Our Nation is Making this Huge Mistake

A year ago, we learned Ella, then age 5, had a genetic disorder called 22Q11 deletion syndrome.  She had a very rough start to her educational career, but eventually she adjusted, I stopped crying all the time, and we got the support we needed (aids and special ed teachers for Ella; therapist for Holly!) 

Ella’s week is divided into speech classes, OT classes, PT classes, and, of course, learning in her inclusion classroom.  She also takes a dance class once a week and has started piano lessons.  She reads at grade-level.  Writing and expressive communication are difficult for her.  Ella has trouble with abstract concepts.  Math?  Have you seen the way they’re teaching math now?  Ella has trouble with math.

Ben (age 8) has trouble in math as well.  He does not read through word problems carefully, resulting in the right answer to whatever problem he’s imagined in his head.  Unfortunately, that answer rarely matches the intended answer.  When he does understand the question, he often goes about solving the problem in a very unique Ben way, which is not the way he was taught in class, but at least it renders a correct answer. His teacher doesn’t freak out about it.  She says Ben likes to do things his own way.  

“If you look at a deaf child, their language development traditionally lags that of a typical child’s. And you had to adapt. Now, with Common Core, these kids might have to adapt to the standards. Who knows! It’s like a black-hole, and there are no specifics and it’s a huge concern for parents of special-needs kids. How in the world are you going to have common, uniform standards that will address the needs of such a varied population of students.”  Clash Over Common Core

I see Ben struggle with the new and weird way they are teaching math.  And I see his teacher struggle with trying to adapt to the Common Core standards while allowing her students to learn in the way that works for them.  Ben has no learning disabilities.  He is a bright kid: he has a expansive vocabulary, is musically gifted, is very artistic, and is very cute. Unfortunately, he has inherited his mother's complete apathy regarding the subject of math.  He is struggling and comes home with low test scores.  I swear, the government has found the most convoluted way to teach math skills under the pretense of insisting that kids should completely understand WHY sixteen divided by four is four.  Which I understand, to an extent.  Solving a math problem can be a process: giving points for correct procedure while negating points for an ultimate wrong answer seems fair.  It's how I got through those pesky New York State Regents exams.  However, abstract problem solving is a skill that many third graders have not yet developed.  Third grade is the grade where kids are encouraged to move from concrete to abstract thinking.  But the Common Core doesn't include those kids who haven't yet made the leap.

The promo material for Common Core also rubs me the wrong way. A video touts the competitive nature of education and how kids need to learn to the same level so they can go head-to-head with kids across the country and around the world. Gotta beat those whizzes in Shanghai! But kids aren't all members of Team America and they're not factory widgets—they're individuals who learn in different ways and at different paces.  Common Core Leave Out Consideration for the Kids

Parents: Even if your child’s school is following Common Core, reject CCSSI’s approach.  Buy a set of flash cards and drill the times tables into your child’s head over the summer, before she begins the third grade. A Critical Analysis of Common Core Math Standards

I am worried for Ben.  So you can only imagine the anxiety I have for Ella.

The first grade math papers Ella and Daniel bring home are already far more advanced than the ones Caleb brought home just four years ago.  Ella brings home papers that say 100% on them.  These papers are always marked with the words, "with help."  When she does a worksheet on her own, she might get one out of ten answers correct, and it is possible the correct answer was a fluke.  

The Common Core Standards are a set-up for national standardized tests, tests that can’t evaluate complex thought, can’t avoid cultural bias, can’t measure non-verbal learning, can’t predict anything of consequence (and waste boatloads of money).

The word “standards” gets an approving nod from the public (and from most educators) because it means “performance that meets a standard.” However, the word also means “like everybody else,” and standardizing minds is what the Standards try to do. Common Core Standards fans sell the first meaning; the Standards deliver the second meaning. Standardized minds are about as far out of sync with deep-seated American values as it’s possible to get.  Eight Problems with Common Core Standards

Ella has a diverse classroom.  There are children with various learning disabilities, children from low-income homes, and children who are advanced learners.  And yet they're all striving toward the same common standards.  If they don't meet the common standard? It is likely Ella will be pushed into the second grade anyway, without having mastered first grade math.  I am dreading the third grade move from concrete thinking to abstract thinking.  

Yes, her IEP allows her some flexibility.  But most recent books and articles about the Common Core and kids with learning disabilities discuss aligning a student's IEP with the Common Core.  In an article entitled "Implementing the Common Core Standards for Students with Learning Disabilities," the author states that "the challenges lie in ensuring that students with disabilities will have the supports, services, accommodations, and modifications they need to realize the same educational benefit that all other students receive."  As if there's some magical strategy that will help Ella suddenly understand math and expressive communication.  

If the old adage is true—that a society can be judged by how it treats its most vulnerable citizens—then putting the common standards into practice carries the specter of a judgment about educational opportunity in the United States.  A Common-Core Challenge: Learners With Special Needs

Ella's teachers are wonderful, but they are now subject to a national standard.  Who are we, as parents, supposed to appeal to?  Ella is floundering, and she doesn't even realize it yet.  Because her genetic syndrome varies greatly from case to case, I can't know how she will perform academically in the future. Her speech has greatly improved in just a year.  Will her abstract thinking improve?  Will she succumb to psychological problems, like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, as many with 22Q do?  Will she ever be able to have an actual career?  Get married?  Become a parent?  Live on her own?  Because she has trouble with expressive language, I don't know how much information sinks in when she reads a book or participates in a conversation.  I know that she, currently, cannot meet the standards of the Common Core at this time.  

But that doesn't mean she isn't capable of doing other things really, really well.  She is generous and friendly and sensitive to other people's feelings.  She is creative and artistic, and loves dance and gymnastics.  She has a genuine love of learning: she listens intently as the zookeeper explains why the Rochester zoo penguins don't actually swim in the water they're provided with.  She loves to bake, although she takes a very Amelia Bedelia approach to it.  One cup of flour = any old cup that happens to be around, thank you very much. 

Now I'm not one to run around bragging about my little special snowflakes, but, dammit, my kids are special snowflakes and the government is turning each of them into ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL.

I read a good defense of government-sponsored healthcare.  The individual wrote that Americans have happily partaken in government-sponsored education for decades because we believe so strongly in every child's right to an education.  Why, then, don't we embrace the idea of allowing every child (and adult) access to adequate healthcare?  Life, liberty and happiness, after all.  There's consistency in that logic.

But Obamacare, quite frankly, is this huge disaster.  

I don't have much hope for the Common Core, either.  

There must be a better way.

From around the state and throughout our districts, parents and teachers are raising concerns in regard to the Common Core Standards and children with special needs. In addition to these concerns, some of the requirements of the Annual Professional Performance Review (APPR) also directly impact the ability of teachers to work with children with special needs. These children are often not working at their own grade level, and therefore should be exempted from most testing. A child’s IEP is a plan developed to help them learn outside the standardized methodology and curriculum, consistent with the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA).

In that the IDEA is based upon the rights of a child with disabilities to receive an education appropriate to their disabilities and abilities, the application of Common Core Standards is not compatible with many of the provisions of the IDEA.  Common Core Fight Update

Lenny Bruce is Not Afraid, and Neither is Ella

This is every conversation between me and any of Ella’s teachers:

Teacher: Hello, Mrs. Jennings!  How-

Me:  WAHHHHH!

It’s gotten to the point where they grab the tissue box as soon as they see me.

Yesterday, Ella threw a gigantic temper tantrum five minutes before the bus came. 

“I not like my new classroom!  I NOT LIKE IT!”  It was a very typical tantrum, with the throwing of oneself on the ground and kicking and shrieking.  A lot of shrieking.   The bus came and went, and I carried Ella to the car.  She buried her face into my neck and whimpered.

“You love school,” I said

.

“I want my old class,” she said.

 

We pulled into the parking lot and snaked our way through yellow busses and children eager to get to their classrooms.  It is hard to walk with a five-year clinging to your leg.  When we got to her room, she reluctantly showed me her new cubby. I peeled her coat off of her.  Her teacher approached us.

Teacher:  Hello Ella!

Ella: NO!

Teacher:  Hello Mrs. Jennings!

Me: WAHHHHH!

We’re quirky.

Then, inexplicably, Ella decided all was cool and she smiled and pushed me out the door, though not before I could grab her and squeeze her while she squirmed. 

“Bye mama!”  She’s the only one of my kids who still calls me mama. 

When the good people at the Kirch Center told me my daughter had a syndrome, I went to straight to the internet.  Of course I did.  Who wouldn’t?  And within five minutes I found a forum of women who had chosen to abort their babies because of 22Q11.2 Syndrome. 

It was at that moment that I thought, this is serious.  This is not a minor obstacle.  This is life-changing. And I didn’t respond with self-righteousness or arrogance or even a smidgen of confidence. 

I was so afraid.

I was afraid for my daughter, for what her life would turn out to be.  I was afraid I was inadequate for the task of raising her.  I was afraid that I’d never be able to explain to anyone that my daughter has a rare genetic anomaly without crying. 

It’s hard to live in fear.  There’s this darkness I’m trying to run out from under.  Ella, of course, is absolutely oblivious.  She is sunshine and I’m living under a self-made shadow.  It’s a rather horrible irony.

There is no solid ground when one is in a constant state of worry.  The world is inconstant, tremulous, foggy.  Every breath made in a state of anxiety is a breath wasted.  Breath is better spent laughing with my daughter, running with my son, praying, writing.

Writing about Ella.  About how this morning, the wind caught the hood of her jacket and I watched her ash-blonde hair fly out behind her.  How she laughed and turned and waved at me.   How those tiny legs climbed that big bus behind three older brothers who were, that day, angry that she accidentally wrecked their lego creation.  How she has no… fear.

Ella is not afraid.

And if she’s not afraid, then why should I be?

"And which of you by being anxious can add a single cubit to his life's span?  Matthew 6:27.

The Meeting

Today was Ella’s big CSE meeting.  John and I walked into a conference room where eight people were seated around a table, ready to discuss Ella.  There would’ve been nine, but the principal couldn’t make it.  The school psychologist, counselor, special education teacher,  physical therapy specialist, speech pathologist, the CSE meeting chair, Ella’s current teacher, and her future teacher had all convened to decide Ella’s future, and ultimately it was decided that Ella will begin transitioning into the inclusion classroom, where the special education teacher works with a general education teacher. 

Halfway through the meeting I started crying.   It was very unprofessional of me.  Someone handed me a box of tissues and I proceeded to blow snot into half of them.

“I feel like such a boob!” I said.  I said that.  In public.

“Noooo!” said eight people all at once.  They gazed upon me sympathetically.

I am such a boob. 

I am overwhelmed, grateful, and thankful- which sounds the same as grateful but the sentiment bears repeating- for these people.  For these people who pour their hearts and souls into their work.  I would throw a parade for them if I could.  With fireworks.  And free ice cream.  And maybe some hot air balloon rides. 

Ella’s teacher cried, too.

“I didn’t want her to go,” she said. 

It’s unbelievable how much progress Ella has made in school.  She has gone from a complete looney-bird to a real live kindergartner who just happens to need some extra help. 

I lobbied hard to keep my twins together, and in the end they’re going to be split up anyway.   Such is life.  I didn’t ask if they would move Daniel with her.  I felt that might be going a little too far.  I mean, there’s being a boob and then there’s being a major boob. 

All in all, a successful meeting.  Afterward, John and I faced the fact that we can never, ever move lest we lose the incredible support our school district has given us. 

“I thought the meeting went really well,” I said.  We sat in silence for a moment.  I sniffled.

Life went on.

Iniquities

I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I think that school busses are dens of iniquity. There’s one driver and one hundred and ninety two kids. It’s not really a workable ratio.

 The other day, I had the misfortune of pulling out behind a middle school bus. Three boys looked at me and started making goofy gestures. I grinned at them. Then they started making obscene gestures. It got awkward. I didn’t know where to look. Straight ahead, with a disapproving look on my face? Turned away, as if I were disinterested? Or should I pretend to be frantically searching for something on the floor? I went with the third scenario. There’s a fun-sized 3 Musketeers lolling about there somewhere. These days, all that remains of the kids’ Halloween candy are flavored tootsie rolls and Necco wafers. A rogue fun-sized 3 Musketeers bar is a hot commodity, and I’m determined to find it before Ben- who is also aware it’s down there somewhere- does.

I fretted about putting Ella on the bus. I contemplated driving the kids to school and back each day. But with gas prices the way they are and the whole “it gets really freaking cold here in Ra-cha-cha” thing, on the first day of school I put my babies onto the giant yellow tube and went back to eating my cheerios.

The bus is where Caleb learned the f-word. It’s where Ben got punched by an extremely moody eight-year old. It’s where Daniel fought off a fellow kindergartner who bragged of depantsing “everybody in the world.” (Because that’s how kindergartners talk, in gross exaggerations.)

I worried about what Ella, who is a parrot, would bring home from the bus.

I never would have guessed show tunes.

Last week, she came home singing “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” from Annie. Complete with motions. “Who caaares what their wearing from Main Street to Saville Row…” “Ella! Where did you learn that?” I asked. Not that I wasn’t thrilled. Annie was my favorite record when I was her age. When “Tomorrow” came on? My sister and I totally lost our crap. We ran around the kitchen table singing at the top of our lungs. It’s only a DAAAAY! AAAAAWAAAAY!”

I knew Ella hadn’t learned the “Hey hobo man, hey Dapper Dan” lyrics from her prim and proper teacher; therefore, I deduced she was being taught by someone on the bus. Ben confirmed my suspicion. “It’s this third grader who hates me and Caleb and all boys, really. But she looooves Ella.”

Today, Ella came home singing, “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am by this development.  She really nails the whoo whoo whoo part.

In other news, I have a single Twinkie in my pantry that I was hoping would make me rich. That’s right. I put Twinkies in my kids’ lunch boxes. Not all the time, but every once in a while, because I love when they get off the den of iniquities, run into my arms, and say, “Will you put a Twinkie in my lunch box tomorrow, too?” And I say, “No. That was special for today.” And they say, “Why do you hate us?” And I say, “I don’t hate you. I love you.” And they say, “Then, can we have Twinkies for snack right now?” And I say, “No, my loves. I ate them all.”

And I don’t even like Twinkies. I don’t know if my taste buds completely changed or if I’ve evolved beyond processed sponge cake with chemical filling. It’s possible I’ve evolved. I mean, I like foie gras- heck, I know how to SPELL foie gras- so it’s beyond me why I eat Twinkies. Because I like to irritate my children, I suppose.

Hostess chocolate cupcakes are a completely different story. 

Anyway- there is one Twinkie left in the box. My plan was to sell the sucker on eBay and buy myself a pretty frock to wear this holiday season. Now it looks like the unions and the powers that be are going to negotiate a deal that will save Hostess, 18,000 jobs, and the Twinkie.

Now I don’t know what to do with my Twinkie.

It will probably sit in my pantry for the next 20 years. I’ll feed it to my granddaughter and my daughter-in-law will get pissed because doesn’t EVER feed her kids processed sponge cake with chemical filling. That’s the kind of daughter-in-law I’m going to get; I just know it. Nevertheless, I’ll send future granddaughter home with a belly full of sugar and a repertoire of show tunes. Hopefully she’ll run around the kitchen table a hundred times singing “Tomorrow” at the top of her lungs, driving her mother absolutely crazy.

One can hope.

The Purple Dinosaur Song, or I'm Totally Going to Lose It

In 100 years, a melodious tune with sadistic lyrics will drift from a children’s playground:

“I hate you!  You hate me!  Let’s go out and kill Barney!  With a big shot gun and a bang bang on the floor!  No more purple dinosaur.”

One child will pause and ask, “Who’s Barney, anyway?”

“According to the song, a purple dinosaur.”

Because that song will never, ever die.  Daniel is helping it to live on right now.  And it’s fine.  I’m not on the verge of losing it at all.

I’m totally on the verge of losing it. 

Since Ella’s diagnosis, life has shifted a tiny bit- the future looks a little blurrier than a few weeks ago.  Ella’s had two weeks of relatively good behavior at school.  She has settled into the routine.  Of course, she is removed from her classroom throughout the week for various therapies and assessments.  I think her absence endears her more to her teacher and contributes to the positive feedback we’ve been receiving. 

We got the results of her physical therapy screening yesterday, and John said it was the most amusing thing he’d read all year.  It was filled with fascinating observations:

Ella can transition from the floor to standing through a right or left-kneel position without using her hands.

She can gallop with either foot leading, hop on her right of left foot inconsistently up to five times in a row and skip.

She runs with functional mechanics and speed.

The therapist noted that Ella did trip a couple of times when she was in the physical therapy room.  This is thought to be due to her impulsivity and distractibility.

Ella’s gross motor skills are currently functional for the school setting. 

Her school report card was rough.  A lot of “not meeting expectations.”  I think I cried a little.

Okay, I cry all the time.  I cried during the preview of the film “Les Miserables,” even though I find Anne Hathway’s singing voice sub-par.  I cried during Obama’s acceptance speech.  I cried during Mitt Romney’s concession speech.  I cried during a documentary about Walmart, because you would not even believe how many women are raped and then murdered in Walmart parking lots. 

I also watched a National Geographic show about volcanoes with Caleb.  The other week, I was worrying about global warming bringing about more Sandy-type hurricanes.   Now I know Yellowstone’s massive volcano is going to erupt any time now, and an ice age will commence.  I thought about raising my kids during an ice age. 

I cried about that, too.

The kids seem un-phased, not because I am particularly good at disguising my emotions, but because children are narcissists who only care about themselves.  And they always want snacks.  All the time. Like, I’m on the phone with a friend having a rather intense conversation, and Danny’s all, “Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom. Mom.  Mom.”  I put my hand over the receiver.

“WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?  WHAT?  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WHAT DO YOU WANT???”

“I want a snack.”

Sometimes I yell at my kids.  And then I cry about it a little bit.

But sometimes something like this will happen:

“Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mom.”

“What Ben.  What.  What.”

“Have you seen my spork?”

I know exactly where his spork is.  It’s in the dishwasher.  He is thrilled to be reunited with it.  Turns out, apples taste better when they are sporked.  Ben’s on a quest to rid the world of frivolous eating utensils. 

The kids sit at the table and eat their apples- most by hand, one by spork- and begin singing the no more purple dinosaur song. 

What do I have to cry about?  Perhaps I’m not really on the verge of losing it after all.  Perhaps things are actually just fine. 

(Though that makes for much less interesting blog fodder…)

22q11.2

When Ella was born, she had multiple defects that prompted genetic testing.  She had heart defects, kidney defects, skin tags, and funny, floppy ears.  The genetic test gave no indication there was any underlying problem.

Major advances in genetic testing have been made, apparently, in the past five years.  Her doctor sent her off to the lab again, where the technician failed to find a good vein in her right arm but found success in the left.  Ella screamed and pleaded and cried and a good time was had by all.  Therapy has helped everyone involved.

Last Wednesday, the doctor called to tell me Ella had a genetic anomaly:  Deletion 22q11.2 syndrome, also called Velocardiofacial syndrome or DiGeorge syndrome.  Velocardiofacial syndrome affects about 1 in 4000 babies.  (Comparatively: Downs syndrome affects about 1 in 800.)

The most common symptoms of Velocardiofacial syndrome include heart defects, cleft palate/ feeding problems, kidney problems, immune system abnormalities, small stature, characteristic facial features, learning disabilities, hypocalcemia, thyroid issues, oh the list goes on.  There are about 180 presentations of this syndrome.

No one wants to hear their kid has a syndrome.  Syndrome is such a negative term.  Nothing good ever came from a syndrome.

The doctor answered my questions the best she could and referred me to the geneticist.

“Will she always have learning problems?” I asked.

“She will always need support in school, yes.”  was the reply.  “And be careful what you read on the internet.  There’s a lot of scary information there, but not all of it will apply to Ella.  Wait until you talk to the geneticist before forming any conclusions.”

Naturally, as soon as I got off the phone, I spent the next two hours combing the internet.  And there were some scary things about the syndrome.  Increased chances of seizures, infection, and an increased chance of psychological diseases like schizophrenia in adulthood.

100% of people with VCF have learning disabilities.

I found foundations for VCF and even a celebrity, Cubs player Ryan Dempster, who has a daughter with DiGeorge.  Riley Dempster can’t swallow and spent the first 18 months of her life in the children’s hospital.
Ella, thankfully, has never had any feeding problems and her heart defects never required surgery.  We were lucky.

Ryan Dempster and his wife had a foundation that raised thousands of dollars for kids with DiGeorge.  I was filled with warm fuzzies reading about them.  Then, I clicked on a suspicious link.

Ryan Dempster and his wife are getting a divorce and Dempster is, perhaps not coincidentally, off to play for the Rangers!  What about their kids?  What about Riley?  What about their foundation?

I became depressed.  John came home to find me curled up on the couch reading survivors' testimonies about the holocaust.  This is a true story.

A week later, I’m still coming to terms with this diagnosis.  While I feel relieved to have an answer to the mystery that is Ella, I am of course sad that she will have to face these physical and psychological challenges for the rest of her life.  

No one wants their child to have a syndrome.  Yet, it is who she is.  It has always been who she is.  And I love who she is.

I will always love who she is.

Crimes and Misdemeanors

It has come to my attention that after I wander up to bed at night, Kiah the Wonder Dog jumps on the couch to sleep. I caught her the other night. She wasn’t even repentant. She looked at me smugly, stretched and curled up like a cat in the corner, yawned, and then I think she drooled on a pillow. This is a total breach of trust and our relationship is suffering.

My relationship with the kids’ school is also suffering. This has been a long yawn of a week. Ella came home with an inevitable cold and I’ve kept her home two days. This has totally messed up my home-alone routine, which does NOT consist of watching What Not to Wear on the tv because that would be a complete waste of time, no matter how valuable I think the information provided might be. (I am in serious danger of becoming a 30-something frump, according to the pretty people on the tv.)

Ella could have gone to school. I could’ve slathered Vaseline under her nose, armed her with lotion-infused tissues, and sent her on the big yellow bus. But I fear she annoys her teacher when she is well; a sick Ella might push the poor woman over the edge.

I cannot tell you how weary I am of receiving e-mails detailing Ella’s many crimes and misdemeanors. This is a completely new experience for me! My first two children were, of course, perfect in every way, and remain perennial favorites among the staff at the local elementary school. You can imagine what a shock it is to have spawned an imperfect daughter, one who colors on the desk and dances at inopportune moments during the day, say during computer time.

Apparently, the good people at the elementary school have never seen the likes of an Ella! They remain baffled and are constantly asking me why it is that she refuses to flush the toilet. My answer, “she’s terrified of flushing toilets,” does not go over well with them. Is it so inconceivable that a child with a sensory disorder might be unnerved by the sound of a flushing toilet? What sounds like a mere whoosh to me sounds like freaking Niagara Falls to her. If every time you flushed the toilet it felt like you were about to make a watery descent into the Niagara River, you might be reticent to push the lever too. Even if you’d just gone #2. (It is a felony, apparently, to go #2 at the local elementary school and not flush. A felony, I tell you!) As I imagined, the first fire drill of the year did not go over well, either.

There was a note home about that, let me tell you. That was the day after I received a terse e-mail informing me that “Ella refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance today.”

Holy crap! Refused to say the Pledge of Allegiance??? Stop the presses! This is truly newsworthy.

There are other concerns. Ella does not transition well. Ella always wants to be first. Ella cries a lot. Ella eats glue. Ella randomly takes off her shoes and flings them in the general direction of the door. (Because that’s where shoes go, by the door.)

Ella showed her belly button to the entire class and said, “I naked! Ha ha ha ha!”

I, a worrier by nature, am not sleeping at night. Not even after taking Benadryl! This is unprecedented.

So this afternoon, I told Ella she had to take a nap so I could take a nap, but the child would not sleep. Noises came from her bedroom. After twenty minutes, I wandered in and caught my chapped-lip daughter rolling around in her bed, eyes squeezed shut, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with panache.

I wandered downstairs to make some tea and caught a sheepish Kiah lying on the couch. After some consideration, I decided not to let it bother me.

Why I Cried in the Wegmans Check-Out Line

“I see you’re purchasing medium-bristled toothbrushes,” said the cashier.

“Yes?”

“Actually, it’s best to purchase soft-bristled toothbrushes. Dentists recommend them because they’re a lot gentler on your gums.”  She ceased scanning the remainder of my items as she waited for me to have a come-to-Jesus moment about my toothbrush selection.

I stood my ground.

“So you want to stick with these, then?”

“I think so,” I said. She sighed.

“Okay.”

The gum-destroying toothbrushes went into a bag, along with other assorted items she did not pass judgment on, including non-organic spinach and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Her disapproval was implied, however, in the way she handled my peanut butter.

“Do you want your milk in a bag?”

“No, that’s okay,” I sniveled. I tried to forcibly send the tears back into the ducts from whence they came, but, alas, it wasn't happening.

I mean, who was she to pass judgment on my toothbrush choices? I feel like my teeth are smoother and cleaner when I use the medium-bristled toothbrushes. It’s not like I’m forcing them on my kids. I’m not pushing a medium-bristled toothbrush agenda on my friends and family. I’m not making it a topic of debate in the upcoming presidential election.

Emotions are raw. The kindergarten teacher has already had the school psychologist come in and observe Ella. This happened on the first day! I’m concerned this is some kind of school record that will be discussed in the faculty lounge for years to come. Yesterday, the school counselor came in to assist with Ella because the teacher was unable to handle her on her own. Meetings are being scheduled, IEPs are being revised, and an emergency school-wide assembly about how to handle my daughter is being organized. They’re doing it on the same day as the first fire drill.

Dear God, I can’t imagine how Ella’s going to respond to the fire alarm. I hadn’t thought about that.

Every single fear I had about Ella and kindergarten has already come true. (Except the fire-drill concern, which just came upon me 20 seconds ago.) The first week, and all my fears were realized. As you can imagine, I am ridden with anxiety and have been rendered physically unable to do any housework. Also, I cry a lot.

Like on the phone with the secretary at the Kirch Center.

I told her I needed to get in as soon as possible, that Ella was having serious problems at school.

“I can get you in March 9th at 2:00,” she said. My heart dropped, like, into my feet. This was unacceptable!

“This is-“ (snivel) “unacceptable,” I said. Then I threw a minor tantrum. As I said, emotions were raw. But you’ll never guess what. The secretary found an opening on October 2nd! Isn’t that amazing?

There’s a method to Ella’s madness, at least in the tantrum department.

Caleb had a bone scan last week and his results came in on the first day of school. He has a rather severe bone growth delay. He is 9 ½, but his bones think he’s 6.

Stupid bones.

The tears came forth. Ramona was perplexed.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind putting the milk in bags,” she said.

“I have kids,” I blubbered. “and it’s the first week of school.” Ramona nodded. An unspoken understanding passed between us. She is a mom as well. Her kids are lucky, to have a mom so passionate about gum health.

My kids are lucky, too. Because when she’s done crying, their mom is going to move mountains to make sure they get the help they need.  Then, and only then, she might clean the house.

Might.

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” Elizabeth Stone

Summer Tales Part 2: The Terrible Reign of Ella

Ella and I watch Little House on the Prairie together.  We both agree Almanzo was seriously miscast.

Ella has exhausted me this summer.  Between her and the three-legged wonder dog, I think this house has gone significantly down in value.  Not that we’re thinking of selling anytime soon. 

Kids across this suburban landscape are headed back on the big yellow bus next Wednesday.   When I think of Ella getting on that bus, I get a little anxious.  And by anxious I mean that I burst into tears and hide in a closet.

Ella is doing great!  Ella is thriving!  Ella has not had any speech therapy this summer because she showed no signs of regression throughout the year!  Ella’s hearing is perfect!  Her hearing loss was due to chronic fluid build-up, which seems to have resolved itself. 

Ella still has a “severe’ speech delay.  She talks.  A lot.  You just can’t be sure what she’s saying.  My friends smile and nod politely when Ella speaks, in an animated fashion, about her small, important life.  She finishes her speeches with a jump and skips away, happy as a clam.

“Did she say hairspray?” my friend asks.

"I dunno.  Maybe.”  I pause.  I rush to my bathroom.

Over the summer my daughter has changed my house from what it was to something so much more colorful. Like a puppy, if you don’t consistently corral this child’s energy, she will use that energy for evil.   

First, she thoughtfully painted her brothers’ bedroom carpet with a variety of watercolors.  After much scrubbing, the beige carpet looks like it was tye-dyed. 

Last month, she took a sharpie marker to my beige couch.  Red sharpie.  She spelled Ben’s name on it and drew a man with a disembodied head and rectangular-shaped eyeballs.

I know what you’re thinking.  Stop it with the beige.

There was a lot of crayon doodling on walls.  Caleb had bouncy-ball making kit.  That was a sticky mess, let me tell you what.

There was the bead incident, the sand hoarding incident, and the toothpaste-smearing incident.  She decorated her rug, her door, and her vanity mirror with blue, sparkly Crest. 

She took a large, fully loaded orange pixie stick and dumped in on her carpet.  Pixie sticks, apparently, stain beige carpets. 

Her hair has yet to recover from the great summer haircut of 2012. 

I’m exhausted. 

I'm learning, at a snail's pace, to let things go. 

I will never have a Pottery Barn house.  It will it ever be spanking clean.  That’s not me.  That’s not us.  I’m not good at it- housekeeping- I don’t like it. 

I wish my carpets were, well, just beige.  I wish Kiah would stop shedding so much.  I wish I didn’t have this overwhelming sense of guilt- why does (fill in the blank) have it so much more together than I do?  Why can’t I keep up?  Why do they have so much energy and I feel like sleeping 14 hours a day?

Why is Almanzo such a whiny chauvinist jerk?

Ella and Dan are going to school.  When Caleb was born, I felt like I’d  lost myself- that I would never gain footing as a mom.  That I’d never be me again.  Nearly ten years later, I feel the same way, because they are all moving on, growing up, and I'm still here, in this house, needing to be needed. 

Who will wipe the peanut butter off of Ella’s face after lunch? 

That question kept me awake last night. 

I suppose if she came home with peanut butter on her face, the world would not come to an end.  We’d go on. 

I’d wipe it off when she got home. 

The Art of Ella

I found Ella's secret stash, where she stores candy and nuts like a chipmunk.  I found an actual peanut.  Mainly there were wrappers and used tissues. 

Ew.

I also found an audio copy of Sun Tzu's Art of War.

Yes, I'm concerned!  Wouldn't you be???

Elladay Part 2

In the waiting room, a group of girls were  playing with a train track. Ella marched right up to them and said,

“Hey girlfriends!”

Have I mentioned how much I love her? How her exuberance and passion for life brightens dreary January days?

She shucked her coat and joined them. She didn’t seem to notice that they were staring at her incredulously. She wouldn’t care if she knew. Life, to Ella, is too wonderful to give heed to the criticisms of her peers. Life is shiny, brand new every day, and she greets each day with a smile as big as Texas.

Remove her from the fun before she’s ready though and Houston, we have a problem.

Today, we found out that Ella has a significant hearing loss in her right ear. Her hearing is just in the normal range in her left ear. Without going into a lot of details, it’s probably treatable. And this is wonderful news.

It also explains some things.

One more Ella mystery solved.

Elladay

“Mama has baby in her tummy,” says Ella to a group of moms and daughers waiting for dance class to begin.

“What? No! No, mommy does not,” I say. “Just Christmas cookies, people. I made an astonishing number of Christmas cookies this year.”

With two new baby cousins in the family, Ella is lobbying hard, in her own way, for a baby brother or sister. She has made it clear that gender is of unimportance: she just wants a small round baby the size of a loaf of bread who coos and cries and wears diapers. You know. Your average nightmare.

“I loooove babies.”

Yesterday was Ella’s first dance class. I dropped the three boys at a friend’s house, to Ella’s dismay. She is adamantly opposed to being separated from her twin. She screamed all the way to the community center. We waited in the car until she calmed down. I pleaded. I threatened. I counted to three. She would not stop screaming. I reminded her how badly she wanted to take dance class. I threw out words she loves: ballet! Tap! Gymnastics! Pink! Girlfriends! She sobbed.

When she finally settled down, we joined the gathering of waiting moms and daughters, all of the little girls dressed in pink tutus and worn ballet slippers. This is my first girl. I had no idea where to buy relatively inexpensive tutus and ballet shoes, so we arrived in sneakers and comfortable stretch pants. (Turns out, Payless and Target! Who knew?)

This did not go over well with Ella.

“Pink! I want pink! I need dress!” I promised we would get her dance clothes this week. Another tantrum commenced, and I held my squirming, squalling child while the other moms looked on with fear. This little girl will be in my daughter’s class?


And just like that, Ella was quiet. With the flick of some mysterious switch, she was happy again. She pointed at me and announced the impending arrival of my phantom cookie baby.

Earlier that day, I had given Ella the Heimlich maneuver. One moment, she was happily devouring a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; the next moment, she was struggling to breathe. I took three long strides across the room, pulled Ella toward me, squeezed beneath her rib cage, and she spit up a large chunk of bread. Her raspy, choking breaths were like music. I held her and promised she would be okay, promised I would always take care of her. She smiled at me, held my cheeks with her small hands and said, “I know.”

Before the girls entered the gym, I pulled the dance teacher, Miss Nikki, aside and told her Ella was a bit different. Special. I spoke of learning disorders and speech delays and receptive communication issues. Miss Nikki clapped her hands excitedly,

“I have a graduate degree in special ed! I love working with kids like Ella!”

Through the window, I watched six little girls walk on point, practicing wobbly plies to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Miss Nikki helped them form proper poses, one little girl trying her hardest in cumbersome sneakers. And I can’t be sure, but I think that little girl was Miss Nikki’s favorite.

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe (& other Christmas stories)

I

It’s the Christmas season and you know me, holly in my heart (Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember)

The following are directed at me every year over the holiday season. I would like answer concerns and questions about being a girl named Holly born four days after Christmas so that I never, ever have to answer them again.

1. “You name is Holly? Wow. You must, like, really love Christmas.”

Oh, I do. I love Christmas, and so much more than people named, like, Beverly. How can you love Christmas when you’re named Beverly? Also, I love Christmas so much more than people NOT born in December. How can you love Christmas when you were born in July? Preposterous.

2. “You were born at Christmastime? Did you, like, get cheated out of gifts?”

Not when I was younger. My mother always made my birthday very special.

However, things are different now, and yeah, I totally get gypped come my birthday. It’s an awkward time of year to have a birthday. It’s not like you can compete with, well, you know. And the one time I crossed my arms and complained that I wasn’t getting enough attention, people thought I was being “selfish” and “sacreligious.” (Wasn’t Jesus actually born in June?) So I don’t complain anymore- I just weep silently in my bed. Birthdays are for kids, not adults, anyway. And I don’t need anything. I want a lot of stuff, but I don’t need anything. So, don’t worry about me and the presents I’ve been swindled out of. I’m okay.

II

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe

Today, the Christmas season is a shell of its It’s a Wonderful Life former self. Mr. Potter, despite what you saw on film, has not been defeated. Nativity scenes are out: singing the tune of "The Carol of the Bells" to sell bargain-priced designer-labeled clothes is in. Christmas caroling in the mall is a potential fire hazard, but Black Friday shopping has become a tradition in many families. Mistletoe is being banned from office parties so that corporate executives can still have “Santa Shots” (this is an actual drink) and not get stuck under the mistletoe while inebriated. Darn that mistletoe, inviting sexual harassment charges with its lascivious plant motives.

I was never kissed under the mistletoe until after I was married. Not that I didn’t want to be. I mean, how romantic is that, getting caught under the mistletoe with the object of your affection? I may have lingered by a sprig on an occasion or two, just to see if I could gain the experience of being kissed under the mistletoe, but alas… no one ever noticed.

One year, John and I were at a party where mistletoe was prominently hung from a doorway. I stood boldly underneath and called my husband over. Utterly clueless, he wanted to know what I wanted. Why had he been dragged away from playing Call of Duty? (Which is a wonderful wartime game that’s a staple at any traditional Christmas gathering, along with eggnog and candy canes.)  Also, I think maybe he’d had a couple of Santa Shots.

I directed his attention to the mistletoe above us, and this is what happened: John sniggered, grabbed my butt, pulled me in close, and laid a noisy, lingering smooch on my mouth. He tasted like peppermint schnapps.

My husband sexually harassed me under the mistletoe.

And I loved it.

III

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

The twins have been happily practicing their preschool Christmas program songs. At home, they sing loudly and unabashedly, so I was surprised when their teacher informed me that during practice at school, Ella had repeatedly dissolved into tears, ran into her teacher’s arms, and had hid her head while shaking like a leaf. Ella, who is not a naturally quiet individual, has auditory sensory issues and is unnerved by resounding ambient sound. Being in large, cavernous places where echoes bounce and shrill voices carry brings my usually boisterous little girl to her knees. So on the day of her program, I made sure to get a spot right up close, so that if she began to withdraw, I could grab her and hold her.

Ella sashayed down the aisle in her Christmas gown, beaming at us, shaking her hand bells with enthusiasm. She came down first because she was the smallest and needed to be placed at the front of the group. Daniel stood a little ways behind her. The first song began, and Ella’s face went from joyful to terror-filled. She stared at me. I grinned at her. “Sing,” I mouthed.

The sanctuary was packed with moms and dads and grandparents and siblings, and the crowd absorbed the sound beautifully. No echo. No reverberating bells. Ella relaxed noticeably and stayed with her classmates. She didn’t open her mouth and sing during the first song, but she stayed there and stared, somewhat dazed, at the crowd.

By the last song, she was into it. The following is a video of her preschool class singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Ella got a little carried away. She was the only child who twirled during the program. (Which was no big deal considering two songs before, she jumped up and down and then sat for half the song.) Note her unique dance movies during the “singing” verse. Please ignore the constant wiping of her nose with her hand.

Daniel was incredibly proud of his tie. When I showed it to him he gasped.

“It’s a real tie?”

"Yes! A real tie!”

"Just like daddy’s?”

“Daddy would never wear a black vest over a red shirt,” John said. “We are not gangsters.” Daniel was too busy taking his tie out of his vest and putting it back in to listen to his father's weirdness.

Today’s song for Monday: We Wish You a Merry Christmas:

A Tale of Thanksgiving Woe

It’s a very manic time of year. There’s a lot going on. There are Christmas concerts and projects and shopping and decorating and cookie baking and tortuous exercise because you are determined to lose that weight before New Year’s. So what if you procrastinated a bit. This is the perfect time of year to go on a diet.

We had a lovely Thanksgiving. I made rolls- from scratch- and they were delectable. I spent the day before Thanksgiving in the kitchen, in constant search of things I had purchased at the store and immediately misplaced.

“Where’s the cinnamon? Does anyone know where the cinnamon is?”

“Up your butt!” said my 4-year old, Daniel.

For the record, that’s not where I found it.

The best thing about Thanksgiving, of course, is reflecting on all of the things God has blessed me with. Four healthy, rambunctious children with their father’s primitive sense of humor, a husband who has a good job in this horrific market, a supportive extended family, wonderful friends, food in the cupboards, clean water, medical insurance, and warm cups of tea on dreary, grey days.

The second best thing is leftovers.

I like turkey sandwiches. Leftover turkey warmed up on regular sandwich bread with a bit of mustard and mayo. Simple, but I look forward to it. Yesterday, I fed the twins their lunches, sat with Ella through her speech therapy after which I proceeded to make my turkey sandwich. As I worked, squeals of delight came from the other room, happy sounds that always make me nervous. I peeked in to discover Ella attempting to straddle the dog like a horse. Kiah looked quite put out, so I extricated my petite Lone Ranger from atop of her furry Silver. Ella said, and I quote, “Awww, man!”

“You could hurt Kiah,” I said. Ella was dubious, but she promised not to ride on the dog, so I went back to my sandwich.

The sandwich was gone, having probably been consumed in two large gulps by the very beast I had just rescued. There was mustard on her whiskers.

There are no words to express my incredible grief, which turned swiftly into anger. I composed myself, gave Kiah the hairy eyeball, and called Ella in from the other room.

“Ella?” I asked, “Do you know what a jockey is?”

Look for us in the circus.

Get Off My Property

The twins have taken up playing a game they call “Get off my property!” Here is how you play get off my property: run up to individuals nearby and yell “Get off my property!” Then laugh diabolically until they either a) hit you or b) get off your property. Which may not even be your property. It might be, say, your mom’s property, and maybe she doesn’t want you jumping on her property and throwing all of the pillows off of it.

Repeat above steps at random times throughout the day.

Yesterday, I was trying to get the kids to put their shoes on and get out the door and into the car. I don’t get these people. They stood by the door, crowding into one another while screaming “Get off my property!” They were holding various items they simply had to bring on the car ride. Can’t go to Grandpa’s house without the red matchbox truck lacking back wheels. They were wearing their jackets, but not one of them had on their shoes.

I turned to Caleb, because he is the oldest, and is therefore supposed to be the most proficient at “getting ready to go outdoors.”

“Why aren’t your shoes on?”

“Oh. I forgot.”

So they all dropped their heavy loads and plopped down in our tiny entryway to put on their shoes. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was a rather pushy Andersen Windows salesman. They always say: “I noticed your house has its original windows.”

I don’t want strange men checking out my windows unless I specifically ask them to check out my windows. It’s just this thing of mine.

Then he started a whole spiel about saving the world by purchasing energy-saving windows and he wanted to book me for an appointment blah blah blah. He went on and on while I shuffled one child after another past him toward the mini-van, all except for Ella, who was and is usually last, because she is small and slow about putting her shoes on.

“I will be back in your neighborhood next we-“

“GET OFF MY PROPERTY!” yelled Ella. Then she laughed diabolically and ran, shoeless, into the van.

And guess what? He did. And I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again any time soon.

The Nighttime Visitor

Four children, and not one of them had ever crawled into bed with us in the middle of the night. Nor have they bounced on our bed on Christmas morning; they howl from their rooms, as if we’ve imprisoned them in there, “Waaaake uuuup!!! MOM! DAD!” Most consider us lucky, but I always felt like I was missing out on something. I like cuddling.

Two weeks ago, Daniel woke up in the middle of the night screaming. I walked in his room and he started blubbering about a weird noise, the rain, a bug, the rise of China and the threat of global warming. He was bereft. So I gathered him in my arms and brought him into our bed. He burrowed down into the covers and lay completely still, like a warm loaf of bread. He let out a tiny sigh, went to sleep, and stayed perfectly still until 7 in the morning.

It was glorious.

My other three children are cuddling failures. Caleb slept for the first four days of his life and then took up a hobby: screaming at the top of his lung until he turned purple for large portions of the day and night. He adamantly refused to go asleep on his own. He required to be moving in his swing at about 80 mph or bounced on my knees for a good half hour before he would drift off. Forget about trying to set him down. The moment he felt that easy drop toward his crib, he would wake up and passionately recite a speech by Benito Mussolini. My life had been taken over by a 10-pound fascist dictator with no teeth and a penchant for drooling.

For the first four months of his life, I ended up curled up on the couch with Caleb, where I lay perfectly still and came in and out of uneasy, murky sleep. Living a life in perpetual fear of waking your dictator child is not really a life at all; I had to break Caleb of his habit. Which was like trying to unseat Mussolini, minus the hanging bit.  Since then, Caleb has been a restless, twitchy sleeper who gets about seven hours of shut-eye a night and is not one for cuddling.

Ben’s a good sleeper- has been since day one. He’s squirmy, though. We shared a bed once, and I woke up in the middle of the night with his heel in my eye. I gently moved him back into position and woke up 20 minutes later with no covers and his other heel in my eye. I pity his future wife.

Ella is too social to cuddle. She wants to talk. And sing. And discuss plans for her birthday, which is seven months away. She wants to jump on the bed and tickle feet and recite a monologue by one Dora the Explorer. She wants to dabble in Spanish and make animal shadows on the wall. She wants to giggle, randomly, for no apparent reason. She wants to know where her twin is; she sleeps well next to him. She refuses to be still with the rest of us.

A few nights ago, Daniel came into our room and tapped me on the forehead until I woke up. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was upset about something. I grabbed him and he molded into the side of me and stayed there until the morning. He’s so squishy and soft.

Sadly, it hasn’t happened since, so I’ve been telling him some slight untruths. Like the following:

1. The book “There’s a Nightmare in My Closet” by Maurice Sendak is based on a true story.
2. So is “Where the Wild Things Are.”
3. Sharks swim in oceans, but occasionally make it to Lake Ontario. Occasionally.
4. The buzzing sound in his room is probably a nest of bees in between the rafters, but they won’t get in unless they find that tiny hole in the corner.
5. I don’t think his stuffed animals came alive at night and gave him that bruise on his leg, but I can’t be sure.
6. Sometimes mommy forgets to lock the front door, but bad guys only rob yellow houses. Our house is yellow? Well, I guess mommy should start locking the doors!
7. Sometimes dogs turn into werewolves in the middle of the night, but only dogs who live in yellow houses.
8. Come to think of it, yellow also attracts aliens. Maybe we should get new siding?
9. Did I ever tell you the story about when an alien stole me from my bed and took me to his planet and made me eat copious amounts of peas?
10. Yes, that’s why aliens are green. Because they eat a diet solely consisting of peas.

Any night now…

Summer Commenceth

So. Summer vacation.

Yay.

I love my kids. Really. I do. I love them. And I love spending time with them.

But sometimes, they are irritating little poops.

This actually came out of Caleb today, a dramatic litany spoken in but a single breath:

“I don’t want to go outside any more because I lost my two best hitting balls and my bat is dented and when I swing, Kiah tries to bite my feet and Kiah won’t chase the ball or the Frisbee, she only does that with dad, and I get too hot and there are wasps by that bush and my boomerang always gets stuck in the tree and also the neighbor says bad words when he’s on his phone and I’m afraid he’s going to drop his phone into his pool when he’s in there and get electrocuted and also… you really need to pick up the dog poop.

"Can I play Wii?”

And this is only day #2. I’m screwed.

Caleb also has a developed a tic- not of the lyme disease variety, but of the Inspector Dreyfus in the original Pink Panther movies variety. He compulsively looks upward, almost like he’s rolling his eyes, which has gotten him in trouble with some of his friends. I’ve looked up childhood tics on the old internet. To gain an understanding of people who have uncontrollable tics, one child health site said to imagine keeping your eyes open and willing yourself not to blink. As time goes by, it gets harder and harder to keep those eyes open. Eventually, you just have to blink. This is what it feels like to the child (or adult) who blinks uncontrollably, jerks their head, or has some other compulsive movement.

Caleb’s cool about it- not that self-conscious. He will gladly explain to you why it happens, with a shrug and a “that’s just what I do,” kind of pragmatism. I worry, of course. I mean, he’ll be fine, but society in general is not generally kind to those with neurological hiccups.

I’m hoping that a nice, long, relaxing summer of bugging me to play Wii will help. After all, Caleb is an introspective sort of person; very serious, very thoughtful. When he’s completely relaxed, there are fewer tics. To be honest, and I don’t mean to get braggy, the tics are probably a sign of genius.

Society is also not kind to the four-year old who talks in gibberish and still isn’t quite potty-trained. (We’re SO close!) Or rather, they are confused. In their round-a-bout ways, curious observers want to know: “What is WRONG with your child?”

I don’t know. I don’t know why, when I ask her what she had for breakfast this morning, she answers: “Breakfast. Yeah.” Why she can’t say, “I had a waffle.” As I write this, she is shredding a napkin at the table. If I don’t get up and intervene, soon the napkin will be all over the kitchen. And, there it goes. My homemade confetti machine at it again.

Lovely chaos.

A Taste of Honey

I started spontaneous storytelling during Caleb’s baseball game two weeks ago.

It was cold. Ella was cranky. Ben wanted to go home. Caleb was hitting doubles and looking generally adorable on the field. I stuck the younger three in the car and turned on the latest craze in the Jennings’ minivan: the Beatles’ debut album Please Please Me.

It is Beatlemania all over again. My four-year old son can sing all the words to “I Saw Her Standing There.”

Everyone’s favorite song, however, is “A Taste of Honey.” Every time Paul belts out the title lyrics, they laugh hysterically. Personally, I don’t get the joke. Apparently I lack their refined sense of humor.

The baseball progressed slowly, and after the CD had looped through 1 ½ times, the car battery died. I guess I only turned the ignition half way. And lucky for me, John was out of town and my cell was… that’s not really important. Suffice to say, it was not on me.

It started to drizzle.

My plan was to look pathetic and ask the parents of Caleb’s teammates for help once the game was over. In the interim, I had to find a way to amuse my demanding children with the refined senses of humor since the fabulous four had left the vehicle.

So I told them a story, one I made up off the top of my head. And they sat there, quiet, for twenty minutes, and took in every word. And the coach of the team had jumper cables. On the way home, I sang “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” and they sang the background vocals, which consist of “oooh oooh oooh” and “ohhh ohhh ohhh.”

Overall, I deemed the evening successful.

Tonight, on the way home from my dad’s, Ben demanded another story. And let me tell you, it is hard to think up a plot on the spot like that. I took inspiration from their favorite song and told a story about a world without… honey.

The population of honey bees has disappeared. A fabulous foursome including Caleb, Ben, Dan, and Ella, live at the edge of a great forest, because every good children’s fairy-tale starts at the edge of a great forest. The gist of the story is as follows: Children find the world’s last remaining beehive, and it’s as big as a Buick. It’s the middle of July, but the children need protection from the bees in order to extract honey from the gigantic hive, so they sneak into their own house as their mother is doing something domestic and important.  The put on snow pants and winter jackets and buckets with holes for eyes over their head so that the bees won’t sting them. The children climb a great oak tree and successfully extract the honey without getting stung.

Little do they know that a lone bee follows them home, and when the children remove their winter gear and feel the cool breeze come in over the trees of the great forest, the angry bee stings Caleb on his hand. He is so startled that he spills some honey. The honey lands on his hand, and his wound is immediately healed. Not only is it the last honey on earth, but it’s magic honey.

The children rush into the house to tell their mother about the magic honey. Instead of being happy, she is angry they sneaked off to do something so dangerous. She tells them all to go to their rooms, but to leave the honey with her. While they are upstairs sulking, she makes herself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and eats it alone.

I thought the ending was funny. Caleb didn’t like the ending.

“I don’t like how you got mad. It wasn’t fair. We brought you honey and you put us in time-out. Why did you do that? Did you even save honey for the rest of us?”

Daniel added an epilogue.

“I KILL all the bees.”

“But then you would never have honey again,” I said. “So I don’t think you should kill all of the bees. You wouldn’t want to run out of magic honey, right?”

"I kill them,” he whispered.

Ben fell asleep.

Ella broke out into song: “A TASTE OF HONEY! Doo doo doo doooo!!!”

Caleb sulked, Daniel schemed, Ben slept, Ella sang.

Mom fell asleep early. She had a lovely dream about 1960s Paul McCartney.

An Education

I’ve taken up transcription work. I thought it would easy, quick, yet strangely lucrative work. I was, yet again, wrong. The last three days have been spent at my laptop, earphones attached to my head, where I am trying hard to transcribe the ramblings of an aging contemporary painter being interviewed by an art critic who is married to the words “um,” “uh,” and “like.” I’m trying to do this amidst the babbling of my four-year old sprite who has become obsessed with the idea that I have a juice box hidden somewhere in the house- a juice box I am cruelly withholding from her.

“Juice box!”

“Ella. There are no juice boxes. We are a no juice kind of family. I promise you, I don’t have any juice boxes in the house.”

“I WANT A JUUUUIIICE BOOOOX!”

“I don’t have a juice bo- do not touch my headphones! Those are my headphones! Mine!”

Working at home with kids is for the birds.

Also vying for my attention is Adam Sandler, who is trying to teach me all about the word “crunchy”. He is the guest-star on Sesame Street this morning, an honor that apparently is an even bigger deal than hosting Saturday Night Live. Cookie Monster’s cookies are crunchy. Poor Cookie Monster. The macaroons John brought me back from Albany are soft and chewy.

John has been suffering from the cholera for the past week and a half. Which is totally unfair. A while back, the two of us initiated a contest to see who could lose 15 pounds the fastest. Getting the cholera gives him an unfair advantage. He has lost 12 pounds and is looking a little like someone who is suffering from the cholera. Also, he keeps bringing me back the world’s most tasty almond macaroons from Albany- a cunning maneuver on his part.

I nibble on my macaroon as I listen to the aging painter whose ramblings are much like his art: abstract. I’ve spent inordinate amounts of time researching the proper spelling of various LA art locales, the names of prominent contemporary artists in the 1980s, and dinky towns in places like Japan and Hawaii. Who spouts off anecdotes about Queen Liliuokalani of Hawaii? I’m beginning to think my artist friend is a tiny bit pretentious.

The good news is: I’ve learned a little bit about the origins of the Bauhaus architectural movement. Information that I’m sure will help me in a future game of Trivial Pursuit.

“Who designed the modern architectural landmark Disney Hall?” they’ll ask, and I’ll say, “Frank Gehry, b@#ches!” And they’ll say, “Holly. It’s not your turn. Please stop doing that.” And I’ll say… nothing. Because I’ll be quite embarrassed.

The twins are having baby carrots for a snack this morning. Carrots are “crunchy.” Between lessons from Adam Sandler and the aging painter, I’m getting quite the well-rounded education.

Who Wore it Best?

We know spring has arrived when the most fashionably dressed begin showing off colorful headdresses, like this year's vibrant, minimalistic, and oh so chic basket hats.  The basket hats, complete with their signature chin "handle," (these hats defy those pesky spring breezes) are making a splash at popular social events like the Jennings family dinner. 

Last night, both Ella Susan and Kiah the Wonder Dog arrived to dinner with multi-hued basket hats from famous designer Wegmans.  Who do you think wore it best?