Why I Cried in the Wegmans Check-Out Line

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

“Yes?”

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

I stood my ground.

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

“I think so,” I said. She sighed.

“Okay.”

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

“Do you want your milk in a bag?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid bones.

The tears came forth. Ramona was perplexed.

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

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

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

Might.

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

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.

First Day

Today, this happened:



Ben is growing up. Yesterday, when we went to his new classroom to meet his young, perky, tan, blond teacher, he said, "I'm Ben. I'm five now. Isn't it nice to meet me?" Later, he informed me his teacher was sooo cool.

"Why?" I asked.

"She is soooo pretty." Ben has always had an eye for the ladies.

And yes, looking at the picture, I am concerned that those backpack straps are going to cause problems.

We met Caleb's teacher yesterday, too. She is quite visibly knocked up. Probably 5-6 months along.

How dare she. I really wish teachers would take their jobs more seriously and plan their pregnancies accordingly. Like, at times when my kids won't be in their classes. My disappointment is palpable. We're going to have words tomorrow at parents night.

(I've already started crocheting a baby afghan. I love crocheting baby afghans!)

Some pics of the long wait for the bus:

Daniel's magnificent leap across a puddle. It was deeper than it looks.

Kindergartner Ben.

I think he has a shot with the teacher. I mean, look at him!

Caleb promised to make sure Ben got where he needed to go. I reminded him about twelve times. He didn't roll his eyes until around the tenth time.

Second grader. Needs a haircut.

The boys with their lawyer/ lobbyist father who this morning said, "This bus better not be late. I have a conference call." Well, excuuuuse us Mr. Busy and Important. (I love Mr. Busy and Important.)

Ben's empty arting table where he does his very best arting projects. Oh my heart hurts this morning.

I better toughen it up at the gym. I'm off to get svelte.

And the Award for the Worst Mom of the Weekend Goes To....

Friday morning

8:40 am

Caleb is dressed and ready for the snowy tundra that is our driveway. He had been jumping around the house with his backpack wide open, and one of his shoes fell out somewhere. I send him outside to wait for the bus as I frantically search the wild terrain that is our floor. After all, one can’t participate in gym if one is wearing winter boots. It’s just not done. I find it as Caleb is getting on the bus. I run with superhero speed, in my bare feet and pajamas through two feet of drifted snow, waving my arms and shouting like a looney-bird. The driver stops and everyone stares with wide eyes as I march to the door and hand Caleb his shoe.

“Oh. Thanks, mom,” he says nonchalantly. I go back inside and stand on the radiator for a good five minutes.

One Hour Later

I am sitting in the back of a church sanctuary with all of other moms whose husbands and parents can’t get out of work to go to their child or grandchild’s Christmas program. My camera is primed; I am ready to shoot video of Ben singing “Rudolph,” “Jingle Bells,” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” My friend sitting next to me bites her lip through “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Her son has admitted to swinging his arms a little too vigorously during the song, previously injuring the little girl who sits next to him. I peer over at them and, indeed, the little girl looks a bit anxious.

Daniel sits and plays with his gowack but Ella thinks Ben’s Christmas program is a wild party and she dances in the aisle. No one seems to care.

In the crowd later, Santa arrives. I coral the twins and Ella is picked up by Mrs. Claus. She stares in awe. Santa asks her what she wants for Christmas and she shakes her head.

“No,” she says.

We go home after slipping and sliding through the parking lot.

11:00 am

I spend a good two hours at my favorite lunch bistro, McDonald’s, with Janet. Ella climbs the elaborate jungle gym and won’t come down. I stand below bribing her with a candy cane.

1:30pm

I drop the kids off at my mom's so I can go to the dentist.

2:00 pm

No cavities! The dentist wants to know how I chipped my front tooth. I can’t remember. He seems to think that is odd.

3:00

I run to the mall to find a pretty dress to wear to a Christmas gala that evening. I find one at Sears. It is brown. I don’t try it on.

3:45

Back at my mom's, bundling the kids. I look at the clock and am astonished to remember that Caleb is getting off of the bus in five minutes, and I’m twenty minutes away. I get hysterical. My mother slaps me across the face and says,

“Pull yourself together woman!”

I pull myself together and call my wonderful friends and neighbors who live around the corner. Chris literally races the bus to my house and grabs Caleb. Thankfully, the bus driver doesn’t call the cops when Caleb gets into a strange car with a man who is not his father.

4:00- 5:00 pm

I sob at what an idiot I am. I vow it will never happen again. I don’t vow it to Caleb, because he has no idea what almost happened. I vow it to Ella, who nods, solemnly.

5:30 pm

I squeeze myself into my new dress. John, who is a bit cool toward me, probably because of incidences that occurred earlier that afternoon, zips me up but doesn’t tell me I look pretty. I totally deserve that. Plus, my eyes are bloodshot and the dress is a bit tight and I really don’t look pretty at all.

6:00-10:00 pm

At the Lakeside Hospital Christmas gala, a woman at the bathroom says:

“Has anyone told you you look just like Renee Zellwegger?”

Actually, yes! When “Jerry Maguire” came out, another woman in a bathroom told me I looked just like Renee Zellwegger. It was one of the happiest moments of my small life.

The woman in the convention center bathroom turns to her friend behind her and says:

“Renee Zellwegger. You know. Bridget Jones.”

It’s come to this. I used to look like “Jerry Maguire” Renee Zellwegger. Now I look like “Bridget Jones” Renee Zellwegger. If someone ever compares me to “Cold Mountain” Renee Zellwegger, I may do something hostile.

Laura Bush is the keynote speaker. She comes out and places a bobble-head of herself on her podium.

“It has come to this,” she says. She explains that the bobble-head was purchased by a friend at a gift store in Washington D.C. It was on the clearance rack.

How utterly sad.

I lose the silent auction I was bidding on, but win the table’s gorgeous centerpiece. John forgives me for my past transgression and we go home kind of tired.

Saturday

6:00 am

John leaves for Buffalo to speak about constitutional freedoms at a men’s breakfast.

7:00 am

Everyone is up and eating oatmeal.

11:30 am

John comes home and Ben and I rush off to swim lessons. Ben now jumps into the pool, doggie-paddles in the deep end, floats on his back, and practices blowing bubbles in the water. He has vastly improved in just a few weeks.

12:30 pm

Back home… I leave John to spend the day Christmas shopping with one of my best friends. I eat a St. John panini at Cibon and later a slice of lemon raspberry cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory.

5:30 pm

Back home. John leaves with boys to get a Christmas tree. I tell them to get a BIG one. They come home with not such a big one. Ben and Caleb are pleased with their tree.

“It was the best one!!!!” says Ben.

“They had to have this one,” says John.

It occurs to me that the tree does look huge to the boys.

7:00 pm

John leaves to hang out with friends. I curl up with a book I bought for somebody else for Christmas. I intend to read all of the books I have purchased for others before Christmas. Is that wrong?

Sunday

8:30 am

I’m off to sing in the church choir. I come back in between services to grab Caleb. Ben sounds croupy so John decides to stay home with him.

1:00 am

Caleb and I grab lunch at Wegmans after church: white cream-filled donuts, and head over to Supercuts so Caleb looks less like mountain child and more like a nice little boy. It grosses me out that the hair hasn’t been swept off the floor by Caleb’s salon chair. I am standing on someone else’s hair.

1:40 pm

Back home. Ben and Ella are napping. The Bills are winning. I intend to take a winter’s nap. Ben comes down from his nap wheezing. He can hardly talk and seems to be struggling to breathe. Since I am leaving later to go with Caleb to his Christmas piano recital, John decides to take Ben to Urgent Care.

4:00 pm

Urgent Care takes one look at Ben and calls an ambulance. John and Ben ride over to Strong. I start cleaning the house because what else can one do when one feels like throwing up because her small child is away from her, in an ambulance, fighting to breathe?

5:00 pm

The doctors at the hospital are alarmed by a constriction in Ben’s throat. At first, they think he might have actually swallowed something that got lodged there. It turns out his throat is just very swollen. He has severe croup. They give him albuterol and steroids and wait.

6:00 pm

My dad comes and picks up Caleb for his recital. They are going to play “Jingle Bells” as a duet together. Caleb is okay that I’m not coming.

7:00 pm

Ben is released. The twins and I bundle up and ride to Strong to pick them up. We then grab John’s car at Urgent Care, stopping to pick up some popsicles for Ben. Ben is spry, but is milking his illness for all it’s worth.

“Mom,” he says, “I am still very, very sick.” He gives Renee Zellwegger in “Cold Mountain” performances, sometimes. Oscar-worthy, I mean.

11:30 pm

I am so tired but I can’t sleep. I read more of the book I am giving to someone else, being very careful not to bend one single page. I am thankful that everyone is safe and under one roof. I have apocalyptic dreams, where all of the banks in the world crash and utter chaos is the new normal.

Monday

I am glad it’s Monday. Caleb, who was incredibly neglected this weekend, doesn’t want to go to school. He’d rather stay home with, of all people, me. We watch his performance at the recital again and again.

I’m sorry, buddy.

I’ll do better next weekend.

Chase Twichell, Poetry, Ecology, Zen Buddhism, and Cookies

The American poet, I have learned, is usually at least one, or perhaps all, of the following things:

1) An ecologist/ environmentalist… which of course, makes sense, since poets are the ones noticing the minute details of nature and describing them in, sometimes, lurid detail (The spicy stench of the stinkbug as its juices explode on the sidewalk…)

2) A Bush-hater. Ironic? Not really. I mean Bush, the former president(s), especially the second one with the W squished between his first and last name. Not a shrub.

I don’t mean they hate Bush the way your neighbor hates Bush. I mean, HATE. Like, they dream about his ultimate demise and death by a barrage of words of affliction. (Poets are generally not fighters; they are adamant believers in that age-old phrase “the pen is mightier than the sword!” The truth of this statement was best exhibited in the last Indiana Jones movie. Remember? When they were in the tank? No- not the latest Indiana Jones movie. I like to pretend that one doesn’t exist. But I digress…) Some people, namely mothers and spouses of soldiers, really sincerely wished Bush had called off the war on Iraq. I think poets like to rail against the war, but never truly wanted Bush to pull the troops, because who then, pray tell, would they have hurled their words of affliction at?

3) Zen Buddhists.

I am none of these things, and perhaps this is why I am a lousy poet. I love nature and hiking and sunsets and little purple violets and drying hydrangeas and the smell of an Adirondack spruce (must be Adirondack, please). But, I do not let thoughts of oil spills and acid rain and the threat of the extinction of the spotted owl consume my thoughts so much as to warrant, well, a poem.

I don’t particularly like Bush… thought he was a crappy president and I do believe the war was based on false pretenses. FALSE PRETENSES! But again, even with the caps on, I can’t muster enough passion (what does that say about me?) to warrant a, um, poem.

This evening, poet Chase Twichell read to a group of earnest college students (and grad students, too) a collection of poems about discovering the self at the University of Brockport Writers Forum. Chase Twichell is a Zen Buddhist, which is, I think, different from a regular Buddhist.

Man, if I wasn’t a Christian, and had the choice of funky eastern religions, I might just choose Zen Buddhism. I would so pursue ultimate reality through greater consciousness like it was my job. To do this, you have to meditate a lot, which sounds very restful and kind of like sleeping ,which is, like, my favorite thing to do in the entire world.

Ms. Twichell said that we are NOT unique but are all a part of one great consciousness. We think we are unique, but that is just the conditioning of our culture and our upbringing. There is nothing new under the sun. I knew that, because God said it first, I think, in the bible. But, I know something Chase Twichell DOES NOT. I have played the game let’s create a sentence no one else ever has before! This is the game where you string random words together to make a completely original statement. Here’s one:

I am going to the Adriatic Sea to eat conch and smell seaweed while stringing toilet paper on my brother who is a sea monkey from Andalusia.

I don’t think anyone else has ever uttered those exact words in that exact order. (If you've seen it elsewhere, let me know right away!) Therefore, I put something unique out into the universe, the sound waves of which are still traveling miles and miles away from earth, and I did it without transcending into the greater consciousness of the universe. Does that, y’know, count for something? And isn’t that kind of like poetry? Really bad poetry?

The evening began with a Q & A with Ms. Twichell. She didn’t talk about being Zen until it was almost time to start the reading. In the meantime, we thought of interesting questions to ask her: What was her writing process? Who influenced her as a poet? When does she know her poems are ready to be fossilized? AND why is the sky blue and the grass green and in the ultimate reality, which can only be achieved through enlightenment, is the sky still blue and the grass still green or is it, like, reversed or totally different and are there more colors that we can’t even conceive of because our mind, is, like, not open enough?

My favorite comment came from the student who compared her poetry to “Duende.” He very politely apologized to the rest of us because we “probably have no idea what I’m talking about” and then he said to Ms. Twichell, “but I’m sure you do.” Very smooth, dude! Putting yourself on par with the famous American poet! I literally felt the rest of us fade away so it was just the two of them, discussing the influences of the Spanish poets on her work. It was a very Zen moment.

I wanted to say, hey, man. Lorca and I had lunch and a long conversation about death and the sublime last weekend over at Jines, so who’s enlightened now? But I'm shy so I stayed quiet.

After the Q&A session, I listened to the words of my fellow classmates as we tottered down the hall to the auditorium.

“Her language is just so, so, like, immediate!”

“It’s uncommon to hear someone so naked.” (An actual comment.)

“Oh, Lord have mercy… there are cookies at this event???” (That was me.)

I liked the poetry. I really did! I even listened to most of it. You know when you’re in church and they go ahead and sing all of the verses of a hymn instead of just the first and the last? And how, toward the third verse, you kind of trail off and start daydreaming about lunch or when communion is gonna start because you’re kind of hungry? That’s what it’s like to listen to lots of poetry all at once. For me, anyway. I get overloaded and have to take a mental breather.

Chase Twichell was very cool, for an environmentalist-Bush-hating-Zen Buddhist. She didn’t seem to take herself too seriously, which is important in a person, I think. She had a sense of humor that was light and self-deprecating, which I also approve of. She had very cute blonde hair and wore a pink shirt. (Nothing says friendly like a bright pink shirt.) She read her poems with evocation and answered our questions gracefully with a confidence that, I’m sure, comes from years and years of presenting her work in front of gushing young students who want so badly to be published in the Kenyan Review. So, yeah, my teasing is tinged with jealousy, because I am a lousy poet.

Just the other day, my mother said something beautiful about hydrangeas… about how lovely they are even after the flowers have died. She reflected on the way they dry so beautifully and how the leaves become tinged with brown, like an old photograph. I was all let’s make this a poem! Death is like a hydrangea…

But here’s where my mind went. I could not get any further than the “both humans and hydrangeas dry up and wither and die” analogy. I got stuck because humans, after they cease to exist, are left soulless and pale and full of stinky liquids that need to be drained. I suppose one could write that in the years before death, wrinkles and age spots and yellowed teeth are like browning hydrangeas. I couldn’t quite make it work. And then my mind wandered off, as it does so often, and I started thinking about whether or not I wanted to be buried or cremated and why it is, exactly, that Christians as a people seem so opposed to cremation? And then I thought about whether or not I had signed the back of my new license to be an organ-donor and about how sad my kids would be in the aftermath of my passing and that I better write out a list of things for John to do (or not do) when it occurred, things such as: don’t buy crunchy peanut butter, don’t talk with the twins’ speech therapist about politics, and for God’s sake, wash behind the kids’ ears because, believe it or not, they do get grimy.

And then I thought about my funeral, and what hymns they should play, and the scent of the flowers I wanted to fill the sanctuary, to cover up the sour smell of death… hydrangeas really are so beautiful. And then I found I had come full circle.

But I couldn’t make a poem about it.


The All of It by Chase Twichell

I stood naked in the icy brook
Under stars. I lay on hot granite
Crisped with pearl-gray lichen
We crushed beneath us.

He tied trout flies with dog hair
And feathers, cooked the little fish over the coals, on green sticks
He later burned, leaving nothing.

Was that it? Exactly that,
The Inside Knowledge,
The All of it?


What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Ecclesiastes 1:9

Back to School Blues

My husband has a theory about why, statistically, women suffer more than men from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and other post-summer depressive symptoms. He believes that as the days get shorter, men benefit from the healing light that emanates from the television during Monday Night Football. Perhaps this is a biological phenomenon that needs to be investigated. Do the producers of Monday Night Football somehow integrate a healthy level of vitamin D into the bright flashes of white uniforms streaking down a seemingly luminescent football field? And if so, could that same level of vitamin D begin streaming out of the television during soap operas? Specifically, All My Children?

Some women revel in summer’s end because it means that they can once again neatly pack up their children and send them off to school. I’m not quite there yet. This year was better than last; Caleb adjusted to school quickly and I haven’t cried and moaned about the fleeting nature of youth while quoting scripture from Ecclesiastes. (Caleb hates when I do that.)

Caleb didn’t come home after his first day completely exhausted and whiny, but rather ravenous for a snack and wearing a bright yellow bracelet his teacher had given him and all of his classmates. He told me the bracelet was to remind him of a promise he made.

“What promise?” I asked

“I don’t remember. But I have to wear this bracelet for the rest of my life.” And then he solemnly proceeded to eat his sliced apple with peanut butter, so I knew that he took this promise, whatever it was, very seriously.

The third day of school, Caleb came off the bus and into the house and immediately began walking from room to room murmuring to himself. I asked him what he was doing.

“I need to find a toy. I need to find a toy,” he kept repeating. I asked him why. “I need to give it to S___.” (S___ is a boy on his bus I had believed to be his friend.) This seemed odd and also like a very bad precedent.

“Um, no,” I said. “We don’t just give away our toys to friends.” And then, the tears started rolling down Caleb’s face.

“But I have to! S___ told me I have three days to get him a toy or he will give me two black eyes and a bloody nose.” (Sobs.)

I was quiet. And angry. And let me tell you this…

Hell hath no fury like a mother who has learned her six-year old is being extorted.

Worry not, the story has a happy ending. My initial scheme of stalking S__ the seven-year old and threatening him with jail-time never did come to fruition. I truly believe, however, that I could get a lawyer who could find a way to put this seven-year old tormentor into a high-security juvenile facility. For life.

We told Caleb that this boy was certainly NOT going to hurt him because we would never let that happen, but that he needed to stand his ground and show this boy that he could not be bullied. For I know that as soon as you show a bully ONE sign of weakness, you are screwed, possibly for the rest of your life. I learned this in seventh-grade gym class. (The story behind that statement involves pitiful sniveling, a sore ankle, and remains the reason I have never warmed up to the sport of hockey.)

Yesterday, Caleb came home and nonchalantly told me that S___ had “just been kidding” and had never intended to give Caleb two black eyes and a bloody nose. Then Caleb asked if S___ could come over and play next weekend. I still don’t know how I feel about that.

That afternoon, Caleb used his words, a stern voice, and “intense eyes” to communicate to S___ his displeasure at being threatened. And it worked. And I’m so very proud of him.