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

This Post Rambles or "This is Not a Good Columbus Day"

My piano tuner is about to arrive.  I wish he was one of those introverted, awkward piano tuners who have trouble making eye contact and prefer to get right down to business, banging out Ds incessantly only to finally move on to D#,  but no.  I have the most talkative piano tuner on the face of the planet.  He starts talking the moment he walks in the door and will continue gabbing, even as I grab a laundry basket and make my way up the stairs.  I try to hide out in my bedroom when he arrives. What should be an hour endeavor takes two hours if we chat.  Also, he seems to mistakenly believe I’m an expert on Liszt.  I wonder how I could have possibly given off the impression that I am an expert on anything.  Before his arrival, I not only have to look up facts on Liszt, but I have to brace myself for the inevitable “You need to put a humidifier next to your piano during these dry winter months or else ALL IS LOST” speech.  

Until he gets here, I am writing on the couch while watching the program Extreme RVs on the Travel Channel.  The RV guys are showcasing a 1.2 million dollar RV, which has a really attractive kitchen.  I expect, however, that it guzzles a lot of gas.  That, and I don’t know if I would like to be stuck with my kids in even the most luxurious RV on the market during long road trips.  They are getting to be a handful.  I have an incident that demonstrates what I’m dealing with on a daily basis:

Yesterday was Columbus Day.  (There were a lot of people who took to social media to display their discomfort with celebrating the life of a greedy genocidal megalomaniac.  I see their point.  On the other hand, I enjoy a national holiday.  So I’m torn about it.  I’m not going to say Happy Columbus Day, but I’m not going smack anyone across the face who says it to me, either.)

Yesterday was Columbus Day, and the kids were home from school, so I sent them outside to play, because you can do that, you know.  You can say, “It’s a beautiful day!  Go play outside!”  And then you can lock the doors so they can’t get back in.  Beware of children who insist they are thirsty and must come inside to get a drink.  This is a ruse.  First it’s a drink, then it’s “I drank my water too fast and I feel like I have to throw up,” and then it’s “I can only sit on the floor and play Forza 4 on the Xbox or else I’m gonna puke.”  I speak from experience.  The outside hose is just fine for thirsty elementary-school children. 

Yesterday, I heard howling in the front yard.  Ben burst through the front door (I must have forgotten to lock it) and said:

“Daniel is about to come in here and say that I choked him.  He’s lying!  I didn’t choke him!”  Because I am such an astute parent, I was immediately suspicious of this claim.  Daniel is just not shrewd enough to entrap his brother with a fabricated choking story.

Daniel stumbled into the house.

“Ben ch-choked me!” he blubbered. 

Ella followed him inside.

“I just want a drink,” she said.

“Did you choke Daniel?” I asked Ben.  Ben stared at his feet.

“I didn’t.  I just told you I didn’t.”

“Look at me in the eyes.”  He managed to glance in my general direction, and then stared somewhere just beyond my left ear. 

“I didn’t…” he whispered.

“Ben.  Did. You. Choke. Dan.”  His eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe a little bit.”

“Oh, well, if it was just a little.  Carry on, young soldiers!” I said.

I didn’t say that. I was perplexed, because this was my first “choking” incident.  There have been plenty of “I’m lying to my mom’s face because I think she’s stupid” moments, but no “choking” moments.  I thought back on my life, trying to recall a time I had choked a person just a little bit.  I couldn’t think of one.  Choking is really, really bad news.  I sent Ben to his room. 

“I knew if I told you the truth I'd get in trouble!” he yelled as he stomped up the stairs. "This is NOT A GOOD COLUMBUS DAY!"

“Mom, I’m going to play computer now, ‘kay?”  Ella gave me a sweet smile. 

“I’m not going outside EVER AGAIN.  And I’m not playing with Ben EVER AGAIN.  Can I have a drink?” said Daniel.

Sometimes it feels like all I do all day is get people drinks and extricate them from electronic devices.  

After a long time out and a long discussion about the dangers of choking other people, I sent Ben back outside.  Because you can do that on a sunny federal holiday when you’re not driving across the country in a luxury RV.  Outside is wonderful when your kids are being a handful.

The piano tuner is here.  He came to the door and immediately asked for a drink.  Then he said, “Look at those RVs!  Aren’t they something!” and sat on my couch.

He’s going to be here a while.

Violence in the Work Place

My children cannot play together without one causing another injury during the course of, say, an hour.  They’ll be sitting there, playing Legos, when one will inexplicably hurl a Lego at the other’s face.  The injured party becomes shocked, betrayed, and out for revenge.  Understandably.  I’m fortunate to have really good friends who don’t accidentally push me down the stairs round in their hurry to get by me.  My kids are not so lucky.  Thankfully, children do will grow out of this compulsive behavior. Otherwise, workplace scenarios like this would be commonplace: 

A corner office.  Mr. Kemp, the boss, is doing something busy and important when his employee, Kurt, bursts through his door.  Highly agitated, Kurt is clutching his right eye and breathing heavily.

Kemp:  Kurt!  What happened?

Kurt:  Brad just punched me!  Hard!  In the face!

Kemp:  Oh no.  Please, sit down!  Sit down.  Let’s have a look.

Kurt:  I don’t want to sit down!  I am very, very upset!

Kemp:  Naturally, naturally.  What happened?

Kurt:  We were just talking about the game last night.  He was getting all excited and he started swinging his arms around and then he punched me in the face!

Kemp:  Yes, but did he do it on purpose?

Kurt:  Does it matter?  He may have broken my nose.  I think I’m bleeding.  Am I bleeding?  I need a bandaid!

Kemp walks to the door and peers out.

Kemp: Brad!  Brad!  I see you, Brad.  Stop hiding behind your cubicle and get over here right now.

Brad walks into the office, his head hanging.

Kemp:  Brad.  Did you punch Kurt in the face?

Brad:  I didn’t mean to.  It was an accident.

Kemp: You know you have to be more careful when you’re talking to people.  Use your words, not your body.

Brad:  Yes sir.  It won’t happen again.  I’m so, so sorry Kurt.

Kemp:  Well, Kurt, it sounds like it was an accident. 

Kurt:  Just like it was an accident when he karate-chopped Katie last week?

Kemp:  As I recall, Katie said some not very nice things to Brad.

Brad:  She called me a poopy head.

Kurt:  But you can’t just go around kicking people!  Mr. Kemp, you need to DO something!

Kemp:  And what would you have me do?

Kurt:  FIRE HIM!

Kemp:  That seems a little drastic, Kurt. I think you should calm down.  Have a seat.  Let’s get some ice for your eye. 

Brad:  I’m really, really sorry Kurt.

Kemp:  Thanks, Brad.  That was a good job telling Kurt you’re sorry.  It takes courage to do that.  You can go back to your desk now.

Kurt:  What?  That’s it? 

Kemp:  Kurt, I’m a little disappointed in you.  Brad feels very badly about the way he acted.  You should have forgiven him.

Kurt:  I can hardly open my eye!  I should not have to tolerate this kind of violence in the workplace!

Kemp:  Hey.  I know what would make you feel better.  (Kemp walks over to a jar on his desk.)  Here.  Have some Skittles.

Kurt:  Skittles?  Really?

Kemp:  Yeah, buddy!  Just for you!  And I’ll tell you what.  You can have Skittles after lunch, too.

Kurt:  I like Skittles.

Kemp:  I know you do.  Feeling better?

Kurt:  Yeah, I guess so.

Kemp:  Think you can go back to work?

Kurt:  Yeah. Yeah I think I can.

Kemp:  Good.  Good.  Let’s give Brad some space today, okay?

Kurt:  Oh, we’re going play squash after work. 

Kemp:  Okay.  Just be careful.

Kurt:  I will, boss.  I will.

I am sure Ben and Caleb, especially Ben, will behave better than this when they are adults.  And if not, may they have a boss who is understanding, and who stocks up on Skittles.  

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…)

May: A Retrospective

May is my favorite month:  it's sunny and flowery and I get to watch my kids get hysterical if a bee comes within 10 yards of them.  Three of them have inherited my distinct screeching while flapping arms move.  Caleb remains stoic under almost any circumstance.  Two weeks ago, he sprained his finger in school and didn't tell me about it until five minutes before his evening baseball practice was over.  It was swollen and a lovely shade of aubergine.

In early May, John and I went to NYC for the sole purpose of checking out the progress of the Freedom Tower.  We had heard rumors a skyscraper was going up, but after ten years, one wants to see such a thing for oneself.  John told me that when it's completed, it will be 1,776 feet.  Two hours later, I got it.  And honestly, I think it's a little hokey. 

The real purpose for the trip was to attend a wedding reception at The Players Club in Gramercy Park, which is where I'm going to live after John dies and I land me a millionaire.  Gramercy Park, not the Players Club.

The Players Club is not as risque as it sounds.  I was disappointed, too.  Apparently, it's the place where Mark Twain went to play pool.  I know this because they had his pool cue on display above a fireplace.

The next day was Mother's Day.  John took me to a Yankee's Game.  On Father's Day, we're going to the NYC Ballet, because that's how a marriage works.  It's all about give and take. 

We hate the Yankees, but were well behaved and impressed with the beautiful stadium.  We were also surprised to find that the Yankee fans seemed like normal individuals; none of them wore pants made out of one hundred dollar bills.  We ate hot dogs and wrinkled our nose surreptitiously when A-Rod went up to bat.  The Mariners won, so that was nice.

This is the last picture I took of Kiah before her accident:  She's with her boyfriend, Charlie the Chow Chow. 

The twins and their spider hats!  (They won't go in the bathroom if there's even a remote possibility a spider is in there.  Shrieking and flapping if they see one.)

I accompanied Ben on his class trip to the zoo!  We had some important Ben and Mommy time.  And Ben and Mommy and sea lion time.  And Ben and Mommy and polar bear time. 

                                                 Hello, you.

The twins had their end-of-the-year school picnic! 

On Memorial Day weekend, we met friends in Olcott and rode the carousel and threw rocks in Lake Ontario.  My kids could throw rocks into Lake Ontario for the rest of their lives and feel they'd lived lives full of joy and purpose. 

The next day, we had a barbecue at our friends' house.  They have a pool. Ella and Dan floated for a long time.  This picture is taken after Daniel started to sink.  I was successfully fishing him out of the pool when my husband dashed across the patio and plunged into the water, soaking me and ruining his iPhone.  He dubbed himself a hero.  I dubbed him... something else.

Ella cut her own hair this month.  I bought some headbands to hide the problem areas.  This is how she likes to wear her headbands.  She also likes to wear socks in the summer.  Those are not bruises on her arm, but sticker residue.  Sticker residue is the worst.

And that was May.  Where are the pictures of Caleb?  This is a good question.  I'll ponder that over the course of June.

The Introvert Lost

“But small talk with stiff-backed strangers at a swanky cocktail party is by far my least favorite part of my job.  Send me to a famine of a flood and I’m comfortable.  A few rounds of the room at a social event, however, leave me exhausted.”  Bryan Walsh, The Upside of Being An Introvert (And Why Extroverts are Overrated)  Time Magazine

In middle school, Horizon Skate was the place to be on a Friday night.  In those days, Horizon was a dark, dank, foggy with smoke destination where a deejay played a rotating assortment of pulsating top 40 hits.  Every single kid piled onto the rink whenever he played The Beach Boys’ Kokomo.  As an interminably shy 12-year old who would never quite fit in, but who kind of wanted to, I went a couple of times.  I found the whole experience to be emotionally draining.

20+ years later, Horizon is pretty much the same, minus the smoke.  I know because I lost Ben there on Saturday afternoon.

Rather, “they” lost Ben on Saturday afternoon.  I was just there to pick my kid up from a birthday party.  The host had no idea where he was.

“He’s around somewhere,” she said. 

“Somewhere” was a vast area mobbed with elementary school-aged kids maneuvering about the place in roller skates, playing arcade games in wobbly roller skates, trading tickets for prizes in wobbly  roller skates, and drinking large sodas in wobbly roller skates.  In other words, Horizon Skating Rink is the fifth circle of hell.

I went to the laser tag room: no Ben.  I checked in the jungle gym area: no Ben.  I checked in the arcade: no Ben.  (I did, however, get hit in the thigh with a skee ball.)  I sat and stared at the kids circling around and around on the skating ring, twisting and shaking to a Justin Bieber song.  No Ben. 

I noted the many unguarded exits, the strange men loitering in the vicinity, seemingly enraptured with whatever was on their cell phones.  I watched people pour in and out of the front door. 

I began to become unhinged. 

They called his name over the intercom.  Three times.  He didn’t show. 

Eight employees on walky-talkies were deployed to find him.

“He’s wearing a blue shirt, jeans, has blonde hair, and he’s six.  He’s only six,” I blubbered.

We found him waiting in line with his arcade tickets to redeem his prize of two small rubber lizards, one of which would consume the other in the van on the way home. 

“Did you hear them call you name?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you go to the snack bar?”

“What’s a snack bar?”

I was livid.  I was angry at the hosts of the birthday party, angry at Horizon for not being militant about the entry and re-entry of their most precious clientele, but mostly angry at Ben for his complete apathy regarding my near breakdown.  

So I did anything a mom with a bruised thigh courtesy of a rogue skee ball angry with her child for running off would do: I took Ben to the store and bought him copious amounts of candy and treats. 

The prodigal son came home.

Later that evening, I accompanied John to a swanky ball at the convention center. I acquiesce to being John’s date if he follows one rule: he does not leave my side. 

The event, of course, had an endless shrimp cocktail bar, and who can resist endless shrimp cocktail?  I sure can’t. 

“I’m going to get more shrimp cocktail,” I told John.  When I returned to where he was, he was gone.  

I did a lap around the room.  No John.  Another lap.  No John.

I was starting to become unhinged.  It appeared everyone in the room was comfortably chatting with someone they knew intimately while I was wandering around, lost and unbridled. 

I finally found him talking to friends in the complete opposite corner from where I had last seen him.  He greeted me like I was another acquaintance on the VIP floor, completely unaware that I was yay-close to dissolving into a weepy puddle in the middle of the ballroom floor. 

I read the above-quoted article in Time Magazine with interest.  (Also learned in Time Magazine:  The Miller’s grizzled langur monkey, believed to be extinct, was recently found in Borneo, in areas it had never inhabited before.  Good news for grizzled langur monkey fans!) 

While the extrovert (i.e., my husband) becomes energized in large social situations, the introvert becomes emotionally taxed.  While extreme shyness is hopefully a thing of my past, according to the innie or outie quiz in the magazine, I am a hard-core introvert.  And it can be difficult to be an introvert in an extrovert’s world.  (There are those, of course, who fall in the middle of the spectrum.  They are called ambiverts.)

“From the moment we wake up to the second we go to sleep- preferably after relaxing with a book in bed- introverts live in an extrovert's world, and there are days when we’d prefer to do nothing more than stay at home.  But while our temperaments may define us, that doesn’t mean we’re controlled by them- if we can find something or someone that motivates us to push beyond the boundaries of our nerves.  I’m happy to be an introvert, but that’s not all I am.”

Next Saturday, I choose to stay home.  Ben’s staying home too.  And there’s nothing at all wrong with that. 

Your happy song of the week is a request by Miss Corrie: “Staying Alive” by the Bee Gees, a song, I think, that speaks to introverts and extroverts and even ambiverts alike.  

Take the quiz:  Are you an introvert or an extrovert?  http://healthland.time.com/2012/01/27/quiz-are-you-an-introvert-an-extrovert-or-an-ambivert/

From The Planet Mexico

“Mom. Is our planet called Earth?” asked Ben.

“Yes. We are earth. The blue planet.”

“Huh. I thought we lived on the planet Mexico.”

Sometimes I fear the public school system is failing him.

We were in the car, Ben in the back seat dressed in full Darth Vader regalia. He was speaking to me from beneath his black, shiny helmet. Honestly, he resembled Rick Moranis in Spaceballs more than the tall guy they got to play Darth in Star Wars.

Ben is trying desperately hard to be a good boy, which is really hard for people from the planet Mexico- not to be confused with the country in North America here on the blue planet, earth.

In my refusal to mention what racist thing Ben said the other day, I should have mentioned no pejorative terms were thrown about. I was told that because I did not relay what he said, people’s imaginations went to the worst possible places. Compared with the guesses family and friends made, Ben’s statements were almost inoccuous. Relief swept over faces when I told what had been said.

“That’s nothing. Listen to what my kid said about…”

In the car, we named all the planets.

“There’s Mercury, and the Venus, which is covered with a poisonous gas,” I said.

“Jupiter’s the gaseous planet,” John said.

“ALL the outer planets are gaseous,” I retorted. I know this from reading The Magic School Bus Chapter Book #4: Space Explorers, which is a scientific work on par with Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.

“Caleb, do you know what color Mars is?”

“Blue and green,” he said with confidence.

“Nope. Mars is the red planet.” I was starting to feel smug about my space knowledge.

“I thought you said 'what color ours is.' Our planet is blue and green.”

Tonight, the husband is out watching the final playoff game; this week he travels. I am left alone here on the planet Mexico to discuss basic astronomical nomenclature with my kids.

“Mars people are called Martians,” said Ben proudly.

He is a good boy. They are all good boys. But sometimes I ache for grown-up conversation.

Tonight it is too cloudy to see Venus burning in the winter sky.

That Awkward Moment When You Realize Your 6-Year Old is Racist: A Martin Luther King Day Post

The other night, and I don’t even remember how we stumbled upon this topic, Ben said something... a bit racist.  I can't even repeat it, I have so much shame.

To say that I freaked out would be an understatement.

“What? WHAT? What did you say? Why do you think that? Who told you that? Was it that god-forsaken public school system?” (Further freaking out commenced, and I turned to John and may have said things like the following):

“Why don’t we just call up the KKK and send him on over to Arkansas or wherever it is the KKK hangs these days.”

“I knew we should’ve sent him to the city schools for the first few years of his life. Then he’d know what it’s like to be the minority.”

I became irrational, which is what happens when freaking out goes unmitigated. Sometimes John just lets me go on:

"Why would you say that?  I need to understand the root of his statement right now or I'm going to totally freak out!!!

“This is what happens when you let kids watch too much television.”

“I failed! Somewhere along the way I failed.”

“YOU FAILED JOHN! SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY YOU FAILED!”

Ben: “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh! I don't want to go to a different school!"

And then, the voice of reason interceded. Caleb, who just turned nine on Friday, said the following:

“Ben, you’d better not say things like that or Martin Luther King will come out of his grave and get you.”

Stunned, both Ben and his guilt-ridden mother dropped the subject. I decided a lecture on pacifism would come later, after I could be sure Ben was no longer a racist.

I think Martin Luther King Jr. would want it that way.



MLK Jr.:  Racists, he's coming for you...

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The Toothless Miser

Ben lost a tooth today. It was so gross. There was blood all over. He lacks those two front teeth, the ones so many children covet at Christmas-time. The gaping hole in his mouth doesn’t seem to bother him, however. He had other things on his mind, like how much his tooth was really worth.

“I’ve heard of kids getting $5 for their teeth,” he said.

“I’ve never heard that,” I responded.

“But I washed my tooth and it’s very white.”

“What are you saying?”

”I’m saying that you should call the tooth fairy’s boss for me.”

I may have called the tooth fairy’s regional manager once to complain about lack of service here on our street. The tooth fairy had an appalling habit of arriving late to our house.

The regional manager was quite apologetic. She even had the tooth fairy call to tell Ben she had been suffering from flying sickness and was very sorry for her tardiness.

“You really think your tooth is worth more than other kids’ teeth?” Ben nodded his head fervently. “Why?”

“Because it’s so cute. Look at it.”

Good grief.

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…

What My 6-Year Old Would Buy If He Had a Credit Card

As I was cleaning out my purse last week, Ben stood next to me and looked intently at its contents. 

"I can't wait until I have a credit card."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah.  When I'm a man."

"And what would you buy with your credit card?"

"Man things."

"Well, of course.  But what man things?"

"Guns and swords."

Naturally.

Yesterday it was unbearably hot and muggy, but our basement stays nice and cool.  I allowed the boys to play Wii for the majority of the morning.  At one point, Ben marched upstairs with purpose.

"Mom?  We need more Wii games.  I'll need your laptop."  A yell came from the depths of the house.  "Oh yeah.  And your credit card."

"No.  Absolutely not."  Best to nip these thoughts in the bud.  Ben's shoulders fell and he wandered defeated back into the basement.  A few seconds later, I heard him shout the following to Caleb:

"Yes I was!  I was VERY CUTE!"

I'm hiding my purse.

Now we are six

Yesterday was Ben’s last day of being five. Five is my favorite age. I know Ben was once four, but I think I will always remember him best at five: hair still blonde, skin still smooth, eyes that still twinkle when they happen to catch mine. Five is uninhibited, yet somewhat civilized. Somewhat.

In the school hallway, Ben’s class stands in a squirmy line, some kids rocking back and forth, the boys unable to keep their hands to themselves, the girls giggling in high-pitched squeals. Just on the cusp of losing the remainder of their baby fat, they smile with dimpled cheeks when I walk by. Some wave. Some recognize me as Ben’s mom. Ben beams. He is wearing his birthday crown.

A month ago, I received a phone call from the school nurse.

“Ben has a fever,” she said. Twenty minutes later, I walked into the health office where Ben sat on a small cot, arms crossed with a scowl on his face.

“Where have you been?” he cried. “I have been waiting here for two to five hours!”

Time, to a five-year old, is a long, fidgety, incongruous line, much like the line of kindergartners coming back from their music class. In April, when I told Ben his birthday was about 60 days away, he joyously marked the number 60 down on a piece of paper. Yesterday, one day was much too long.

“My birthday is not for a million years,” he whined.

“I wish MY next birthday was not for a million years,” I retorted.

“What are you even talking about?”

(Five-year olds are a very, very self-absorbed group of peoples. They make up for this by being completely potty-trained.)

Five-year olds still play happily with members of the opposite sex. Next year, the girls will start chanting, “Girls rule and boys drool!” and the boys, offended, will start to prohibit the girls from playing ball with them during recess. Today, there are no gender disparities yet. There is wide-eyed innocence, some selfishness, and a lot of running.

Recess is a tangle of legs and arms on monkey bars, noise that reminds me of ice cream- joyful?-and teachers gossiping with other teachers on the periphery. This is where Ben’s classmates are corralled, under a tree, to eat donut holes and sing happy birthday to Ben. A little girl from another class approaches me and asks for a donut hole.

“Sure,” I say. This was a mistake. Twenty other children swarm around me and I put the donuts down and get the heck out of dodge. When they disperse, there is nothing left in the container but a small trace of white glaze, the same white glaze Ben carefully licks off his fingers.

“Now I am six!” he says to his class. I kiss him goodbye.

“I’ll see you soon.”

“How long?”

“Just a little over an hour.”

“Oh. That’s sixty minutes.”

Goodbye, five.


Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne


When I was one I had just begun
When I was two I was nearly new


When I was three I was hardly me
When I was four I was not much more


When I was five I was just alive
But now I am six, I'm as clever as clever;

So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

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.

April is Wet and I Don't Like It

On Saturday, I was granted an entire day all to myself.  One whole day.  I slept in until an unseemly hour and then guess what I did? 

If you guessed that I scrubbed and cleaned the first floor of my house in my underwear while singing the part of Mimi from La Boheme as it blasted from my iPod, you are correct. 

Then, Kiah and I took a stroll.  (I put on clothes.)  It was a rather lovely day.  As I walked by, my neighbor asked if everything was okay, because she had heard shrieking noises coming from the house.  Apparently, she doesn't clean her house to Puccini. 

I uploaded some pictures from the month of April.  Blogger is uploading pictures sideways- Blogger and Canon are incompatible or something or other.  I could not fix it, so some of the pictures are presenting themselves in a jaunty fashion.

We spent Easter Sunday at the in-laws, where all of John's brothers were accounted for.  I also have pictures of Ella's first experience at a bowling alley, fun times and frosting at my mom's house, a pic of John growing older right before our very eyes, and sideways Ben being cute at the swimming pool. 

The first pic is of Kiah and her bff Edelweiss, who were digging in mud puddles on a particularly soggy day.  They got the hose. 

Kiah knows digging in mud puddles is strictly forbidden.  Oh she knows.

John is 34!

Ben is a fish.

Ella finds the fan at the bowling alley. 

Ella helps me bowl and no joke- we got a strike. 

My mom hid Easter eggs around the house for the kids.  They were each allowed ten.  If there weren't limitations on egg procurement, there would be unbalance and unrest.

My kiddoes.

There was also cookie decorating and eating of icing off straight out of the bowls.  Caleb told me to quit it- that it was gross. 

Celeste finds an egg in sideways land.

Celeste helps Ella- such a wonderful big cousin!

Uncle Richie visits sideways land to help Ella.

Ben!  My boy Ben!

All the cousins.  I wanted to put Michelle's belly in the picture, but she just laughed at me and then disappeared.  Which was irritating.

Caleb!  My boy Caleb!

Lisa! My girl Lisa!

Someone decided the world wasn't paying enough attention to him, so he donned a neon green shirt.
 

Trying to take a picture for my website.  (This did not make the cut.)  WHY didn't anyone tell I've grown chipmunk cheeks?  I really don't need this in my life right now.