the church. Ignoring my protests, he brought it into the car. I am just grateful I found a container for the little creepy crawly.

When I was a girl, I used to collect these leave-munching pests. They would crawl up and down my arms. I’ve grown sqeamish over the years, though. I can’t bear to even touch anything with teeny-tiny suction-cup like feet.

And I don’t pull the legs off these anymore, either. (I used to think those were daddy longlegs, but google tells me they are called “harvestmen.” My day is complete now that I’ve learned a practically useless fact.)

Three Ducks in a Puddle and More

Please, come back with me in time. Look around. It’s Friday, 2:50 a.m. Babygirl wakes you from a dead sleep. Crying? What is that noise? Crying? You stumble from bed and pluck a distressed girl from her crib. You turn off the light and sit for ten minutes, rocking Babygirl. Then you return her to her crib.

Back to bed. You fall into bed, exhausted. You have resumed your walking program, remember? The alarm will ring at 5:10 a.m. You reach over and click the alarm off and doze to the sound of pouring rain. Babygirl wakes again at 6:20 a.m. This time, you bring her back to bed and you both sleep again until the phone rings at 7:42 a.m. You are still in bed because DaycareKid and CuteBaby aren’t coming today. You deserve a break.

So you say, “Hello?” in a voice that sounds as sleepy are you are. Your Texan mother-in-law, the one who rises every morning by 6:00 a.m., the one who cannot remember that you live in a time-zone two hours behind Texas-time, she says, “Are you still sleeping?” as if you have committed a crime.

You admit to your slothfulness and don’t bother to offer an excuse. She needs to know if you cashed the birthday check she sent in February. You assume you did–have you ever been known not to cash a check?–but you tell her you’ll investigate and let her know.

Even though you had sleep, interrupted, it’s still Friday and it’s your twin boys’ birthday. They are twelve. You had them do all their schoolwork the day before, so they are taking the day off from school. Your plan:

1) Cash check at bank.
2) Hand over $100 to each boy. “Happy birthday! You get this in lieu of a birthday party and gift!”
3) Drop off film at Costco, one-hour developing, please.
4) Arrive at Red Robin for birthday lunch promptly at 11:00 a.m.
5) Drive boys to Toys R Us so they can spend their money. Be surprised that they each only buy a GameBoy game.
6) Purchase a new dolly and carseat for Babygirl. Notice how cute she is, how thankful she is.
7) Return to Costco. Pick up film and stand in extremely long line to buy cake, meatballs, granola bars.
8) Stop by GameCrazy so TwinBoyB can buy “DonkeyKonga.” While the twins go into the store (park right outside the door), have Babygirl pee in an empty Taco Bell cup. Don’t forget to pour it into the grass so it doesn’t spill in your used van. Babygirl will beg to pee in cups for the next few days, but you saved yourself from having to take her into the Hollywood Video public bathroom.)
9) Go home. Nap with Babygirl.
10) Pick up YoungestBoy from school while Babygirl still sleeps and twin boys play video games. They are 12, you will only be gone 5 minutes. Don’t worry. Be happy.

And on the way, at the very beginning of your adventure, please take note of the three ducks–one mallard, two dull brown females–which are sitting at the edge of the busy road, filling up a small puddle with their duckness. Wonder if the ducks are lost. Point out ducks to kids, but kids won’t see them. Wonder if perhaps those were decoys and if you are hallucinating.

Your husband normally picks up YoungestBoy and NeighborBoy, but today, he’s in Seattle, visiting a child at the Children’s Hospital. When he returns home, say, “How was it?” and hear him say, “He died about thirty minutes before I arrived.”

Oh. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Shake your head.

The child, an only child, a five year old child of a mother who is now expecting her second child, this child died from a blood disease of some sort. Try to sort out the details and promise yourself that you’ll google “spleen, attack red blood cells,” to try to figure out what exactly the boy died from. Try not to imagine your own blond son dead. Stop yourself everytime you hear yourself say, “You are driving me crazy!” Rebuke yourself each time you think, “I am so sick of picking up after these KIDS!” Wonder if you’d survive if one of your kids did not. Stop wondering how that other mother handles walking into her absent boy’s bedroom, how she can bear to look at his stuffed animals and boy-toys.

But before you can think too much, you must take YoungestBoy to the school for a “Beach Party.” Stand near a wall and be grateful when a dad you know chats with you. Shout loudly so he can hear you. Smile as a mom you know approaches. Shout loudly to her, too. Watch your son–your healthy, alive son–as he tries to hula-hoop and laugh out loud. Wonder why the temperature in the multi-purpose room is always set so high that beads of sweat glisten on your upper lip. Be relieved when your son is ready to leave after an hour of beach music and red-faced children running berserk.

Sleep in this morning as late as you can, even if it involves tucking Babygirl into bed next to you. She won’t sleep. But you can give her a snack and crawl back between the flannel sheets and listen to the rain and doze while she plays. Shower late. While husband goes to meet with the family of the deceased child, putter around. Clean off the kitchen counter, put recyclables into the new bin, fold some laundry, relocate a table and bookshelf, make lunch. Stay busy.

When your husband walks through the door, he’ll say one sentence, “There goes Vegas.” He was going to meet his college buddies in Las Vegas for the weekend, leaving next Thursday. The guys have been getting together annually for quite a few years, but he’s never been able to afford the time or money to go. He’s looking forward to seeing his old friends. But the funeral for the boy is Friday.

You are as disappointed as he is because after being married this long, you truly want him to be happy. Struggle, though there is no point. That family lost their son. The family must fly in from Germany. Your husband didn’t mention his cancelled four day trip to them. It’s his job to comfort people in their time of loss.

But you can feel a little annoyed, if you keep the annoyance isolated from the rest of your more responsible, grown-up response. The timing sucks. Your husband rocks.

Now, it’s 1:00 p.m. and he suggests that you get out of the house for a few hours. Off you go (no need to tell you twice) and as you drive toward the freeway, you spot those crazy three ducks, sitting in their make-shift home, the puddle. It’s not even big enough for them all to sit in it at the same time and they certainly can’t float in an inch of water. Where do they live? Why did they claim that puddle? Think about the ducks all afternoon.

Wonder if you are a duck in a puddle. Is some part of your life a ridiculous compromise? Do you limit yourself because you claimed the first puddle you saw? Is there a pond around the bed? Just over the trees? Do you stay at a puddle just because your friends decided to stay?

Think that maybe you are insane because you see everything–ducks in a puddle–as a possible metaphor for life.

Realize while you are shopping that your right gold hoop earring is missing. Remind yourself to check your pillow before you sleep tonight.

Shop. Shop. Shop. In this order: Once Upon a Child (consignment shop–buy Babygirl’s summer wardrobe for $17), Value Village (purchase old Fisher Price cash register with decals intact, still containing six plastic coins for $3.99, three books, a leopard print comforter for church Vacation Bible School this summer), Famous Footwear (buy YoungestBoy, owner of the World’s Stinkiest Shoes, two new pair for $50 total), Fred Meyer (groceries).

As you drive toward home, notice the strip club advertising some XXX “star.” Do a double-take when you see a man standing outside his Hummer, grabbing at dollars the wind is whipping into a tornado of cash. Slow down and crane your neck, then do a u-turn so you can drive by and look again. Laugh when you see him clutching a handful of bills. He looks so frantic. Is he the owner? How did he drop a bundle of cash? Think again what a metaphor this is–the money swirling in the parking lot, the man in a panic, chasing his dollars.

Return home promptly at 5:00 p.m. and let the children create their own sub sandwiches.

You are almost done! Bathtime, bedtime routine with Babygirl, read a chapter of “Pride and Prejudice” while Babygirl watches “Spongebob Squarepants” . . . can you still catch a movie? Alas, you cannot. Bad timing. But now you can help out your husband and type his sermon. Good thing you type so quickly. You have enough time to blog about ducks and funerals.

Aren’t weekends restful?