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

End of School Year Rant

Some mother of one of Ben’s classmates has got it into her head that what Ben’s kindergarten teacher would like more than anything else, even more than that a gift certificate to Kohls (to Kohls!), is a handmade quilt featuring pictures from all of her little students.

Now, I’m not an elementary school teacher, but if I were, I know I’d prefer the Kohl’s gift certificate, thank you very much. Heck, I’d take a Starbucks certificate over a non-functioning, purely decorative, handmade quilt featuring mediocre artwork from 20 little kids who turn summer vacation into a two-month recovery mission, and I don't even drink coffee. (I’m sorry, but I’ve been in that classroom and, aside from Ben of course, this is not an artistically gifted group of kids.)

Ben was supposed to draw a picture on his piece of cloth and hand it in last Friday. This didn’t happen. I completely forgot about it. If it’s too late and Ben’s picture is the only one not included in said quilt and, as a result, Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher subsequently forgets Ben was ever in her class, I think I’m okay with that.

Seriously, though. It’s June. Does this mother think we don’t have enough to do? I don’t remember being asked if I wanted to participate in this quilt-making process. Maybe I’m opposed to quilts on some moral level. (I’m not.)

It’s the principle of the thing. I’m annoyed. Unreasonably so. Because I’m stressed. And the quilt square could have been the straw that broke my proverbial camel’s back. My poor camel! It wasn’t, but it could’ve been. The lady might’ve received an over-the-top response to her request, like the quilt square sent back to her with an image of a bird on it. Not, like, a robin or a pigeon. The other kind of bird.

My laptop is broken. The dryer was out of commission for several days. We all had strep. My copywriting load is heavier than it should be, as is my butt. The lawn guy left the gate open last week, which led to me cruising the neighborhood in my rusty minivan yelling desperately for Kiah. When I spotted her, she literally said (to a nearby squirrel): “I will now play the fun game where I let my mother chase me through a swamp!” (Later that same day, Kiah accidentally killed a toad. I think it was an accident. That’s what I’m telling myself.)

At least I found her. I was fully expecting to get a phone call informing me she’d ended up in Toledo or somewhere.

I got stung by a bee when I was cutting lilacs from a bush. (God does punish people who wait for their neighbors to leave before they steal lilacs from their yard.)

I have an asymmetrical mole that needs to be removed.

I’ve finally gotten rid of Daniel’s wart, which was on the bottom of his foot. I had to file the sucker down each night before I put salicyclic acid on top of it. Then, I had to wrap it in duct tape, to keep light and moisture out. All of this went over really well with Daniel.

“Where did he get the wart?” I asked the doctor. “How- how- how did he get it?” I have an odd habit of making completely ridiculous statements to or asking preposterous questions of medical staff. I think this is because when I finally admit there might be a reason to haul my kid off to the doctor, I become so completely confounded and annoyed by a diagnosis that my already shaky common sense is further compromised.

“I know he only has a cold, but I don’t see how antibiotics could hurt at this point.”


“You’re sure I shouldn’t be more concerned that he has Scarlet Fever? Because Beth in Little Women died thanks to Scarlet Fever. I don’t know if you knew that.”


“I am handicapped. I simply refuse to believe my statement is unprecedented. A twin pregnancy is a definite handicap, and I would like a sticker for my car.”

I’m feeling busy, but unimportant. Overwhelmed, yet restless.

And if Ben’s teacher is feeling anything like I am in these last harried weeks of the school year, the last thing she wants to open on an 85 degree afternoon in late June is a quilt.

She wants a gift certificate to air-conditioned Kohl’s, where she can purchase a lovely little sundress to lounge in during her long recovery period.

A Film for Bibliophiles

Sunday morning, Ella and I were feeling under the weather, so we skipped church and watched You’ve Got Mail on TBS. I have You’ve Got Mail on DVD, but, as so often happens, I got excited about seeing a movie I love on the old boob tube and lazily settled into the couch to endure the commercials rather than dig out the DVD.

You’ve Got Mail is, of course, the modern remake to the James Stewart/ Margaret Sullavan 1940 film The Shop Around the Corner (which is also perfectly delightful.  A side-note:  That same year, Sullavan and Stewart also starred together in the film The Mortal Storm, the first American anti-Nazi film.  An excellent film- the characters never say "Jew," only "non-Aryan.") The Shop Around the Corner is set in Budapest, You’ve Got Mail in New York: New York in spring, fall, and at Christmas, beautifully shot so that when Meg Ryan bounces out of her Upper West Side brownstone to the small children’s bookstore she inherited from her mother, you see pink and white spring blossoms lining a historic street instead of cars parked one nearly on top of the other.

That it’s set in New York is just one reason I love this “chick flick.” Meg Ryan’s monochromatic yet whimsical wardrobe is another. Black jumpers in the winter and grey linen in the summer. Her pixie haircut. Her shabby-chic apartment. Shots of Manhattan’s flower district. The cheerless cashier in Zabar’s. Tom Hanks’ dog. The witty banter. (Witty banter!) The nostalgic soundtrack. Parker Posey. Dave Chappelle. (Yes, that Dave Chappelle.) Tom Hanks’ “American” family. Because it reminds me that I often imagine owning a small, used bookstore in Manhattan, one much like Pageant bookstore, which was featured in the film Hannah and Her Sisters. Someplace cozy, yet large enough to get lost reading e.e. cummings to your paramour amidst the stacks. 

The film opens with Meg Ryan’s boyfriend, columnist Frank (played by Greg Kinnear), who has just purchased multiple vintage electric typewriters. He is lamenting the onset of the digital age.

“Name one good thing, ONE, that we’ve gained from technology,” he says.

“Electricity.” Meg Ryan responds.

“That’s one.”

He leaves, and Kathleen- the Meg Ryan character- waits impatiently for him to completely disappear down the street so she can correspond with her online pen-pal, who she met in an “over 30” chat room.

Unbeknownst to her, her secret correspondent is actually Joe Fox of Fox Books, a large, big-box bookstore who has been taking out small, independent bookstores throughout the city. A Fox Books is about to open a store in the same neighborhood as Kathleen’s store, named The Shop Around the Corner. It is apparent early on that the enchanting little shop with the high-priced picture books is ultimately doomed.

The 1998 film, while prophetic, is dated. The character Frank foresaw the vast wasteland brought on by the so-called digital revolution, but not even he guessed that it would wipe out… books.

It’s 2011, and I think the fictional Fox Books is doomed. (Or maybe they came up with something better than the Kobo and are hanging in there, alongside Barnes and Noble. Oh, Borders. How could you be so behind? You break my heart.)

A while back, there was a string of used book stores along 4th Ave below Union Square. The street was aptly named Book Row. Pageant Books was one of the last of the smaller bookstores to hang on. Strand Bookstore, the independent giant, remains; it started on Book Row in 1927 as a small shop.

Back to Ella and I lounging on the couch.  John came home from church and I left the living room for but a moment and came back to Sports Center. So, I finished the movie that evening as John sat next to me, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop.

I cried at the end. I always cry at the end. Through my sniffles, I said,

“Do you know why books will never become completely obsolete? Children’s books. Children’s picture books. You can’t read a picture book to a kid on an e-reader.”

“Also- the electronic apocalypse that’s coming,” said John. “By the way, I’m taking the Kindle with me to Albany.”

“WHAT? I just downloaded something. Why do you do these things to me?”

Pageant Books, by the way, is still sort of around. It has evolved into an e-shop.


“When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does." Kathleen Kelly in You’ve Got Mail.



And just because it's funny, enjoy a great scene from You've Got Mail:

A Little Madness in the Spring OR Five Insignificant Complaints

1

Recently, I feel a great disturbance in the Blogger universe. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. I.e. Blogger was down. Everyone’s last post was removed, and although I got mine back, the comments remain lost in space.

Someone out there has to answer for this. Also- who do I contact to receive what I lost in AdSense revenue as a result of this debacle? Someone out there owes me at least 3 cents.

2

Yesterday, I had my annual singing gig. Joe (the saxophonist) and I are completely perplexed as to why, after last year’s significant press coverage, neither one of us have received one invitation to perform at any other event. This year, I really nailed “Orange Color Sky,” which contains music’s most memorable lyrics: Flash! Bam! Alakazam! I’d be happy to sing this at your graduation party.

I also sing the Star Spangled Banner at sporting events. I do Little League Games.

3

This week in Albany, two new bills introduced to the Senate seek to delegate an official New York State vegetable. The contenders? Sweet corn and onions.

This is bad news. New York, particularly upstate New York, has enough problems without being associated with a state vegetable that a) is not a vegetable or b) makes people cry. Don’t get me wrong, I love an ear of sweet corn and a good Vidalia onion; however, when I think corn, I think “Nebraska,” and when I think onion, I think “Texas.” (This association comes from the YA book, “Holes,” by Louis Sacchar.) When I think New York, I think “apple,” which apparently is the state fruit. I’m nominating it as state vegetable, as well, because apples are as much of a vegetable as starchy, unhealthy corn is.

4

This week, I said something cruel that I will never, ever be able to take back. In a moment of stress, I said these words:

“I don’t love you. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever loved you.”

I realize this admission guarantees I will be receiving some much-deserved hate mail.

Thankfully, Kiah is a dog and doesn’t understand most English. She understands SOME English, words like like “walk,” and “treat,” and “be really, really cute!” So, I didn’t crush her spirit with my false admission. She has not been moping around, nor will she require therapy in the coming days.

Of course, I didn’t mean it, but I was reeling over the sudden disappearance of my English muffin topped with homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam. It was the last English muffin in the house, hence my passionate response.

I wish my dog would stop eating my English muffins.

5

2 ½ years ago, we said goodbye to our village house and our porch swing, which the new owners demanded we leave. They were unmoved when I told them the swing was a father’s day present for John. I drive by the house, occasionally, and see them swinging, and I am filled with a melancholy nostalgia. (I have to do this surreptitiously, now- something about “stalking” and “making them feel uncomfortable.")

There are a lot of things I could complain about this past week like: the white fuzz in the air that makes me sneeze, the humidity that increases the overall size of my hair ten-fold, and the sugar ants that will have completely taken over the kitchen, effective Monday. But these are such small, petty, insignificant complaints when compared to the expanse of the robin’s egg blue sky, the vibrant green of the trees’ infant leaves, and sun that swathes the house in warm light. (The sun also exposes every one of my house’s many blemishes; but again- insignificant in comparison!)

We can buy another porch swing for our smaller, slightly less charming porch. This time I’ll carve our initials right on the front, so no one else can claim it as their own. And I will swing, peacefully, and drink in spring.

Until one of my boys inevitably sprays me with the hose. (He was just trying to give the flowers in my hanging baskets a drink. This may have happened to me this week. Again- insignificant.)

A little madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own! Emily Dickinson

Pizza Night

I used to use my bread machine a lot. When we lived in Buffalo, we would load up the machine in the evening, set the timer, and wake up to the smell of bread baking. Which is the best smell in the entire world. Period.

Today I unearthed the thing to make pizza dough. Ben was adamant about helping me make pizza. I loaded the machine with water, olive oil, salt, sugar, flour, and yeast, and put it on the dough setting.

3 1/2 hours later, I went to retrieve my dough only to find that I had accidentally made a rather tasteless and extremely dense bread.

I am still completely flummoxed. (We ordered pizza for the kids and my sister, Joyce, who babysat as John and I ventured off on our biannual date night.)

We are adventurers who ventured off into the coolish evening without a particular destination in mind. We drove down Park Ave and were turned off by the crowds of people who were jam-packed into trendy bistros, so we turned and headed downtown. John took me to a pub on St. Paul that was quiet and cozy. We parked in an empty parking lot at the end of the street and walked into Scotland Yard, which was surprisingly calm for a Saturday night. Too calm, I think.

The restaurant specializes in Wood Fire pizzas, but they also have sandwiches and an array of appetizers and nightly specials. I chose the eggplant parmesan sandwich special, which was delectable. John had a pizza. The service was outstanding. The pub has a classic, old-world interior. It would be the perfect spot to watch the World Cup, though you may have to cheer for the English. There’s also a pool table and darts and so on and so forth. It’s within walking distance of Water Street Music Hall and is open for lunch starting this Monday. You should probably go there. I’ll meet you for lunch if you pay.

If you do go, I would not park at the empty lot at the end of the street. Though it has no signs that indicate parking is not allowed, a meathead in a white SUV told us we were lucky we showed up when we did because our car was about to get towed. This was after the meathead parked his car diagonally, the car’s butt about three inches from the front of our van. He did this while looking at us as we were walking to our van. His parking job perplexed me becausewe were in a large parking lot and there were plenty of other spots. I was giving him the evil eye when he opened his big meatball mouth.

“Yeah. You can’t park here. This is a private lot. We all park diagonally here, so I know when someone parks like you did (in the lines) that you don’t belong. And when you park like that (in the lines) it messes up our delivery system.”

“Sorry. We won’t park here again.”

“Yeah, well, we tow a lot of cars like yours who park who think they can get free parking. You’re in the city. You should always expect to pay for parking in the city.”

“Sorry to inconvenience you.”

“This is a private lot. You can’t just park in a private lot.”

So there you have it. Always expect to pay for parking in the city. Unless, of course, you park in a parking garage during the evening or weekend if there is not an event going on. Then parking is free. Ya jerk.

(I don’t get out much, so when someone is not only rude, but aggressive and intrusive of my van’s personal space, I get very bent out of shape. I spent the rest of the evening thinking of things I should have said to him. Like: So, Meathead, where are the signs that say we shouldn’t park here? Hmmmm? That would’ve showed him. He would’ve been all like… ummm…. And I would've been like... Yeah. I thought so.)

Other than that, it was a lovely evening. When John and I are finally alone together, we have deep deep conversation. It would blow your mind the deep stuff we talk about. Here are some exclusive snippets:

John: I really like the smell of babies’ heads. I think it’s because they’re the only part of a baby’s body that doesn’t smell like sour milk, puke, or poop. We should get jobs in the church nursery so I can smell some babies’ heads.

(As we pass by a group of people sitting outside a restaurant on Park Ave)

Holly: Look at all of the beautiful people in the world.

John: What? No. They’re not beautiful.

Holly: They are! Look at them!

John: No. It’s the cheerleader effect. Whenever you look at a group of nicely dressed people all together, they look good. Look at them individually.

Holly: (pause) Oh my gosh... they're hideous!

John: Told you.


(After Meathead leaves…)

John: Why are you holding that key up in the air?

Holly: We’re going to key that guy’s car.

John: That’s probably not a good idea.

Holly: I would feel a lot better about all of this if we keyed that guy’s car.

As an end-note, since this has been a blog post about, among other things, pizza, I encourage you to check out The Rochester NY Pizza Blog. Run by one “Pizza Guy,” it provides reviews about all of the best- and worst- pizza eateries in the greater Rochester area. I hope he will check out Scotland Yard. Though I hear he’s not always a fan of wood fire pizza. (Josh- don’t read his first review of Checker Flag. Read the second review. You will feel better.)

Did I end up keying the Meathead's vehicle? Maybe. Just maybe.

Pomp. And Lots of Circumstance, Too.

So Ben graduated from preschool last night. At least four different people told me (as I was sniffling) that I at least had two more to go. But what about when they graduate in two years? I will have an EMPTY NEST! At least from the hours of 9-4. Sometimes, I think this will be the most glorious event that will ever happen to me. Other days, I feel like rocking back and forth and singing “Dust in the Wind.”

Which brings me to a complaint. “Pomp and Circumstance” (the song, not the individual words, which are lovely) should be banned from graduations. Someone hums the song and I tear up. To hear it playing while my little baby is walking solemnly down an aisle in a miniature graduation gown is enough to send me over the edge.

I do have alternate processional suggestions: “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper would be good, or maybe the theme to the television show Justified (by the gentleman Tone Z) for an edgy, life is going to get hard keep on truckin’, kid, kind of vibe. (This song has got to be the coolest television theme song ever in the history of the world. And I don’t even like rap.)

Then they can all recess to a Sousa march.

I’m feeling especially weary that Ben is moving on thanks to a recent letter I received from our Superintendent. I will highlight some of the good parts:

… there is an activity some kids have engaged in that involves deliberate fainting.

… serious physical and neorological ramifications. This act depletes the brain of oxygen and could result in injuries due to falling, concussions, severe headaches, brain damage, seizues, and possibly even death.

… the reason for engaging in this behavior is to experience a floaty, tingling or high sensation that results from limiting oxygen to the brain.

… warning signs to look for include: frequent severe headaches, inexplicable bruising or lacerations due to falling, bloodshot eyes and/or Petechiae (tiny red dots) on face, changes in attitude (overly aggressive), disorientation and or/ grogginess.
Oh my gosh teenagers are so stupid. I don’t mean to make a blanket statement about all teenagers- of course there are some who are relatively reasonable human beings- but as a group of peoples, they are dumb.

And as an honest-to-goodness fainter, one who has passed out NOT OF HER OWN VOLITION, I take offense to this behavior. It’s kind of like pretending to have cancer when you don’t. Okay, it’s not really like that at all. Still though.

This is why I don’t teach high school. I’m not sure why I majored in Education. I didn’t like high school when I was in high school. Why did I think I’d ever want to go back?

I mean, what do you say to a kid who is purposefully holding his breath until he passes out for a short tingling sensation? Or deliberately choking himself or allowing someone else to choke him until he passes out? For the love of all that is holy, how could this EVER sound like a good idea?

What do you say to a kid who uses Meth on a regular basis? Because apparently “you’re probably going to need your kidneys and liver later in life” isn’t working.

Once, in high school, a "friend" offered me a can of Butane to inhale. I think I said something like, “Um, no. No no. I’d rather not suck dangerous chemicals into my body this evening. But thanks so much for the offer! Really generous.”

Statistically, most people begin engaging in heavy drinking and smoking and drug use between the ages of 10 and 22. If you make it past this age, you are unlikely to ever develop an unhealthy love of pouring dangerous chemicals into your body. This is because as we mature, we become more rational, wary human beings. It is why young gymnasts do so much better in the Olympics than older gymnasts- they have yet to develop that fear of injury. They are still living in the moment.

Combine this fearlessness with a tendency to succumb to the tiniest bit of peer pressure, and Houston, we have a problem.

It’s why, despite everyone telling me how dangerous the sun is (especially on pale skin), I developed countless blistering sunburns in my youth. And now I am about to get my second basal cell carcinoma removed from my face. (Let that be a lesson to you.)

There was never even a chance I was ever going to be tan.

You know what Ben did the other day? He tried to skateboard down the slide. I nearly peed my pants. Fearless.
Though I’m compelled to keep them in a protective bubble for the next 15+ years, I know that is the fear inside me talking. Somehow, parents have to reconcile their fear with their child’s fearlessness. And therein lies the complicated relationship that is between the parent and the child. Everyone just breathe.

I see them long hard times to come.

What is Wrong With the School System (in general)

There are so many things wrong with the public school system these days. Today, I’d like discuss a major concern of mine, that of the school district’s adamant insistence on celebrating of every single holiday known to man, big or small.

For instance, recently Caleb celebrated his 100th day of the first grade. Some of the blame for the ridiculous celebration of 100 days of school can definitely be put on children’s books (like Miss Bindergarten Celebrates the 100th Day of Kindergarten by Joseph Slate- if your last name is Bindergarten, I think you are doomed to teach kindergarten, by the way), but mostly I blame the teachers. They come up with the most outlandish celebration ideas. This is the second year that Caleb has been required to glue 100 pieces of macaroni to a piece of paper. Guess who did most of the work? Mommy. Why? Because Mommy didn’t like how Caleb was not gluing his macaroni in even, perpendicular lines, that’s why.

Today, as you probably are aware, is St. Patrick’s Day. I know a little bit about my heritage, though not a ton because my mom is adopted, but I’m guessing (based on my excessively pale skin and my daughter’s temper) that there’s a bit of Irish blood in there. Like any good Irish girl celebrating her heritage, I should have spent last night eating potatoes and watching Disney’s Darby O’Gill and the Little People (which features a young, delectable Sean Connery) while milking a Guinness. You know what I did instead? I printed off shamrock coloring sheets and meticulously colored them in, and then posted them throughout the kitchen. I also made a primitive looking “Welcome Leprechaun” banner. Then, I searched high and low and eventually found my glitter stash so I could leave green “Leprechaun” trails in obvious places, including leading up to the leprechaun trap that Caleb had devised.

Why? Because Caleb’s teacher told them story upon story about how to go about catching leprechauns. And guess what else she said? Leprechauns WILL NOT come if you do not decorate the house appropriately. Also, they would like to eat Irish soda bread. (This is where I put my foot down. I did not make Irish soda bread.)

Caleb became obsessed. He would not shut up about leprechauns. He spent a good hour developing a “leprechaun trap” and making fake gold coins out of paper to lure the leprechaun in. After that, he didn’t have time to make the necessary decorations, so he made me promise to do it. I tried to brush the whole thing off.

He started crying.

Apparently, this whole thing is very, very important to him.

This morning, he rushed downstairs and was thrilled to find evidence that a leprechaun had visited. He was disappointed he hadn’t caught the leprechaun, and descended into the basement to see if it had hidden down there. I have no idea why that thought occurred to him, but I let him search.

Needless to say, this whole thing has been a tremendous hassle. And I blame the school district entirely.

On a somewhat related note, I just mailed in our census form. The information about the six of us took up the front side of the form. Apparently, if you have more than four children, numbers five, six, etc. just aren’t as important as the government does not require as much information to be filled out about them. In the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, I considered adding our friend the leprechaun to the census form, informing the government that the little rapscallion had apparently taken up residence in our basement. Then, I thought better of it. In my experience, people who count for a living don’t have terrific senses of humor.

Having recently counted 100 pieces of elbow macaroni, I completely understand why.

Three Funny though Mildly Disturbing Thoughts from this Weekend

The Entrepreneurs

My husband and I are fledgling entrepreneurs. We spent a good part of the weekend brainstorming a novel idea for a brand new game for the Nintendo Wii.

Here’s the premise: it’s kind of like PGA golf, only not really at all.

First, you choose an avatar: any one of a variety of gorgeous blonde models, or if you would prefer, a feminine looking man. Next, you start the game. You are in a posh mansion. Your first quest is to run about the mansion in search of a five-iron golf club. Once you find it, your next quest is to find Tiger Woods within the mansion and begin chasing him while screaming like a looney-bird. If you can catch Tiger and smash his face with the five-iron BEFORE he escapes down the street in his SUV, you advance to the next level which is called “staving off the paparazzi.” (You can use that five-iron in this level, too.) You can employ a variety of different means to stop the SUV Tiger may try to escape in. However, if you accidentally kill Tiger, you lose.

We call the game “Tiger Woods Golf Re-imagined.” It’s a working title.

We think we are brilliant. We are meeting with the Nintendo people early next week.

No Seat for You

We went to church yesterday. We are cautiously becoming involved, but still don’t know the majority of people who worship there. Yesterday morning, I found a comfy pew to sit in while John went off to “powder his nose” before the service began.

As I sat down, the woman on the total opposite end of the pew said:

“These seats are all being saved!” There was nary a purse or a coat that indicated this was the case, and there was a good five feet between my tuckus and hers. Nevertheless, I stood up and said:

“O-kaaay.”

As I walked away she said,

“Sorry, sweetie.”

Just to make things clear: I am not her sweetie.

And who does that? Who tells a complete stranger IN A CHURCH not to sit in a pew because seats are being saved? WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

Later that evening, I told my story of woe to my friend, Mary. The name of our new church is “Open Door.” Mary rolled her eyes and said,

“Open Door. Where the doors are always open, but the pews? Not so much.”

Like a Virgin

Caleb is singing “Silent Night” with his class for the school Christmas performance.

Friday, after school, he asked me what a virgin was, which brings me to believe that perhaps “Silent Night” is not a children’s song, per se. “Away in the Manger” would be more appropriate. “We Three Kings?” Good. “Silent Night” just opens the door to a world I don’t want to go into yet.

I told Caleb a virgin meant someone who is pure of heart and body.

“What does pure mean?”

“Very, very clean and good,” I said.

A contemplative pause from Caleb.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No, Caleb. No. Mommy is definitely not a virgin.”

Fa la la la la. La la… la… la.

Letter to Mister Waste Management Recycling Man

Dear Mister Waste Management Recycling Man,

I am writing to you to discuss the event that occurred last Thursday, which is the garbage day on my street. Iwould also like to discuss the event that occurred the first Thursday you ever came to my house, you know, after we first moved in.

It was a sunny September day and my husband was out of town. You may be wondering, what does that have to do with anything? Well, we had just moved in and my kids were starting new schools and there was crap strewn all over my house and I was exhausted. And teary. I was very teary because the move was a very stressful experience and because my husband had abandoned that week me to go on a business trip with his cantankerous boss.

The buyers of our previous house? Not nice people. They demanded extra stuff at the closing, you know, when they’re about to make everything legal and binding? BOOM! They wanted a hot water heater or they were going to walk. This was after they demanded a new furnace. When I drove by my old house later, I saw that they had also gotten an air conditioner. Probably one of those two-for deals places have going every once in a while.

We could’ve done that to our sellers. They were especially desperate because they had no choice but to move out of town were therefore stuck with two mortgages. We could have taken total advantage of their desperation. But we didn’t. We like to take the high road.

Anyway, the whole process was emotionally, and more importantly, financially draining.

That particular Tuesday, right after we had moved in, I hauled a ton of garbage and boxes to the curb. Usually this is the husband’s job. His ONE household task-taking out the garbage. But sometimes he goes out of town and then I have to do it.

Later that same morning, I drove my son to preschool and when I came back, you were there, putting my milk cartons into your truck. Which is really loud, by the way. This will be relevant later.

I got out of the car and waved to you, because I am friendly. I wave to everyone. I wave to my neighbors. I wave to little kids at the supermarket. I wave to all the parents I pass in the school parking lot. I am a nice person.

You did not wave back, but you did motion for me to come over. Honestly, in my hopeful naivety, I thought you were going to welcome me to the neighborhood- to say a friendly thanks for choosing Waste Management and not Suburban Disposal or Boon and Sons.

You gave me a three-minute lecture on bundling the cardboard boxes.

You did not take the high road.

Okay. Perhaps I didn’t read all of the Waste Management literature. It may have been that I didn’t receive the literature in the mail yet, as we had just made arrangements for you to come two days before.

You may not realize this about yourself, but you are an intimidating presence. You are large and burly and have long, crazy hair. Not that there’s anything wrong with that… that’s your style and I respect that… but your appearance and your tone made me feel one-foot tall.

I guess I’m the kind of person people can tell right away that they can push around. I’m pretty meek. My body language gives me away. You start talking about how it makes your life ten times more difficult when I don’t bundle the boxes and I bite my lip like a guilty child. The fear radiates from my body. And people like you smell the fear.

You didn’t even acknowledge that my own children were crying for me to let them out of the car.

I bet you would not have lectured me if I were a large, scary looking man. You probably would have left one of those obnoxious notes on my garbage can instead.

You yelled and I nodded and then you told me you were giving me ONE warning but that I’d better bundle from now on.

You made me cry. Okay, lots of things make me cry, but you made me feel like an idiot. Couldn’t you have let it go, seeing as I had just moved in? I have avoided you since then. Honest to God. If I get ready to leave the house and I see your monstrous truck heading down the street, I hightail it back inside.

Except last Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. The husband has gotten into this horrible habit of only occasionally taking the recyclables out. I realized this had occurred last Friday and hurried to remove some, ahem, cardboard boxes out of the garage so I could park my van in there. There were four of them (cardboard boxes, not vans) and I dragged them all out to the curb just as you pulled up. I let my guard down. Probably full of the holiday spirit. I cautiously waved to you and turned toward my house.

“Hey!” you said.

I should have pretended I didn’t hear you.

I slowly turned and you immediately started lecturing me again. On bundling. And then you insinuated I had not rinsed my soda bottles.

You went on and on and I couldn’t hear half of what you were saying because of your horrifically loud truck. I didn’t say a word. Finally you vacated my premises. I shouted “Happy Thanksgiving” to the back of your truck. And then I just stood there, befuddled and livid that I had allowed this to happen to me twice.

Let me tell you something. I hauled those stinking boxes down to the curb all at once. You are twice as big as I am. I don’t think bundling would have made a difference as to the successful transferal of said cardboard boxes to large monstrous truck.

I am writing this letter to inform you that tomorrow will be the last day you pick up my recyclables because I am switching garbage taker-awayers.

And I’m going to tell them, the powers that be, why. And ALSO, I’ve come up with lots of forthright comebacks since we last met. They’re really quite clever. And I’ve been practicing “look tough” faces in the mirror. I almost hope we meet again.

Sincerely,

Holly

p.p.s. I always rinse my soda bottles, you cretin.

End of Summer Rant

I’ve been very social this week. This is unusual. I think Ella has been inspiring me with her insatiable zeal for…well, anybody, really. She loves people and believes she is the reason for every party. And when she gets there, she kind of is. This won’t be so cute in a few years.

All my children are social beings, although not to the extent that Ella is.

I do not know where these people came from.

Anyway, I’m not dealing well with the whole summer being over thing. I kept waiting and waiting for summer to begin and now it’s October. It seems we have skipped the most funnest season, and I am royally irked.

The trees in the backyard will throw up all their leaves soon. It was only a few months ago I finally got rid of all of the leaves from last year. These depressing turn of events make me want to curl up under a blanket and read Chekhov while eating popcorn saturated with real butter. REAL BUTTER! I think you can understand how serious this situation is. So, because I don’t want to gain 50 pounds or let my house be completely decimated by my children while I am under blanket, I’m trying to stay positive about the changing of the seasons. I’m a busy woman with lots to do. No time to mope and curse the people who invented daylight savings time… must stay connected with the general population! Must remember that spring is only, like, seven months away! Must remember that fall used to be my favorite season, what with the pumpkins and the cider and the changing leaves and all that crap.

One of these days I’m just going to up and move to Hawaii and that will be that. Pale skin, four children, volumes of Chekhov and all.

So… some of the things I didn’t get done this "summer," or our extended spring.

There was my hike the 46 high peaks of the Adirondacks project. I wanted to get at least three in by September. Ha! Ha ha ha ha ha. Hee hee. Ha.

Run a 5K.

Start my thesis.

Clean out the garage.

Have a garage-sale.

Get involved in my new church.

I remain an unfit, disorganized woman with an overload of clutter who is spiritually disconnected and disillusioned and who really needs to take a good long hike in the woods, preferably up a mountain. And I can’t get my stinking mini-van into the garage, either, which really makes me peeved.

In the spirit of the fall season, and because it is supposed to rain for the next one hundred years, I decided that today I would go to the Apple Festival and then later, take a walk with my family along the Genesee River. I accidentally fell asleep and so the Apple Fest thing didn’t work out so much, but we did have a lovely walk.

I must warn you and I have been experimenting with picture effects on the website Picnik.com. If these pics look a little too Maxfield Parrishesh, it’s just because I got a little excited about the “VIBRANT!” effect.

50 feet into our walk, this happened.

This is the bestI could do. Not one of them is even looking in the general direction of the camera.

The mighty mighty river.

The mighty mighty boardwalk.

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring?

Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats- eternal optimist. We would probably not have gotten along. At least, not today.