Sassy Molassy

Possibly dead, possibly alive cats, or why I did well in Geometry

2011-11-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned how the ipad is cutting into my reading time? I'm still reading, but it takes me much longer to get through a book these days, and a certain slim piece of technology in a cute red leather cover is largely to blame. So maybe it was an attempt to make my ipad time less brain-melting that led me to one of my new favorite things: One-Minute Physics on youtube. I've always wanted to understand physics, and these little mini-lessons are short and simplified enough for my mostly unscientific mind to grasp.

So the other day I stumbled across this one:

Now, I had heard of Schrödinger's cat before, of course. I did attend a small liberal arts college, after all, and what else would they have been teaching us in such a place? But it either never made much of an impression on me, or I forgot about it, or something. The whole problem is interesting to me because it seems like a philosophy thing and not a physics thing, and I can't decide if I am right and physicists have their heads too far up their own asses, or if I am just not smart enough to understand that part of it. Possibly both of those options are true.

See what I just did there?

So at first, I was kind of stymied by this, and it seemed like one of those things where any religious person would be able to just shrug and say that of course [insert deity of choice] was the observer collapsing our reality to just one choice and shake their heads at those silly scientists. I mentioned it to Andria and she said "I know, it makes my stomach hurt to think about it." I could have looked up what other people have written about it, but I kind of liked having such a novel problem to mull over, so I tucked it away in the back of my mind and took it out to play with from time to time over the next few days. Here is what I decided:

This problem is based on the flawed idea that possibility=reality. Our observation of the cat has no real effect on the cat's status. Just as the cat seeing the powder keg explode or not seeing it explode really has no bearing on whether it did or didn't. Before we open the bunker and see the cat, it is already alive or dead. Just like before a baby is born, it is already a male or a female, whether or not the parents have chosen to find out the sex. It does not exist in a state of being either/or just because the parents haven't seen the goods yet. The whole thing actually reminds me of the kind of magical thinking that leads people to say that, for example, their prayers caused a suspicious lump to turn out not to be cancer. The lump is or is not cancer before it is ever detected or biopsied, and our observation of the test results, just like our thoughts and prayers while we wait for them, is incidental.

Right?

Thinking through this in such a logical, orderly way made me feel very happy with my little brain until, in an unrelated philosophical aside, I read about Saul Kripke. Oh well.

Between the A and the T (or where I'm at)

2011-11-07T10:44:00.000-08:00

I don't really want to write about my progress with the whole 40 under 40 thing, I want to write about Schrödinger's cat, but I am going to save that for my next post because, let's face it, I don't seem to be overflowing with ideas here. Although that is not technically true--I have a lot of ideas for blog posts, but not so much time/motivation/wherewithal to actually write about them. So consider this a teaser: stay tuned for a fascinating discussion of Schrödinger's cat!

Meanwhile, on the subject of my large and aging tukas, it is of course still aging, but it is just a little less large. I have lost five pounds in the two weeks since I started my little 40 by 40 campaign, and I am quite pleased with myself about that. I'm even more pleased that five pounds apparently translates into three inches off my waist, which translates into my big girl pants being 85% less like a device that was designed by sadists to cut me in half at the waist. I am even a little sad about the fact that my size 14 black Ann Taylor Loft cords will soon be too big for me. But just a little. I'm also somewhat embarassed and mortified to realize just how much my size 14 pants in general have been way too tight in the waist even though they do fit fine everywhere else. It's the gut, you see. I am an apple, not a pear. But soon I shall be a legume! My fondest daydream right now invlolves being able to wear jeans with a regular straight, semi-fitted shirt without looking like I am smuggling tire tubes into the country. No belly-concealing pleat, no baby-doll swing tops, just a plain old tee. Think of it!

Here is a fun observation about telling people you've lost five pounds in two weeks: they first look like you are about to reveal the secret of the universe as they ask you how you are doing it, and then they look very disappointed when you say "counting calories." Like, they are really hoping to hear "I am eating a box of donuts every morning and then taking this magical pill that has the side effect of making your skin radiate from within." I say that to head off any possibility of that very disappointment striking you, right now, as I tell you that what I'm doing is eating less and exercising more. Who knew? I'm using the fatsecret app on my ipad to track every single thing that I eat, which is not that hard since I am pretty much a three squares a day kind of girl, and to log any exercise I get during the day, including, some days, "standing" and "sitting," and then it tells me that I have a beautiful calorie deficit for the day of 743 calories or whatever (that is about my average) and I gain tremendous satisfaction from seeing all those little down arrows stacked up on top of each other for the week. When I weigh in on Sundays, it plots my weight loss in a clever little downward sloping green line. My other high tech, super-secret strategy involves setting my fork down and taking a drink of water between bites of food at dinner, since 14 years of mothering have trained me to eat dinner like it might be the last chance I will ever have to ingest food.

The only exercise I'm doing so far is walking, and last week I didn't even do that. I'm tempetd to say it was because I'm just so busy with the four kids and the working and the masters classes because you sweet schmucks will totally buy that, but in fact I spend a good amount of time playing on my ipad and reading books because I am essentially a lazy sack. So yesterday I weighed and was just very slightly disappointed that I only lost 2.2 pounds and not 3, so I put on my bootylicious new yoga pants and strapped my Phone onto my arm with a Florence + The Machine station playing on Pandora and walked 3.5 miles. My goal was just to do 2, but I was enjoying the music and the gorgeous fall weather so much that I went off the grid and just kept walking. I discovered that I prefer not to have a route mapped out in advance, which of course makes perfect sense if you know me, and I tackled every hill I came to and generally had myself a little adventure. It was nice, kicking up leaves and singing embarrasingly loud as I trucked along, thinking about Schrödinger's cat.

40 by 40

2011-10-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday was my thirty-ninth birthday. I celebrated it with family and spent the day periodically checking in to facebook to find sweet birthday wishes from friends and loved ones. I felt incredibly lucky and happy and thankful.

But of course, thirty-nine means that the big 4-0 is next. Forty! Forty years old! Don't get me wrong; I'm not upset about it. Maybe a little stunned, but not upset. After all, as they say, it sure beats the alternative. But approaching my fortieth birthday has made me contemplative about some things.

I can remember thinking as a teenager that 40 sounded somehow better than 30. I still feel that way. I turned 30 about a month after having my third child--in four years. The first three years of that personal decade are a blur for me. About the time I started to recover, I had another baby. (She is making sure I don't recover from her.) What I suspected way back then has turned out to be true for me: the thirties are a very domestic decade. You have babies and take care of them. You work to keep track of your marriage. You struggle with varying levels of success to piece together some kind of social life. You work a lot. At least, that is how it has been for me. It's not all bad by any means, but it's exhausting and decidedly mom-ish.

But 40 is somehow more glamorous. Your kids have gotten older and at least partially independent. You have more time for yourself and your marriage. If you're lucky, you've found your groove with work and are challenged but not beaten down by it. Maybe you start writing again. You are fabulous. At least, that's how I hope and expect it will be for me.

The thing is, I don't feel so fabulous these days. Maybe some days, in some ways, but not truly deeply. And I almost hate to tell you this, because I know what you're going to say, but a lot of that lack of fabulosity has to do with my ~~weight~~ health. The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be. I am about 40 pounds overweight, and in the past year I've been placed on both blood pressure and cholesterol medicine. Not sexy. I'm not going to beat myself up over it (anymore), but I need to change it. So I'm going to.

I am letting you know, in the most public way available to me, that I am going to lose 40 pounds by my 40th birthday. I know, I know, that's a big goal, it won't be easy, baby steps, yada yada whatever. I'm telling you, this is what I am doing. This is happening.

Losing 40 pounds in one year means that I will need to lose three to four pounds a month. I plan to do this by exercising at least five days a week (as opposed to my current schedule of no days a week), cut down on portion sizes, cut back on red meat (what, I shouldn't eat it every day?), eat a lot more fruits and veggies, and most painfully, give up my one real vice. I will trade my giant morning iced (sugary) chai for a small hot tea with a tablespoon of agave nectar and a splash of milk, and then, in the spring, give up morning tea entirely. Probably. We'll see how things are going in the spring.

I thought about starting a new blog for this, but let's face it, it's not like I was doing anything else over here. I've been thinking a lot about blogging again anyway. There's a lot going on in the world and my life and I've got some things to say about all of that. So maybe sometimes I'll post about the progress I'm making or the struggles I'm facing with the whole 40 by 40 thing, and sometimes I'll post about why everyone else is so dumb. You know, like the good old days, only more fabulous.

Happy Birthday to You

2011-10-13T11:35:00.000-07:00

The secret of staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age. ~Lucille Ball

Happy birthday, beautiful girl.

Five Alive

2011-05-28T14:04:00.000-07:00

Happy fifth birthday, Genevieve. We made it.

I kissed the ground when you turned four, but it turns out that was a bit premature. My last baby, you seem determined to stretch out your babyhood for as long as possible.

For five years you have been my constant companion. Part merciless dictator, part goofball, you can make me pull my hair out or giggle with delight. Even as I write this post, you are trying to force me to come color with you. You just flung your body across a chair in a dramatic gesture of impatience. That seems about right.

There was a time when I couldn't imagine having you, number four, and then I had to imagine not having you, and I then knew that you were meant to be my baby.

In the past five years I have threatened more than once to sell you to the gypsies, or else run away with them myself. I'm still considering it, to be honest. But I probably won't. It helps that whenever you are upset or tired or overwrought, all you really want is to curl up against my chest and breathe in the smell of your mama. I guess I'll keep you.

Listy

2011-05-12T09:44:00.000-07:00

Planned activities for Somerset's Brownies sleep-over tomorrow night:

1. painting nails (S: "I'm not doing pink. I only want black or blue." I bought a bottle of 99 cent silver glitter in clear as a hopeful compromise.)
2. a hair train (S: "I hope I get somewhere in the middle.")
3. talent show (S: "That doesn't mean I have to do something in it, right?")
4. karaoke

It seemed like a good idea at the time

2011-04-29T18:19:00.000-07:00

Dear dad with "Dirty Soul" tattooed on either side of your neck in turquoise ink:

I appreciate the fact that as you dressed to come to your kid's school carnival, you matched your polo shirt to your prison tats and threw in the madras shorts to further establish yourself as an entirely different type of D-bag from the kind you used to be, yet recognized that adding a backwards baseball cap to the ensemble would be gilding the lily.

Your kid should read this book

2011-04-21T10:20:00.000-07:00

Recently, I noticed that my middle son Joshua posted enthusiastically on facebook about how he liked The Phantom Tollbooth so much that he was reading it again. He'd read it for his enrichment class at school, and it's not that unusual for my kids to read on their own, so I didn't think too much of it. Then BD sent me this link in which Michael Chabon, author of one of the most stunning books of the past decade, talks about how much he loved The Phantom Tollbooth as a kid. So now I really want to read it.

"Dear" Lamar Alexander

2011-04-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

You said:

"Dear Mr. Alley:

Thanks for letting me know what's on your mind regarding Federal funding for Planned Parenthood.

On Thursday, April 14th, I voted for an amendment to prevent Planned Parenthood Federation of America and its local affiliates from receiving Federal funding for Fiscal Year 2011.

I am grateful you took the time to let me know where you stand on this important issue. I will be sure to keep your comments in mind as these issues are discussed and debated in Washington and in Tennessee."

I said:

"I hope you also voted to set aside some funding for orphanages, potters' fields, and STD clinics, since 97% of the services provided by Planned Parenthood include routine preventative health care like cervical cancer screenings, breast exams, birth control, and counseling for women who will not otherwise have access to those services. Contrary to what your preferred "news" source might have told you, Walgreens doesn't perform pap smears or talk to the scared teenage daughters of people like you about their options.

Also, I don't know any Misters named Kristy. Thank you for taking the time to send a condescending and completely insincere form email."

And then his evil website crashed my browser. Damn you, Lamar Alexander. Damn you.

I just have to say...

2011-04-08T13:56:00.001-07:00

For the record, I think Ewan McGregor is so repulsive that I only realized fairly recently that people think he is attractive. Like, I thought looking like a baby bird from alternate-England-on-another-planet was kind of his bit.

I don't have anything against him as a person. I'm just saying.

All This and She Cooks Too

2011-03-27T17:32:00.000-07:00

Check out my guest post over at Half-Assed Kitchen!

What Not to Care (about)

2011-03-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

I have an ongoing debate with a few friends of mine about where Stacy London falls on the good-evil spectrum. My position is generally that whenever I watch the show, I spend at least half of it hoping that the makeover subject will punch her in the face. She just seems to represent so much of what is wrong with our society. She's shallow, superficial, snotty, and she thinks it's reasonable to expect the average person to pay over $100 for a single article of clothing. And yet, I will watch the show if it happens to be on and I happen to be in the room.

The truth is that I feel very conflicted over the whole idea of caring about how we look. Sure, appearance counts, but how much? Where is the line between wanting to look put together and professional for work and thinking I can't go to the grocery store without makeup on? The What Not to Wear paradox came up most recently after I mentioned to one of the SLDs (Stacy London Defenders) that a mutual acquaintance seems so sweet and smart and great, but she does herself a disservice with her clothes. The SLD immediately said yes, this person would be the perfect candidate for WNtW because (and I paraphrase) she just needs to get her swagger back after some major life changes. And I can see that, I can.

I can see that most of the people on the show seem to feel much more confident and happy after they stop wearing their deceased grandmother's castoff double-knit pants using a rope for a belt or whatever. But what happens after the show? Where are they three, six, twelve months down the road? Do they become obsessed with their clothes, hair, and makeup? Do they ditch the boyfriends and husbands who inevitably wear hideous, almost-too-small sweaters while shown conspiring to get their frump-with-a-heart-of-gold girlfriends made over?

As a fairly vain woman whose appearance long ago began the inevitable deterioration we all face sooner or later, I struggle not to care. I once explained to a naturally pretty, fresh-faced young friend and colleague that while she could roll out of bed ten minutes before leaving the house and throw her hair up in a knot and put on clothes off the floor and still look cute, if I did that it would just make me the sad mom who had given up. I do care how I look, and I try to wear clothes that look reasonably put together while camouflaging my ever-thickening waistline (ugh!), but I also have conversations in my head at the bathroom mirror about whether or not one needs to put on eyeliner when all she is planning to do that day is sit around the house or take the kids to the park or yes, go grocery shopping. I give myself stern lectures about how I do not have to be pretty and that should not be something that matters to me.

But true to form, I mostly don't listen. I put on the eyeliner mainly so I can go through the day without having to sigh the twenty times I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror (I've had four babies, okay? Looks aren't the only thing that deteriorate). I cry and throw tantrums when I see pictures of myself. I care too much. I long for the anti-Stacy to get a show that will teach me the rules for letting go.

Hell Has Frozen Over, or How I Became a Soccer Mom

2011-03-07T16:42:00.000-08:00

I guess it was inevitable. Four kids and thirteen years into motherhood, one of them has expressed the desire to play a sport. Specifically, Somerset was asked by a friend to join the soccer team for which several of her classmates from both her old school and her new school play. I know what you're thinking: that sentence was way too grammatically correct to have been written by a soccer mom. Am I right?

So, I'm not a sports person, we know that, no need to get all into that and have you irritated with me about what a snotty curmudgeon I am when it comes to these things. That wasn't even my point!

I have never played a sport, of any kind, ever. Wait, that's not true! I just remembered that I played on a community center basketball team one time. I had completely forgotten about that. I think the coach felt sorry for me and put me in for the last minute of the last losing game. I remember being on the court and thinking "I have not the slightest idea what I am doing, where I am supposed to go, or what I should do if I happen to end up there." But I also remember how much I liked going to practice and having the coach take the time to show me how to hold my hands when I attempted a shot.

And that's the thing, I know. Even though I really have no affinity for sports culture (ahem, see how nicely I said that?) at all, (okay, sorry, moving on), I know that participating in sports can be good for kids. It doesn't have to be all crazy competitive with the yelling beer-gutted dads and the pushy moms. That's what I keep telling myself, at least. It's all going to be fine. Right?

When I was a freshman in high school, I really didn't know who I was (duh). And when the track coach talked to my gym class about running track, I thought I'd like to do it. I went home excited about it, and my parents said no. I was bewildered. My grandmother came up from Mississippi the next day, and I tried to enlist her in my cause. No dice. None of them could really tell me why I should not run track, except to weakly imply that my grades would suffer, even though I exclaimed repeatedly that bad grades would get me kicked off the team. I knew they were wrong then just like I know it now, but I didn't understand exactly why they were wrong any more than they understood why I was right.

My parents didn't come from the kind of privileged background that involved youth league sports. Their parents didn't have the luxury of spending either time or money on such things, and honestly they had probably never even heard of such things. They spent their time trying to keep a roof over their family's heads and food on the table, not thinking about their children's self esteem and social adjustment. They couldn't see, and neither could I, that a simple thing like running track for the school team could shape my identity as a young woman. We didn't know that playing sports makes girls less likely to get pregnant in their teens, or to stay in an abusive relationship, or use drugs. But I know it now.

So today we went to a sporting goods store and bought things that seem as foreign and exotic to me as...stuff that's really foreign and exotic. Cleats. Shin guards! Really tall socks. Somerset came home, put it all on, and went outside to kick the ball around with Joshua. And now he wants to play. Great. I mean...great! Right?

The Magical World

2011-02-28T07:09:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a lot of Neil Gaiman lately, both his short fiction and novels. I'm currently about three-fourths of the way through American Gods, which is based on the premise (no spoilers, don't worry) that the gods of every culture that ever came to America were carried here in the hearts of the travelers and then gradually forgotten and left to fend for themselves in the modern world. It's a fascinating idea, and, like any story that deals with the mystical, oddly stirring.

I wonder if these kinds of stories have the same effect on other people as they have on me. I tend to believe that the Harry Potter books, for example, are so beloved because they take place in a world that we wish existed. I think that as children, we all experience the world as a magical place, even if it isn't the good kind of magic. We believe we are at the mercy of the universe, that anything could happen at any time. Gaiman is especially adept at portraying the terrifying potential of such a universe, but it's not all the dark side with him. In fact, one of the things I find so appealing about a lot of his work is that it almost completely ignores the boring dichotomy of good vs. evil, focusing instead on the unfathomable complexity of life and human nature. The universe is a huge and complicated place that only fools claim to understand absolutely. I don't know about you, but that's something I need to be reminded of from time to time.

I think the reason that writers like Gaiman or J.K. Rowling get such a passionate fan response is because their work hints at the possibility of more. Gaiman especially cultivates the pleasing suspicion that he isn't merely making things up, but that he knows something. It's a tantalizing idea, that there is in fact something to know, something beyond the common sense of what is real and accessible.

Sometime in my early twenties, I bought and began reading a single volume that contained three of Carlos Castaneda's Don Juan stories. By the time I got to the third one, Tales of Power, my perception of reality was feeling so fragile that I had to stop reading before the end. The edges of my vision seemed to shimmer and shake with the unseen and I felt, in a very disconcerting way, that anything could indeed happen. Looking back, I wonder what I was afraid of, but I do remember being somewhat afraid. That fear surprised me then, as it still does, because that stirring quality I mentioned earlier feels a lot like wistfulness; it's a longing for the possibility of magic. I remember, as a child, feeling that the world was a magical place, and I miss that feeling. But the Castanada experience showed me that my adult mind is also very attached to the feeling of control, to reality as I know it. I guess most people take that self-knowledge for granted, but it's a little hard for me to accept.

I try to maintain a sense of the wonder and beauty of life and the physical world, and sometimes I'm good at it, and sometimes I'm not. The other day I was at a park with the kids, walking with Genevieve on a paved path around a small, man-made pond. She ran ahead of me, pigtails flying, and I became aware of the whole scene: sunlight glinting off rippling water, scarves of blackbirds twisting and streaming across an oddly blue sky, a beautiful and perfectly innocent child on a path bordered on the other side by tall old trees.

"Stone speaks to tree, tree speaks to sky," I thought as I walked along behind her, wanting to believe it.

Open Letter to Bobby Franklin, GA

2011-02-26T08:18:00.000-08:00

I am a mother of four who has also suffered two miscarriages. I feel compelled to comment on your proposed law that would require the investigation of all miscarriages. I can't help but wonder what makes you think, even for a moment, that you have that kind of power and control over any woman in this country. My body, my loss, my private pain; none of these things is any of your business. You clearly believe that all women are suspect, that we are evil and cannot be trusted. You assume dominion over us. You wish to write your disdain for the female sex into law in order to legitimize it. Do not pretend that this is about babies. Such pretense is insulting and absurd. You are afraid of women because you are a small, pathetic little man, and you will not win.

bobby.franklin@house.ga.gov

My Country, 'Tis of Thee

2011-02-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

I interrupt this blogging famine to say that, in case you haven't heard, President Obama, in a major legal policy shift, has directed the Justice Department to stop defending the Defense of Marriage Act — the 1996 law that bars federal recognition of same-sex marriages — against lawsuits challenging it as unconstitutional.

It's about time. Thank you, Mr. President.

On the other hand

2011-01-25T19:01:00.000-08:00

"Speak what you think now in hard words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

I felt like I should follow up my last post by disagreeing with myself. It's that balance masquerading as contrariness thing.

That is to say, I am leaning toward voting to dissolve the MCS charter for the purpose of forcing consolidation. I still have misgivings. I still want someone to tell me how this is going to benefit my kids, and by "my" I mean the 164 that I currently teach, the 1800 at my school, and the six who live under my roof. I want to know that this is not about city vs. county, rich vs. poor, black vs. white, or us vs. them, but that it is about these children who are the future of this city, whether David Pickler wants to think they affect his life or not.

Speaking of the devil, I will say this: so many people who disgust me are against this happening that it must be right. I don't just mean Pickler, either. There is fierce opposition coming from both sides of the lines, and at the forefront on both sides are people who make me sick with their ignorance, small-mindedness, and plain old stupidity. Whatever they are for, I'm going to have to be against.

So, as Rooster Cogburn so elegantly put it, I always go backward when I'm backin' up. I don't know what's going to happen, but I am unwilling to believe that the entire metro area would sit back and watch a few spiteful morons rob the children of Memphis of their rightful education just to prove a point.

I am not much of a rule follower, but if there is one rule I try to follow in life it's this: never make important decisions based on fear. This consolidation has been too long in coming, and I think it would be a mistake to let this opportunity pass because we're scared of the unknown. Or of the likes of David Pickler.

Out of House and Home

2011-01-10T18:05:00.000-08:00

Foods made and consumed by the nine of us here on this glorious snow day:

-1 bagel with cream cheese
-4 cinnamon toaster strudels
-1 bowl of cereal, probably Cinnamon Swirls
-4 multi-grain toaster waffles with peanut butter and a sprinkling of chocolate chips (2 half-eaten because bellies too full of hot chocolate)
-double batch homemade hot chocolate (involving 8 cups of milk and quantities of sugar and cocoa powder)
-salami, provolone, whole wheat Ritz, and pepperoncini snack plate
-one salami, ham, and two-cheese sandwich
-1 peanut butter and jelly sandwich
-multiple Ritz crackers topped with *sprayable cheese applied in the shape of hearts and people's initials
-1 giant bowl snowcream
-15 roasted chicken legs and three leg quarters, with optional Buffalo wing sauce
-2 boxes macaroni and cheese
-steamed broccoli, because clearly we care about eating healthfully
-1 homemade chocolate pie with graham cracker crust and Cool Whip

*brought to Somerset by Santa at her request, not a normal household staple
** edited to add: one pot of coffee (BD is the only coffee drinker in the house), three cups of hot tea

The C Word

2011-01-08T08:52:00.000-08:00

I'm talking about consolidation, what did you think I meant? Although, if you live in Memphis or especially Shelby County, that word may seem as dirty to you as...whatever else you thought I meant.

For those who live outside Memphis, (or under a rock), here's my brief and succinct synopsis of the required background knowledge: Memphis is contained within Shelby county, but is surrounded by unincorporated suburbs heading East to somewhere near Jerusalem. Memphis City Schools (MCS) administers all schools inside a certain line, and Shelby County Schools (SCS) has the outfield. They are two completely separate school districts, with separate superintendents, teachers, student bodies, etc. To understand how angry this fact makes some people, you'd have to know more about the peculiar and special dynamic that defines the Memphis metro area, and frankly, we don't have that kind of time. In addition, I am firmly in the Memphis city camp, so I'm not the one to offer an objective view of the issues involved, and I want to be very clear that I'm not claiming any such thing. I will say that I, like most Memphians, know people who will readily proclaim that every criminal from killers to carjackers to small-time grifters is just crouched at the city/county boundary, waiting for another chunk of the suburbs to be annexed into the city so they can wreak havoc on a fresh group of victims who were safe in the arms of the county just the day before. I've heard of mothers who simply will not bring their children inside Memphis proper. Of course this is absurd, to put it mildly. On the other hand, many of us who live in the city view the suburbs as somewhat like a prissy cousin who thinks she is far too pure and perfect to associate with the likes of us, when we don't even like her anyway!

Moving on, my purpose here is to talk specifically about the current situation with the schools. The county decided to engage us (I said I'm not objective, didn't I?) in a game of chicken by announcing its intention of applying for special school district status, which would effectively freeze the city/county boundary and prevent the future absorption of any more SCS schools into the MCS system. That's what normally happens when a part of the unincorporated area is annexed by the city. (See fairly recently: Cordova.) In response to this announcement, the MCS board voted to dissolve its charter. What that means is that, upon voter approval, MCS will cease to exist, and all schools contained anywhere within Shelby county, whether inside or outside city lines, will be Shelby County Schools. Needless to say, this was a bold move that has drawn both support and criticism from both sides of the line. MCS, as an administrative body, has long been plagued by incompetence, corruption, Sartre-esque levels of bureaucracy and red tape, and periodic flareups of scandal. In addition, MCS is charged with educating kids from some of the most socio-economically disadvantaged neighborhoods not only in the state and region, but in the country. However, it also has some jewels in its crown, not to mention hidden gems where learning is happening every day in every way. I firmly believe and know that inside every single MCS building, on any given day, miracles take place. I also know that it is a fantasy and a mistake to believe that we can measure the worth and effectiveness of a school based solely on measurable and visible markers such as test scores and elaborate displays of student work. And finally, I know that for many citizens of the Memphis metro area, none of that even matters because any school "tainted" with the MCS label is automatically, in their mind, a "bad" school. And while I'm out here, I might as well say it: to many of those same people, any school that serves a predominantly African-American student body, as is the case in most MCS schools, is a "bad" school. In Memphis, the term "good" school is too often a euphemism for a white school.

I know, I said I was going to talk about consolidation, and I am, I swear! I just feel like the context is crucial to understanding this issue, and more specifically, to our ability to step back and look at it objectively. As a life-long Memphian, a teacher in MCS for a combined total of about fourteen years, and the mother of three children who attend MCS schools and a fourth who will enter kindergarten in the fall, this issue is very important to me. The personal is political, as they say. And as someone who grew up in a now-annexed suburb and attended then-SCS schools, then chose to move to the city proper and stay in it, I have at least some insight into both sides of the issue. I also consider myself a liberal Democrat, which is where the call for consolidation of the two systems has typically come from over the years. I have believed in consolidation for a long time; I've argued for it, rolled my eyes over it, been outraged over the slowness of it, right along with my compatriots. But y'all, I'm here to say that I have a very bad feeling about this.

This is not how it was supposed to happen. We are delivering ourselves into the hands of the people who sought legislation just to keep us away. They hate us! Why are we so happy about putting them in charge? Are we cutting off our nose to spite our face? Believe me, I did a little gloating in the beginning over the poetic justice of it all. You asked for it, I thought. That will teach you to make threats. But the more I thought about it, the more my thoughts went more along the lines of oh crap, what have we done? As a teacher, I do not trust SCS to care about my school or my students. I also know first hand that MCS knows how to do certain things right, no matter what anyone says. For example, we are masters of compliance. Many MCS schools receive special funding based on the number of disadvantaged students enrolled, and this involves a whole lot of documentation and proof that we are using that money the way it is meant to be used. In my experience, SCS sucks at this kind of thing, because they have very little experience with it. Another thing MCS excels at is providing services for exceptional students on both ends of the spectrum. The gifted program in MCS starts in pre-K. In SCS? Third grade is my understanding. I was enrolled in the gifted program in a Shelby County School as a child. We met once a week, and as often as not, we sat out in a portable, forgotten. There wasn't even a teacher for us. All three of my school-aged kids are in CLUE and they go anywhere from twice a week (pre-K-5) to every day (7-9) to a dedicated, qualified teacher of gifted students. They have IEPs that we have input into each year. The same is true for students with learning disabilities. MCS knows only too well that failure to provide services means they pay for private school for that child.

SCS simply does not have any experience with the student population that MCS serves. They do not have an Optional (magnet) program; we do. They do not offer choice transfers; we do. They do not fund athletics or, in some schools, art and music classes; we do. Their students don't wear uniforms; ours do. An article in yesterday's Commercial Appeal stated that the current SCS board members would serve out their existing terms, and that "SCS board policy would trump MCS policies. That includes issues such as dress code and discipline." The same article quotes "attorney Chuck Cagle, who has had a major role in at least five school consolidations in Tennessee," as saying that "Consolidation does not lead to tax savings. Funding bodies find other ways to use the money." I understand that jobs are replicated in the two systems, but really, when you triple the size of a school system, can you still expect one person to do all the work his/her job previously entailed for the new district?

I am having a hard time coming up with any likely benefits of this merger happening in this way. How is it going to be good for my kids--the ones I teach or the ones I live with? I've never wanted my kids to go to County schools. How is it going to benefit, or at least not hinder, me as a teacher? I have never wanted to work for SCS. (Not that I love everything about MCS at an HR level, but still, how is SCS any better?) How is it going to benefit the city? How?

Since everyone else is doing it

2011-01-02T15:58:00.000-08:00

Here are the books I read in 2010, in pretty much reverse order. If you want to know what I thought of them, check out my Goodreads shelves. I was going to do this all in one go, but I'm in the middle of cooking dinner and this is just December through August (working backwards, remember). I haven't even hit my summer reading yet! SO this becomes part one.

title

100 Cupboards

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The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, #1)

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Sarah's Key

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Cane River

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The Elegance of the Hedgehog

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The Lives of Riley Chance: A Novel

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Fly by Night

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Little Bee

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The White Hotel

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The Final Solution: A Story of Detection

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Of Bees and Mist

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Werewolves in Their Youth: Stories

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The Help

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Pilate's Wife

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The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

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Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

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Mississippi Sissy

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Manifest it, "The Secret"-like

2010-12-31T22:03:00.000-08:00

I figure since we're just minutes into a new year, (and decade, for that matter), I should exploit the opportunity to gloss over my lack of blogging in recent months. But mainly I wanted to list a few things here. We don't have to call them resolutions; they're just some things I'd like to happen, and only I can make them happen, so maybe listing them publicly will shame me into working on that. (This is often a good tactic for me.) So, when this time rolls around again at the end of 2011, I would like to be able to say that I

*became physically stronger, healthier, and okay, thinner
*spent some time doing outdoorsy things I enjoy, like camping and canoeing (at least once)
*wrote a lot more
*left the country for the first but not the last time, and possibly more or less permanently
*found a job that doesn't make a stay in the mental ward sound like a tempting vacation
*put my last child in free (sing it with a little trill) public school and washed my hands of daycare forevah
*ended 13 years of non-stop-baby-and-toddlerhood with grace rather than a well-deserved nervous breakdown
*can look at pictures of myself without crying or wanting to stab someone (see also, entering Victoria's Secret)
*devoted some energy to rejuvenating a lot of my relationships with people I love and therefore take totally for granted
*was fearlessly honest even though that was a lot harder than you might now think it should be

Stay tuned.

Up to speed

2010-09-20T09:53:00.000-07:00

In blogging, as in all relationships, there can come a point where you haven't had a decent conversation for so long that you just don't know where to begin. My posting tends to be light in the summer anyway, when I take a break from work and from spending much time at a desk or computer. This summer was no exception, and then when I went back to work I was busy and the thought of going back to fill you in on my summer activities felt too...something. Overwhelming is too strong a word, but a minor version of that.

So anyway, I did some stuff over the summer. It was nice and not particularly newsworthy: beach, family reunion, hanging out with the kids, swimming, etc. Then in August I came back to work and have been pretty much running ever since. For the first time in my twelve years of teaching, I teach six 48-minute classes, one after the other, with only a 30-minute break for lunch until last period, when I have planning. This is in stark contrast to the 90-minute blocks we did last year, four per day. I now see 90 kids by 10:00 am. My total for the day is 163 kids in six hours, then a 48-minute planning period. It's not awful, but it's pretty hectic. So there's that. I'm teaching mostly juniors this year, too, which it turns out I like. American lit is really more to my tatse. So are juniors. Who knew?

My own kids are good. School is going well for all of them. Genevieve only channels Satan occasionally now instead of five times a day, which is nice. Somerset and Miss M both celebrated birthdays in the past few weeks, which we celebrated by throwing them an awesome (if I do say so myself) carnival-themed birthday party in the yard this past weekend. I even had a craft table, people. I ordered balloons and cakes in advance. This is huge! I was proud of myself and SAM for pulling it all together so well. Somerset turned 8 (Miss M is now 7) and got her ears pierced as her gift, per her request. I really never had a set age in mind for this particular milestone; I was just waiting for her to want it and be able to take care of them as they heal. So far so good.

On a personal note, I'm a little off my game lately. A period of chronic exhaustion that seemed untouched by any amount of sleep has pushed me back into the arms of my demon lover, caffeine. My emotions are running a little flat except when they spike into anger. I've been struggling with some hormonal imbalance for months now (one indicator being the fact that at least half my hair fell out over the summer so I'm going to have to cut it), and I don't know how to fix that. I do know that I need to find something that will recharge me both mentally and physically. I'm thinking maybe something like this. Because I am not in any way spiritual, (which I'm totally okay with, really!), I forget that most people do some sort of mental maintenance on a regular basis. Sometimes I'm good about that whole being in the moment and finding joy in the details thing, but sometimes that wears thin and I find myself where I am now: Depletionville. Flatland. Maybe writing here again will be a stop on the way back.

All I have to do is dream

2010-08-13T19:11:00.000-07:00

I can still remember the happiest dream I ever had. I was about 16, and I dreamed that Richard and I (before he was BD, he was just Richard) were shoving off in a small sailboat. Somehow within the context of the dream I knew that this wasn't just a three-hour tour; we were sailing away into a whole life together. It wasn't the boat that made the dream so wonderful, or the blue water or cloudless sky. It was this delicious, soaring, heart-swelling feeling I had. It was the absolute certainty that our life together was going to be such an incredible journey if we could just ever, ever get to start having it. When I woke up, one hand was pressing down on my stomach so hard it was falling asleep, as if I were trying to hold myself down under the surface of sleep so I wouldn't have to leave that boat.

Today Richard turns 40, and he is still, ever and always, the man of my dreams. Happy birthday, BD. I'm all for you, body and soul.

Comission on Missing and Exploited Children

2010-06-03T17:26:00.000-07:00

The COMEC Treasure Hunt is this weekend at the Pink Palace from 1:00 to 5:00. This is one of their major fundraisers, and they need to sell some tickets! Treat the kids to a good time while supporting a very important organization. For some reason I can't display the flyer, but you can learn more about the important work that COMEC does as well as this fun event here. Pirate Attractions include Kids' Fun Fair & Treasure Hunt of Clues in the Museum,
Special Guests, Prizes, Grub & MORE!

Four for Four

2010-05-29T18:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday marked a pretty big milestone in my life as a mother: my youngest child turned four. Four is my promised land. It is when I officially mark the end of toddlerhood and rest easy in the knowledge that we are cruising toward five, which in my book is pretty much the beginning of personhood.

I planned to sit down and write a birthday post for my girl, but between birthday breakfast wish granting, present opening, surprise swimming, and cake baking, I never got the chance. I will say that in true Genevieve style, she walked in to see the platter of perfectly roasted chicken legs she had requested and said "That's not the chicken I wanted for my birthday dinner!" Apparently what she wanted was one of the frozen breaded chicken patties SAM likes to keep around for workday lunches. Okay, easy enough to remedy. She ate all of her patty and about five helpings of the buttered curly noodles she'd actually picked out at the grocery store and then, at dessert, asked me extra sweetly "Mommy, is it okay if I just eat the ice cream?" Never mind that I made the world's most freakishly uniform chocolate layer cake with homemade fudgy icing.

So instead of a birthday post, this post is where I officially walk off the boat with shaky sea legs, bow down, and kiss the ground. I made it. My fourth child is now four. I thought I would have four children, then that I wouldn't, then I did. I thought I would never get to hold that baby, but I did. There were times when I thought I would not live through her being three, but I did. And on all counts, I'm so glad.

Bag Duty Addendum

2010-05-25T07:01:00.001-07:00

Best thing seen today and, really, any day: an elasticized headband made of braided artificial hair.

Best failed attempt at hiding a cell phone: outer pocket of fitted, matching pink calculator pouch, under a maxi pad.

Worst excuse for not being able to walk through the metal detector: "I'm pregnant"

Bag Duty

2010-05-21T07:17:00.000-07:00

A compendium of items I came across while checking students' bags during morning metal detection today:

1. enough lotion, baby oil, body spray, makeup, and deodorant to open a drugstore
2. denim-look leggings, a black satin dress, pajamas, slippers, a lined satin shower cap, many pairs of jeans, full outfit changes, gladiator sandals, stilettos, and jackets
3. a Krystal pancake scrambler that had spilled all inside the backpack (it was already a mess when I unzipped the bag, as I hastened to point out to the owner)
4. many chargers for mysteriously absent phones and electronics
5. piles of unbound paper mixed in with with markers, colored pencils, dog-eared workbooks, and empty folders
6. a pint of fresh strawberries in a sandwich bag, every kind of chip imaginable, bottles and pouches of "juice" and sports drinks, and one can of Hawaiian punch

And, most surprisingly
7. Novels! Unassigned! Some of them not involving titles such as Thong On Fire!

On Failure

2010-05-17T08:08:00.000-07:00

Another graduation has come and gone. Those of us who teach senior classes spent last week giving and grading exams, tallying up averages, taking late work amidst much scolding, and retallying those same averages for the tardy. And then we had to submit a failure list.

Four seniors failed my class for the year, which meant they did not walk across the stage Saturday or celebrate with their classmates. I have to tell you that the prospect of failing a senior is something that weighs more heavily on me than any other decision I have to make all year. I'd love to be able to say that there's really no decision, that it's cleanly objective, but of course that would be a lie. I could have had at least five more failures if that were true, but I had to ask myself, can I justify keeping a diploma out of someone's hand over a point, or three? Not only to myself, but can I justify it to my superiors, who have let it be known that we need to think long and hard about senior failures? Let's just say I had to employ some of that new math to get some of those kids in a mortarboard.

Two of the kids who did fail were virtual dropouts. Their attendance was sporadic all year, tapering off in the end to solid weeks of absence. The third was expelled to alternative school for a portion of the year and although he brought back a C from there, it wasn't enough to bring up his other grades. He did not seemed surprised. The fourth was an enigma. He came to class every single day, and he sat. Maybe he was high, I don't know. I suspect he has undiagnosed learning disabilities, but he was so incommunicative that I can't really even make an educated guess. In the third quarter, he knew he'd failed first semester and, more importantly, his mama knew it, so he came to me at progress report time and asked how he was doing. "Well, let's look," I said, opening my grade book, "You have six zeroes, W." "But! We haven't done any work except bellwork." This child actually said this to me. "Honey," I said, "where do you think all your classmates got these six grades, then? Do you not notice all the reading aloud and the discussions about stories and the writing assignments that I stand up there explaining and writing on the board every day?" He looked at me blankly. His mother came and I related this story to her. She shook her head in dismay. "I don't understand what he's doing," she said. Between the two of us, we stayed on him until he passed that quarter with a D. Fourth quarter, he knew he needed at least a B to pass for the year. He turned in some things. What happens with kids who do no work is that when they decide to give it a last ditch effort, they turn in four assignments and think they've done so much. I had to put 50s in place of his zeroes just to make his grade average out to the 58 that is our district-mandated rock bottom. He also failed his math class, so he could not have graduated anyway. But I still feel bad about it.

The worst moment, though, was Thursday when we were in the gym handing out caps and gowns to our homerooms. A girl, an honors student I do not teach except for homeroom, which meets only for a few minutes about 15 or 20 times all year, had failed two classes but somehow did not know it yet. She came up to the table to get her cap and gown and I said "K, you need to go to the library." She saw it in my face and her eyes went wide. I could imagine so precisely how the pit of her stomach felt at that moment that tears sprang to my eyes. I'm sure it was one of the worst days of her life.

Failing a senior in the kind of schools I've always worked in is made even more difficult because of the possible outcomes for those who fail. Will this child attend summer school, come back next year, or, more likely, drop out? I had a principal at what was widely considered to be the worst school in the city who told us "We are not in the business of slamming doors in children's faces." I think that's true. But the flip side of that is that road to hell we're always hearing about. The one that is paved with good intentions. So that's where I find myself at the end of every year: standing with my hand on the door, trying to figure out if I have to slam it or step out onto the road to hell.

A quick rundown of things that have been going on with me:
(Blogging will be conspicuously absent.)

1. I have lost seven pounds and five inches off my waist since Easter. Makes me wonder what I could do if I worked a little harder. Clearly all the sugar I gave up was going straight to my gut, because everything else looks the same.

2. I have my second stress fracture in three months in my stupid left foot. Makes it hard for me to work harder at losing the aforementioned weight. I am going to have to spend money on good shoes. Anathema!

3. My seniors finish their last exams today and graduate Saturday. Work has been busy and I have to have all of their grades done and a failure list turned in by tomorrow. Right now all of my juniors are taking end of course tests somewhere else and I am waiting for the infernally slow online gradebook to come up, hence this little interlude.

4. I met Lee Smith, author of my number one all-time favorite book, and she thanked me profusely for making a Facebook fan page for her, and asked me for my address and sent me a very nice email afterward! It was very exciting.

5. I read my first Neil Gaiman book finally. I liked it a lot. Any suggestions for which of his adult books to read? (I'm not really into graphic novels.)

6. Our early, warm spring has turned somewhat cool and rainy, which has put my vegetable garden in sort of a holding pattern. I'm trying to foucs on being glad we didn't get completely submerged by floodwaters like Nashville or Millington, just up the road from us.

Nothing much, in other words. And now the gradebook has finally popped up, so it's nose to the grindstone for me.

Suck on that, fat pants

2010-04-16T09:39:00.001-07:00

Some evil person left their old bathroom scale in the teachers' lounge. It usually tells me I weigh 3 lbs more than what the Wii Fit says.

It just told me I've lost five pounds. I guess I forgive it.

That's what cutting 2,500 liquid calories a week out of your diet will do for you.

Good Day Sunshine

2010-04-14T11:45:00.000-07:00

I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this was a looong winter. Here in the mid-south, we just don't know how to cope with weeks and months of freezing temperatures without a few days in the 50s and even 60s mixed in. I see blogs from Utah talking about how it's still snowing and think that I would be throwing myself under a bus right about now if I lived there.

We are having a much warmer, faster spring than we have the past few years, thus all the early gardening activity. All of us at the compound have been spending hours outside soaking up the sun, playing and digging in the dirt and dreaming of green leaves as we toss tiny seeds into the soft black earth. All that fresh air and sunshine has been invigorating and soul saving in ways I didn't even realize I needed so badly.

So, a whirlwind cleaning spree involving a lot of bending and squatting led into hours of turning over garden beds with a shovel and haluing dirt and leaves. I was moving and it felt great. Then SAM bought Jillian Michaels's (yes, I promise that is right) 30 Day Shred plus a book and DVD to help me use my hoop more. Long story short, SAM, BD, and I have all gotten into the idea of eating better and exercising more. We didn't plan it that way, but it helps to all be on the same page. We're all working on limiting our portions at dinner and finding ways to make our staple meals healthier. We're all trying to do some form of exercise every day. SAM is doing great with the daily shred and has only missed a day since it came over a week ago. I've done some hooping (can't get the tricks!), some shredding (twice), some walking, and some heavy gardening that I consider a workout when it involves half an hour of heavy breathing and sweating as I turn over a whole bed without a break.

The biggest dragon I had to slay in order to even think about getting in shape and shedding some of the unhealthy poundage I'm carrying was, you already know, sweet tea. I was already feeling fat and sluggish from all the winter blahs and heavy, warming food, so slipping back into a gallon of tea every three or four days (but not every day, where I have been before) didn't seem like a big deal. Add that to my morning travel mug of hot tea with honey each day, and that was about 2500 calories a week I was drinking. So, it's gone. I've been drinking nothing but water for over a week now, and lots of it. The caffeine withdrawal was not bad at all, really. The first two days, I eased the late afternoon headache with two Excedrin Migraine (but the Kroger generic version), which have 65 mg of caffeine each. the next two days I had only one. Sunday I had one cup of Constant Comment with breakfast, and that's it. Since my goal was really to break the daily habit for the sake of cutting calories, I still plan to allow myself the occasional cup of hot tea, or maybe a glass of iced tea when I'm out, once in a while.

And really, that's why I feel like this can work for me. I'm not setting any lofty, outrageous goals or swearing I'll never touch pasta or ice cream again. Life is too short for that kind of nonsense. I just want to eat reasonably, add more fresh produce and grain-based meals to my diet, and feel healthy and fit. If I can get comfortably into a size 8 and feel good, that's really all I'm looking for. I think that's doable.

Springtime at The Compound

2010-04-12T19:15:00.000-07:00

Letting some pictures speak thousands of words:

The girls and my mostly disastrous hammock-making attempt.

Clearing up after dinner tonight.

The pergola insane with wisteria. It smells divine.

Okay, just a couple more garden shots. The carrot/potato/onion/cucumber bed. Cukes will vine over this old iron headboard we found.

If you look closely (click on the picture to make it bigger), you can see little tomato plants next to all those big stakes and inside the cages. BD saw this for the first time and said "That's optimism."

Easter business.

Last but certainly not least, Somerset on the zipline. That's my nephew standing on the new "treehouse" platform and my Dad walking underneath.

Stuff I did over spring break

2010-04-06T19:22:00.000-07:00

I'm too lazy to size a bunch of pictures, so just click on them to make them look better.

Watched and participated minimally in the building of a tree platform for zip line access.

Start seeds in the new window shelf BD built just for that purpose. He painted it a pretty blue, but this picture is too dark to tell.

Start work on a garden that the kids thought was some sort of mud foot bath.

Put my kids to work. (No way could they lift that dirt.)

Fill up all three of these beds, plus another big round one we made. Pictures soon to come. I dug two more beds after work today because we need more planting space! There are no more pine logs that will work for borders though. We drug (dragged?) these from the wooded area behind the house. We also hauled bags upon bags and buckets upon buckets of decomposing leaves to mulch all those beds.

I also decided that I'm ready to get healthy again. I'll write another post about that soon. Like, soon soon, not Sassy soon. I swear!

Three-Minute Fiction

2010-03-24T15:14:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my oldest friend Amy encouraged me to enter NPR's three-minute fiction contest. Back in the day, when I wrote more frequently and more than blog posts, I was more of a poet(ess?) than a fiction writer. But I gave it a shot anyway. Today I saw that All Adither had posted her entry, so I decided to make like a blogger and steal her idea, and then I encouraged BD and SAM to do the same. The story had to be somehow based on this photograph:

Imprint

I can’t make myself see, anymore, the way her eyes turned slightly downward at the corners or hear the hidden music I know that her voice contained. I can’t smell her clean cotton smell or feel the tangles of her hair as they felt to my grasping hands. A world of memory, the million moments of my life’s small years, vanished. Impossible that it could be so, undeniable that it is.

Clearest are the last times that I saw her. In her kitchen, seeming suddenly shrunken and breakable, reaching up to a high shelf. At my apartment, carefully keeping a neutral expression, her eyes taking in the fact that it was no bigger or nicer than the last three places I’d lived, that it contained no husband or expectant cradle, but refusing to send out any sign of disappointment. And her birthday, the one that maybe she knew would be her last, when I took her to lunch.

Who can say that everything I did that day was the wrong thing? What perfect daughter dares to judge me? I was the spoiled youngest child, the only girl. That day, her birthday, I took her to a small sandwich shop near my apartment where I ate three times a week.

“Let’s sit here,” I said, settling her at the orange postage stamp of a table. I went up to the counter in search of a menu and came back to find her with her coat still on, purse perched on her knees, staring with determination out the big plate glass window beside her. A familiar splinter of irritation shot through me.

“Mom, why don’t you take off your coat? Here, I’ll put it on the back of your chair. Let me have your purse, we’ll hang it right there under the coat. It’s fine.” I bustled around her, resenting for the thousandth time her age, her discomfort in my world, her utter inability to be like the younger mothers of my friends. I pushed the menu in front of her and waited. She stared at it, her expression growing increasingly bewildered.

“I’m not sure I…” she began and then laughed nervously. “What is…what do you like here?” she asked finally. Always composed but never at ease. I sighed and said I’d order for us. I got falafel for myself and a gyro for her, thick slices of spiced lamb wrapped in pita and foil, dripping tzatziki. While we waited for the sandwiches I looked for distractions, flipped through a magazine left on an empty table, checked my phone, looked around at the other patrons. Each time my eyes flitted over her face, they found her watching me.

“Little hummingbird,” she said softly. I rolled my eyes and shifted in my seat; she shook her head, almost imperceptibly. The man at the counter called our number and I couldn’t jump up fast enough to get our sandwiches. When I sat her gyro down she stared at it for a full minute, then looked up at me, brows lifted in amusement. The sandwich was almost as big as her head. I went back to the counter for a plastic knife and fork and she managed about a fourth of it that way before insisting that I take the rest home to eat later.

We were there for less than an hour. I gathered her up, bundled her out with her coat and lunch, so eager to move on that this reversal of our roles was lost on me. But she understood my hurry. It was too much her own not to recognize.

Scattered Pic-Tures

2010-03-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in the process of cleaning/rearranging the boys' room to accomodate their new (to them, thanks Chockleys!) couch, BD came across an old picture of me with the boys. Calvin is 4 and Joshua is around 10 months old, balanced on my knee in terry footies looking a little wacky with his huge baby grin. I'm pregnant with Somerset, but you can't tell because of our positioning and my black top and jeans...and the fact that my face is thinner in the picture than it is now.

Pictures are hard for me. I've never photgraphed well, even when I was 17 and weighed 105 pounds. Sure, occasionally there's a good shot of me, but in most pictures I look swollen and chinless. I have actually cried over pictures of myself, because it's so much easier for me to believe the photographic evidence than what I think I see in the mirror each day or what anyone says.

But you know, when I look at a picture of myself with my two sons taken almost eight years ago, and "Shit, I'm fatter than I was pregnant for the second time in two years" outweighs "Aw, look how little and cute my boys were," I know that something is wrong. I know I have to do better, on several levels.

Like the lady sang:

It took me too long to realize
that I don't take good pictures
cuz I have the kind of beauty that moves

Note to Self

2010-03-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

Here's some advice:

Do not allow your small almost-four year old to consume two (three?) Fiber One granola bars over the course of the weekend. It will end badly. Who knew?

Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me

2010-03-15T11:56:00.000-07:00

Here is a little snapshot of this moment:

I just heard about how, in the highrise building directly in front of my classroom window, a father threw his month-old baby down the trash chute from the eleventh floor apartment of its mother. The baby is miraculously unharmed, or I wouldn't have told you. No one needs a dead baby story smacking them unexpectedly in the face. Which happened to me the past two times I've read Katie Granju's blog, one of which was this morning. WTH, Katie?

I just listened to a boy ask a pregnant girl in my class this question: "When your baby is born, is that going to be its birthday or just its birth date?"

My speech class is supposed to be working up opening statements for a debate about the fact that a Mississippi high school has chosen to cancel prom rather than permit a lesbian student to bring her girlfriend as her date, because they know they have no legal grounds. So far the team arguing in favor of the school's decision has nothing. Which is good in a way, but also has more to do with the fact that they haven't bothered to do any research.

Out of the five classes that took a very simple, 25-question practice ACT as their quarter exam, five students passed it. Five. The test questions are identical to the warm-ups we do every. Single. Day. Five. 5.

Ugh.

A Long, Long Time Ago and Apparently Awesome

2010-03-04T20:22:00.000-08:00

Congratulations to Brigid Pasulka (see interview post below this one) on winning the Hemingway Foundation/PEN award!

A Long, Long Time Ago and Essentially True

2010-03-03T06:31:00.000-08:00

I learned of this book through the innovative and amazing website of my friend, Chicago-based English teacher Joe Scotese, but didn’t realize until after I read it that Pasulka teaches English at the same magnet high school as Joe. Not one to let a single degree of separation stop me, I struck up a correspondence with the author, and she kindly agreed to let me interview her for The Shelf Life.

Here's part two of the interview.

Sassy: You get up early every morning to write for two hours before going to work as a high school English teacher, is that right? Have you always been that disciplined? What time do you go to bed? How does one form that kind of work habit?

BP: The hard work and discipline definitely comes from my parents. I remember being allowed to watch one hour of television a week when we were young, and even then, we had to get up and clean or fold laundry on the commercials. My dad, especially, never seems to slow down, and I’ve happily inherited that from him. As for writing, I think I was writing here and there for about a year before I decided that I either had to commit to it or leave it alone. So I made a New Year’s resolution (in 1996, I think?) that I was going to write every day. I put a calendar on the wall and crossed off the days until I got into the habit. Now it’s like taking a shower or brushing my teeth—if I don’t write I just don’t feel right. And I’ve always had to work it in around my regular jobs. I am a high school teacher now, so on a normal day I try to go to bed at 10 or 10:30, get up at 5:30 and write until about 7:30. I can usually get to school by 8:15 or 8:30. If, on a rare day, I have to sleep in, I just pack up my computer and go straight from school to a coffee shop in the afternoon and bribe myself with cookies and coffee to put in a couple of hours of writing.

Sassy: I love that this book contains multiple models of femininity that are all portrayed in a non-judgmental way. Magda in her little black dress when everyone else is in jeans, Kinga dreaming of a bigger life and hiding her bad teeth, Baba Yaga thinking she is invisible, and Irena trying to sublimate her womanhood because of grief—they are all so real and so different, and all sympathetic characters. Did you spend time thinking about the way women would be portrayed in the book? Is that something you notice or ever have issues with in your own reading or in your life?

BP: Not at all. In the words of my friend, Joanne, I just followed the story. The characters appeared, and I just wrote down what they did.

Sassy: I also liked and appreciated the fact that although there are some bad men in the book, there are also several really good ones. It strikes me as somewhat unusual that you are able to have both male and female protagonists, and that there is balance in the way both men and women are portrayed. Did you make a conscious effort to do that?

BP: Sometimes I wish I had that much forethought, but no, it all just worked out that way.

Sassy: Did you find yourself thinking like an English teacher when you were writing? Did you think about things like symbolism or wonder if certain themes would go unnoticed, or be overemphasized?

BP: I think I was thinking like an English teacher, not in terms of content—themes and motifs and such—but more in terms of audience. Planning lessons and standing in front of the classroom, I’m constantly reshuffling to make things clearer, more interesting or more relevant for my students, which is a very similar process to what I’m doing when I’m writing. Teaching also helps to keep my sense of humor intact—my students keep me laughing all day long. And now when I do a reading, I just pretend I’m reading the Odyssey to a room full of fourteen-year-olds and trying to keep their attention. It really works.

Sassy: Has becoming a published author affected your identity as a teacher or the way people at work act toward you?

BP: Not that much, actually. The fact that I’m a professional writer registers with some of my students, but I try not to talk about it unless they ask because I want to keep the focus on them and their goals. My administration is very supportive in helping me balance teaching and writing, my colleagues are great, and a lot of them are or were professionals in their content areas. In our department alone, we have an education professor who has also recently published a book, a teacher who runs a very popular teaching web site, one who used to head a theater company, one who is a playwright…we tend to just celebrate the latest success, whosever it is.

Ten SImple Things

2010-02-28T11:15:00.001-08:00

As directed by SAM, here are my ten simple things that make me happy right now:

1. Seed packets and plans for our huge garden this summer.
2. That I entered the NPR Three-Minute Fiction contest, even though I have no expectation whatsoever of winning.
3.Time after the kids go to bed. (When I manage to stay awake.)
4. Beach house hunting for our family's vacation.
5. Weekend breakfasts.
6. That it's almost time for Spring Break and after that just 8 more weeks of school. More or less.
7. Watching BD scheme ways to get finches to hang out in the courtyard of our house.
8. Somerset's dance moves, particularly the tiny robot.
9. The way Genevieve calls out "I love you So Much Mommy!" as she runs by playing.
10. That I've written about two chapters of a YA novel. Maybe. Sort of.

Overheard in the minivan

2010-02-20T17:44:00.000-08:00

Actual conversation BD and I had on the way to the bookstore today. And I use the term "conversation" loosely.

Me: What is that guy's license plate supposed to say? (It said "FLTRPMP")
BD: Filter pump.
Me: Really? Filter pump?
BD: Filter pump.
Me: Why would someone want their license plate to say "filter pump?"
BD: He makes filter pumps.
Me: Well I think it says "Floater Pimp."
BD: Yeah, that's what it says.

Dogs are from Mars, Cats are from Venus

2010-02-15T11:07:00.001-08:00

Yesterday morning, Genevieve and I were having a snuggle in my bed sometime mid-morning when she said out of nowhere, "Mommy, are cats girls and dogs are boys?" I had to stop and think whether she'd heard me say that, because this is exactly what I believed when I was little. But no, I hadn't mentioned it to anyone lately, she just thought of it. BD says all kids think that, but I don't know. It feels so bizarre when she demonstrates how much her mind works in the same way as mine. And when I explained that no, there are boy dogs and girl dogs, and boy cats and girl cats, she immediately, without having to pause and think it through, said "But why are there boy cats and girl dogs?"

A couple of months ago, as you maye have seen on BD's blog up in the "Quotable Quartet" section, we were in the car when she said to me in a slow, dreamy voice, "Mommy...when I'm sleepy, everything feels greasy. Like...chicken...on fingers." And you know, I knew exactly what she meant. I have a clear memory of waking up one morning after being sick when I was very young, probably no older than five, and telling someone "I slept like a tube of toothpaste." I had woken up feeling rested and great after a few days of feeling crappy, and that was what popped into my head as an appropriate comparison. I also have never liked ketchup on hotdogs because it tastes like too much red, in the way that a red shirt paired with pants in a slightly different shade of red would feel wrong.

She also has started talking a lot about her imaginary "Dremmy." Her friend and housemate Miss M has a "Grammy," so I think that's where she got that. She has filled me in on the back story of how she has a Dremmy, not Grandma but another Dremmy, and when Genevieve "used to be a grown up," she would go over to Dremmy's house and they would do things together. So each day, if someone mentions going somewhere or doing something fun, she will often tell me how she went there/did that with her Dremmy. Sometimes the stories are also scary or violent.

One way I can tell that G is approaching age four is that she is becoming increasingly morbid. Just as her oldest brother once told me, as a four year old, that "I was imagining being dead and all I could see was black dark," Genevieve has lately started telling me "I was thinking of something." Then she will go on to describe what sounds like a bad dream, but she will clarify "I didn't dream it, I just was thinking it." Recently she told me she was thinking about if Miss M came with her to Grandma's house and Deuce was there (her cousin's dog) and Miss M went to pet Deuce and Deuce ate her legs all up and then her arms all up and then just her head was left. Now, G loves Deuce, and has gotten over an initial fear of her that came from never really having spent time around dogs, and specifically not an American bulldog as tall as she is. She didn't even sound scared when she told me about her little vision, either. It was just something she thought of. This weekend she told me again that she was "thinking of something," and it turned out to be an elaborate montage of people falling down holes far too complicated for me to follow.

Oh! That also reminds me that she asked me about a week ago if "When people die, do they get sucked into the street and the sidewalk?" Thinking this sounded like something she saw on one of those weird cartoons her older siblings like to watch, (seriously, Chowder? WTH is that all about?), I asked if she saw that on a show. "No!" she exclaimed in irritation, "I'm just asking you! When people die, do they get sucked into the street and the sidewalk?" "No baby," I said, "people don't get sucked into the street or the sidewalk. Did someone tell you that?" "No!" she said, clearly exasperated that I was being thick, "I just thought of it and I'm just asking you!" Then she asked where people get sucked into when they die if it's not the street or the sidewalk. Um...? What am I supposed to say to that? I said "They don't get sucked into anywhere, honey. That's just not what happens" and then I distracted her by pointing out something happening beyond the window.

Freaky little kid.

My infinite coolness

2010-02-12T11:39:00.000-08:00

My friend Chip and I recently had an IM conversation so SWPL-esque and also incredibly dorky that I could not resist posting it here. It started with a discussion of micheladas, which might seem moderately hip, but then it all went to hell. *Observe:

me: I've been looking at several recipes on line.
The Cholula sounds good. I could drink that stuff. I wonder if Rooster sauce would be good.
Chip: Old people type "on line" for "online," Kristy.
me: Sorry!
Chip: ;-)
me: It's just...not a word!
Chip: In 2010 it is.
But anyway, yes, I'd agree that Cholula would be better than Tobasco.
me: I guess. Online seems like an adjective, whereas on line seems like an adverbial phrase.
I'm sure my adherence to grammatical rules makes me much cooler.
Chip: Online is both an adjective and an adverb, I'd say.
"Online gaming" and "Researching online."
me: That's just not right, though! It defies all the conventions of how those things work.
See, no. Researching online is so inherently wrong.
Chip: I mean, the "on" is definitely not a preposition?
me: I think prepositions are prepositions no matter how they're used. Unless it's the infinitive form of a verb.
In some thing like "on line" used as an adverbial phrase, it's still sort of functioning as a preposition.
Chip: I say not a preposition because "online" has transcended being "on" something. The meaning has moved beyond the preposition.
Wait, but now you just typed "some thing." I'm thinking it's just your natural inclination to separate things that should be one word.
me: It hasn't really, though. Even when words combine and evolve, they retain some of their original meaning and form. (I missed that second part. He's probably right.)
Chip: True.
me: Dorkiest conversation ever!
Chip: I would only have this conversation with an English teacher.
me: I may have to post this conversation on my blog.
Chip: Only dorks read your blog.

*Usage of "lol" has been removed to preserve the dignity of parties involved.

Vitametavegamin

2010-02-02T12:18:00.000-08:00

I have been meaning to pop in and remind all my lady friends, particularly the ones who have had their bodies repeatedly harvested for nutrients like I have (by babies, not aliens) to take their vitamins. For a couple of months now I have been very consistently taking mine, specifically B12 and an additional B complex with C, vitamin E, vitamin D, and a Calcium, Magnesium, and Zinc combo. I've read that the last one especially is good for preventing run-downedness in women.

I can report that most signicficantly, some pretty serious and irritating hormonal imblanace, lady-business-cycle type issues have improved drastically. I did not even maim or kill anyone during ovulation this month! Also my skin did not go insane, my cycle did not get (another) two days shorter and generally the whole thing was barely notcible. This after several months of feeling like I was losing my mind on the Hormone Express to hell, and back, and back to hell, and back. You get the picture. Also, my nails are about five times harder and less bendy and splitty than they were.

Thus concludes my highly convincing scientific explanation of the benefits of taking cheap, BOGO Kroger vitamins. Go get you some.

Ennui

2010-01-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

I'm in a bit of a funk. The blahs. The doldrums, if you will. There's a restlessness that, if you could see it, would look like someone trying to Houdini their way out of a straightjacket under cover of a wet wool blanket. I want to ditch everything and go live in a tropical paradise with a hammock in the indoor/outdoor livingroom. I want to pull a Peter Gibbons and stop going to my job. Not quit, just not go anymore. Or show up just to do things my way and tell Mr. TPS Reports to suck it, with "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta" playing in the background. (Too much?)

Maybe this is all just because it's January and I hate January because it's still winter. Maybe it's the fact that I am being strangled to mental death by layers and layers of bureaucracy and I feel like nothing I drag ass out of bed at 6:00 a.m. to do every day is in any way measurable or definable or tangible. I feel a tremendous need to do things my own way, but also a tremendous, suffocating exhaustion that makes it hard for me to act. Right now I feel like nothing I'm doing is allowing me to shine, and I am shiny, dammit! At least, I used to be.

I want to do something new. I want to create something or make something or at least just contribute in some recognizable way. I want to feel good at what I'm doing and know that I'm good at it because it is well suited to my abilities and to me as a person. Right now I would happily be a fabulous housewife or a really good waitress if it would mean that I had found my groove again.

Hibernation

2010-01-14T11:47:00.000-08:00

I keep thinking of things I want to post about, and then when I get a chance to post, I can't remember what I was thinking about. But that's not conversation, is it?

We've been pretty housebound since Christmas, going out as we have to for school and work and then scurrying home again to the warm fire and layers of soft, comfy clothes. I've been making soup as often as I can get away with it in my soup-ambivalent household, crocheting and learning more about ways to use that new skill on the internet. Come the apocalypse, I will be keping everyone's heads warm. I am dying to unravel an old sweater or something so I can start building a reclaimed yarn stash. (What is happening to me?!) I have been sort of plodding through The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter off and on since Thanksgiving, but my new craftiness has seriously cut into my reading time. That's partly because I decided to make a bunch of Christmas gifts, and partly because the book is good but just not particularly compelling to me at the moment. I decided to go ahead and start reading the book I got for Christmas, A Long, Long Time Ago and Essentially True. I'm only a few chapters into it, but I like it. It reminds me of History of Love, which I adored. I've been listening to Regina Spektor's Far until the songs fill my head to the point that I have to not listen to it for a few days. In addition to just liking the songs, it always feels so...I don't know, life affirming? to find someone who is truly original in what she does.

I feel like I've turned a corner with Genevieve. I think it's partly that she's now closer to four than three and has passed through the worst of the horrible three-year-old-bipolarness, and partly that I've just had to stop and force myself to pull water from the stone in terms of my ability to be patient with her tantrums. The older kids are getting a little slap happy from spending so much time indoors, much of it in front of the television or the Wii. It's finally warmer today and BD has big plans to get them outside breaking in the new basketball hoop Santa brought, so we'll see how that goes.

Mostly right now I feel like I'm lying fallow, dreaming of Spring, letting thoughts and ideas ripen and swell.

C is for Awesome

2010-01-05T16:20:00.000-08:00

You made me believe that everything in my life had happened so that you could get here, and I was totally cool with that.

You gave me all my hardest work first, while I still had the energy for it, and then spoiled me with your ability to self direct.

You get sarcasm and know how to wield it, but you also know how to be kind. Or just plain silly.

Every time you ask if anyone wants the last roll/cookie/whatever before taking it for yourself, my heart swells with pride. You are the great and much-adored big brother.

And you always ask for mama's meatloaf for your birthday dinner. Happy birthday Calvin. You are my first and always baby.

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2!

2009-12-30T12:16:00.000-08:00

You may or may not have heard that the decade is ending. It has already been ten years since we partied like it was in fact 1999. I was 27 when the last decade ended, which seems impossibly young to me now. I had one child, a toddler, which also seems impossible. I had spent the last year of the nineties regaining my equilibrium and trying to assemble some sense of identity after the first year of motherhood threw me for a loop. I did okay, and it's a good thing, because the aughts had some surprises in store for me.

Would I write a letter, if I could, to 27 year old me to give her a heads up on the coming decade? If I did, what would it say? "In the next decade, you will have three more children, open and close a business that will destroy you financially, spend about 2/3 of the decade breastfeeding, gain 20 pounds, teach at three different schools, make new and lasting friendships with people who will become immeasurably important to you, reconnect with part of your past that was almost lost to you forever, take emotional risks that would terrify most people and be rewarded beyond your expectations, feel amazed on a daily basis that you managed to marry the perfect man, outgrow your house, abandon it for a bigger house that you love, read a lot of books but not write one (what are you waiting for?), survive life with a three year old four times (barely), and struggle with what feels like never-ending baby and toddlerhood, but through it all you will hold on to your intrinsically hopeful and optimistic nature. Mostly."

Maybe it would be more productive to write a letter to current me about the new decade. "Dear Sassy, I can't help but suggest that you get off your ass. Which, as you may have noticed, is barely fitting in those jeans. I'm just sayin'. But I don't just mean that you need to be physically less sedentary. You are coasting and you know it. You've always done this, and you know you feel better when you challenge yourself more. You should be writing. You should be approaching your job with more energy and creativity. Ditto for motherhood. Ten years from now you'll be pushing 50. What will you have to show for it?

Did you hear what I just said? Then why are you still sitting at the computer? Go!"

Alright, alright! Here's to the...whatever we're supposed to call this oddly numbered decade. Happy New Year to all of you. May the surprises of the next decade all be good ones.

She's Crafty

2009-12-19T15:49:00.000-08:00

So I've been quiet lately. If you know me in real life, you know that quiet from me is often scary. But in blogworld, it just means I've been off living my life without stopping to navel gaze about it much. But let's face it, I can't go too long without seeing what's in there.

Right now, I'd have to say that what's in there are bits of yarn fluff and little scraps of cut paper. I'm not sure what kind of Martha-cloning experiment the government has secretly included me in, or if my moons have moved into...whatever house the craftiness lives in, but I can't stop making stuff. It's kind of freaking me out a little bit.

I've never been a crafter. It's all just a bit too precious for me, the scrapbooking and whatnot. I'm also not fidgety or a person who needs to be moving or doing something with my hands. I know I'm often brassy and loud, borderline obnoxious even, but I can also be very still and focused for long periods of time. And what I've always loved to sit and do, of course, is read. That has been my reason for not knitting or crocheting in the past--because if I'm going to sit there, I'm going to be reading a book.

Except now I'm not. I learned to crochet (again) over Thanksgiving almost by accident. SAM wanted to learn from my sister-in-law and/or mother-in-law while we were in Georgia for the holiday, so we got her hooked up with plenty of needles and yarn, and since I was right there I went ahead and learned too. I started trying to make a scarf, which was not very scarf-like and had very irregular edges. Once I had used up an entire skein of yarn, I looked at my three feet of wonky failure, laughed, and unraveled the whole thing. It felt very Zen. I was like those Buddhist monks who spend days making sand mandalas only to wipe them away upon completion. Except what they make is intricate and beautiful and what I'd made totally sucked, but whatever. You get what I mean. I got to looking around youtube and learned a new stitch or two and made about half a scarf out of that same yarn, alternating rows of fancy patterns.

Then took I it apart again because of weird edge issues. Finally I decided I was sick of looking at that yarn, switched to a cranberry red, and made this scarf. Success! (It looks prettier on SAM with her snazzy new leather jacket.)

Then I decided to try to make a hat. At first it seemed like I had done it, and really fast! In about an hour and a half I had something that was a little pointy at the top and a little loose and floppy at the bottom, but still I was all "Woohoo, I made a hat!" Then I immediately started making another one and for some reason it was a lot smaller. Like, too small for a baby. I went back and watched the youtube video and looked at the written instructions, and then I laughed and laughed because while I had gotten the really cute puff stitch right, I'd totally screwed up the actual hat-making part. So, once I again, I unraveled my work and started over. And I got it right! It was so satisfying. I made another one using a simpler stitch and made a cute pom pom to go on top.

Then of course I had to make a pom pom for the first hat, which I'd made for Genevieve, and she demanded that it also have a flower. So I learned to make a flower, and after five false starts, I made one and attached it. Now Genevieve won't wear the hat for some random reason that only makes sense to a chemically unbalanced three year old, but it looks really cute on Somerset, and once I finish the one I'm making to be the exact color reverse of this one, I bet Genevieve will want to wear it so she and her big sister can match.

Meanwhile my friend Kristin posted a video on facebook showing how to make really cool 3D snowflakes out of paper. I'd show you the video if I were not too lazy to look it up. Or maybe not, because it's more impressive if you don't know how relatively easy they are to make. As is my way, I ruined the first one I tried, although in fairness to myself, the step I messed up was really unclear in the instructions. So Kristin was nice enough to bring me some, which let me see my error, and then I made several, including a bi-colored one.

And then I guess the government upped the amount of whatever they are secretly adding to my food because I bought special paper and when our friends came over I announced that I had planned a craft for the kids. And then they all died of shock because we all know that A) I am tired of children and do not often choose to hang out with groups of them when I could be chatting with adults over a cocktail, and B) I don't do crafts. But I did, and we did (with a lot of help from the moms because my middle son led a rebellion of the mid-aged boys), and it looked like this (the crafting, not the rebellion. That looked like a pack of urchins led by a skinny boy with too-long hair and ripped jeans):

I also made goody bags for the kids: peppermint bark (success, lots of compliments), fudge from scratch (fail, didn't cook long enough, we're going to eat it warm with ice cream because it was too sticky and soft to cut), and chocolate-chip ginger bars (hard to say because I don't like ginger) and made them look all cute.

Somewhere in there SAM and BD worked really hard to help me make the house look like this so we could host the faculty Christmas party.

Now I ask you, who is this woman, and what has she done with Sassy?

The Rule of Threes

2009-11-18T06:45:00.000-08:00

Sometime I should ask a numerologist or some other new agey type person to explain to me why the number three has been so significant in my life. It's something I've been aware of since I was a kid. I noticed it in big and little things, in ways both visual and practical. That I was the oldest of three children, that I saw objects in groupings of three everywhere I looked (often in the form of faces), that Jimmy Stewart wore a jersey with the number three on it in a scene from my favorite movie, that I had a ridiculous and ill-advised crush on the mohawked number 3 of the football team when I was a freshman in high school. Third grade was, for me, a horrific year, marring an otherwise happy and peaceful elementary career. My third pregnancy was ill-timed and shocking, beginning when my second baby was only five months old. I knew instinctively that three was not the right number of children for me to have, even though I thought for a time that it would happen that way. Until my third child turned three, in fact, and I got pregnant again. Not that three has always been a negative force in my life, but that's not what this post is about.

Right now the number three is manifesting itself in my life in two very difficult ways. One is that my three year old is making me insane, but I've said plenty about that and I'm working on it and that's not what I want to talk about right now. The other is that my current third grader is having some of the same difficulties that I had in third grade, which has always been my fear with my kids. My third grade teacher called my parents and told them I was well on my way to becoming a juvenile delinquent. I came home to my mom in tears and thought someone had died. (Inexplicably, I thought it must be my grandmother's little dog, Missy. Maybe I didn't want to think it was an actual person?) Joshua's issues aren't that extreme, but after he brought home an N in conduct on his progress report last week, I had an email exchange with his teacher. Apparently he talks too much, which isn't surprising, but she said he has become somewhat surly and defiant when asked to stop talking. He also disrupted a class-wide game until he was finally told to go sit down, at which point he said "Good!" Which is kind of funny, because my disasterous third grade rebellion was prompted by my teacher trying to make me play math Bingo. She kept putting a card on my desk, and I kept putting it on someone else's desk. A friend told me I should stop before I hurt her feelings, to which I replied scornfully "She doesn't have feelings. She's not a human being, she's just a teacher." Seriously. But see, I hated that teacher because she wouldn't put me in the highest reading group, where I knew I belonged. Joshua likes his teacher, and his defiance is less pronounced, but it's hard not to think he's just in the same kind of stage I must have been in at that age. Pre-adolescence. Good times!

BD and I sat down with him last night to talk about whatever is going on with him. It's not just the school stuff. While he often seems happy and fine, he can become enraged and almost violent at the drop of a hat. On ravioli day when he unkindly told one of the younger kids to go away while he played with Satchel and Jiro, I took him aside and asked him how he would feel if someone treated him that way. He replied, predictably "Everyone does treat me that way." I guess this "no one likes me, everyone hates me" syndrome is a middle child thing? Because there is absolutely no evidence that it is true. His teacher noticed the same thing, noting that Joshua had expressed those same feelings to her, even though he has many friends in school and is always included in their play. I explained to her that Joshua's two main refrains are the aforementiond "no one likes me" and also "I never get to have/do anything fun." The second is because we won't buy him video games. The travesty! Meanest parents ever! Yesterday when he was supposed to write about what he's thankful for, he told his teacher that he didn't know what to write because "I have nothing."

When we talked to him, we told him he wasn't in trouble, although he will be if he continues to be disrespectful to his teacher and bring home bad conduct grades. We told him we love him and want him to be happy, but that he needs to understand that we make decisions about what he can and can't have/do based on what we think is best for him, because that is our job, and that even though he won't always like those decisions, that's life and he has to accept it and move on. I couldn't resist offering to take him downtown to Porter Leath orphanage if he wants to see what it looks like when a child really has nothing. Maybe I should. A little holiday volunteer work would probably be good for the whole family. He cried and denied that anything is wrong, but he didn't say much else. I pulled him over into my lap and stroked his hair while we talked. Hopefully it helped. I guess we'll see.

Bookish

2009-10-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

I have a review up on The Shelf Life Blog. It's a review of Her Fearful Symmetry, the new book by Audrey Niffeneger. She wrote The Time Traveler's Wife, which I loved, but unfortunately I did not love this book. I loved things about it, but then it turned on me.

Right now I'm about 150 pages into an 864 page book, Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. So far I'm enjoying it. It doesn't move too fast, but I guess if you've got 864 pages in which to tell your tale, you can afford to take your time with it.

In my senior English classes we're reading a few of The Canterbury Tales, which the students always enjoy. They love "The Pardoner's Tale" especially. In eleventh grade, we're reading The Crucible, which I love and haven't been able to teach since my student teaching, because that was the last time I taught American lit. The kids like it too. There's nothing like having a student read out Abigail's lines "...Let either of you breathe a word, or the edge of a word, about the other things, and I will come to you in the black of some terrible night and I will bring you a pointy reckoning that will shudder you. And you know I can do it..." and hearing the rest of the class draw in breath and go "Oooh!" Everyone loves a bad girl.

What does it say about me...

2009-10-21T05:23:00.000-07:00

That there is a part of me that would totally wear this coat.

37

2009-10-20T06:31:00.000-07:00

Since today is my birthday and I'm now 37 whole entire years old*, it seems like I should write something about that. You know, reflect, reminisce, that sort of thing.

But sometimes it's hard to talk about all this senseless beauty without feeling like you are over there making sarcastic gagging motions, you know? Because my life, it is beautiful, and I've told you as much many times. The litany: amazing husband, incredible romantic marriage, love, love, love, beautiful, healthy kids, smart-funny-great friends, work I care about, my fortunate health. A superstitious person would say I was jinxing myself, but I am defiantly optimistic.

That's not to say I can't do better. Not in the life I have, but in the way I live it and appreciate it. I haven't been taking great care of myself. This morning as I showered, I told myself that I will lose 20 pounds before I turn 38. It's not just about the jeans I can't snap or the extra chins, either. This is the only body I have, and if it's going to take me all the way to 100, as I intend, then I need to get it into better shape and keep it there. I don't need to be a size 2 or even a 4 or 6, but I need to be strong. Time to start using that gym membership that has been languishing since the pool closed for the season. There are other things I need to work on--all that usual staying in the moment, not wishing time away kind of stuff. I'm trying. The three-ness of my youngest child is just about to kill me, but I am trying. Instead of wishing to go into a coma for the next ten or so years until they're all old enough to want nothing to do with me, I'm down to just wishing to fast forward the next six months until Genevieve is four. That's progress, right?

So happy birthday to me. I already got to enjoy a great birthday date that involved a babysitter, Indian food that made me hum and do the happy food dance in my seat, pool playing, and beer, and tonight I get to enjoy the household tradition of choosing my birthday dinner. BD is grilling me steak. Rare.

*I was thinking I was going to be 38, but then I remembered that BD is 39 and he's never just one digit older than I am. That's what happens when you get old--you forget your own age!

License to Breed

2009-10-14T08:32:00.000-07:00

The other day during an in-service training at work, one of the administrators was demonstrating different classroom activities meant to help us move away from lecturing and whole-group instruction and toward differentiated and small-group instruction. One of the activities involved putting up signs in four different areas of the room that said "Agree," "Strongly Agree," "Disagree," and "Strongly Disagree." The idea is that the instructor makes a statement relevant to some part of the lesson, and the students move to stand near one of those signs. Then you mix up the groups and have them try to convince each other.

The statement that we had to agree or disagree with was "Parenting classes should be required for anyone planning to have a child." I know that's something people joke about and throw out after stories of particularly bad or stupid parenting. And I think most people kept their thinking about it at that level, because every single faculty member moved to either "Agree" or "Strongly Agree," except for me and one other guy. He's new this year, and I'm pretty sure single and childless as well. As I walked over to "Disagree," he was sort of waffling between staying there and going to join the crowd, but as I stood firm he said "I think I'm going to stay here."

We were running short on time, so we didn't do the part where we switch groups and try to change each other's minds, but I imagined incredulous questions being hurled at me, and what I would say. Things like "Who would teach those classes and set the standards for 'good parenting'?" To which I imagined replies like "Well, it would just be basic things. Things that anyone with sense would agree on." But I could list several debatable things that some people might include in that "common sense" category, like that all babies should be born in hospitals, or that every child should be vaccinated with every new vaccine that comes along, as early as possible. That spanking works. That there could possibly be one way of parenting that works for every child and every family.

Maybe it's because of the way I feel so micromanaged at work lately, but I've been thinking a lot about what a travesty it is when everyone gets treated like the weakest link. The one-size-fits-all standardized approach to education, work, parenting, life...it's a myth and it's hurting us. Where is the rugged individualism? Where is the American belief in individual freedom and choice, even if that means some people make bad choices?

There's a church down the street from my house with a sign that says "Every home is a school. What do you teach?" When I saw all those teachers standing over next to "Agree," I thought about how our whole society is a parenting class. As a society we have an incredibly strong tendency to censure certain choices. What sitcom doesn't have an episode about kids who breastfeed for too long, moms who live vicariously through their daughters, dads who get too worked up over their sons' sports, spinster aunts whose mothers ruined them and grown men who can't cut the apron strings? Every legal drama shows us children killed by their loving but deluded parent's wacky belief in faith healing or natural medicine or fear of vaccines or experimental child-rearing techniques. We get plenty of messages about what is expected of us as parents, what is and is not acceptable.

The idea of requiring parenting classes is no different from any other band-aid approach to a social problem. Giving away our power to instituions is not the answer. I like to believe that in a real conversation, there would have been far fewer people agreeing to that idea. Because if we're all taught some faceless entity's idea of good parenting/teaching/whatevering, and we're all held to a single standard, maybe there will be fewer people falling below the bar, but there will also be fewer rising above it.

A smattering of things that go on in my vaccuum cleaner head

2009-09-28T11:17:00.000-07:00

That was the title of a poem written by a very enigmatic individual named Hyatt from back in my poetry workshop days at Rhodes. I remember it contained lines about his little brother dying after being "shark fed crystal meth," before any other normal person had ever even heard of that stuff. (He didn't really have a brother who died by meth, just so you know. Never trust a writer.)

That title, and its attached poetic body, popped into my head when I was thinking about how I should post, and how I really just had kind of a random smattering of thoughts and happenings to report. That set me wondering what happened to Hyatt and how old he really was and what his deal was. He seemed older than he should have been, and like maybe he came from a lot of money but chose to live in relative squalor in his strange, low-ceilinged, book-piled apartment in someone's attic and just go to school forever. Or maybe that's just my over-active writerly imagination. See what I mean about the trust thing?

Anyway, my thoughts wander like that. Want to go on a little ride down my stream of consciousness? Here we go! Row, row, row your boat...

Random current #1: I've mentioned to a few people that I'm re-reading The Catcher in the Rye, as I'm considering teaching it second semester. Since I now have two sections of eleventh-grade American lit after three solid years of nothing but the Brits, I'm kind of excited to teach a more contemporary novel later in the year. (It's hard to get that far in British Lit because, you know, it starts a few hundred years before America was even a glint in her daddy's eye.) And I've been surprised to have several people tell me they either hated the book or haven't wanted to read it because they think they will hate it. Um...what?? Okay, first of all, it's a great book. GREAT. And second of all, I was under the impression that this is one of the most beloved American novels of all time. We love Holden Caulfield. Don't we?? Chalk this one under reasons to lose faith in humanity.

Random current #2: It is the major paradox of my being that I am very optimistic and positive, but at the same time cynical and harshly critical. Maybe that doesn't make sense, but if you know me, you know what I'm talking about. The harshly critical part usually gets triggered by things that a lot of other people think are really cool. Yes, I know that's annoying and makes me basically an emo 16 year old boy. Whatever. The point is, I'm not real free with the praise of public figures or various pop culture what-have-yous, (except for writers, and I'll get to that in a minute.) The only thing that will make me come to the defense of a really popular figure is if they are currently the victim of a backlash. I'm a sucker for the underdog. But, but, and this is my actual point I'm finally coming to: when I grow up I want to be this woman. Because really, she just could not be any more badassed. So if you ever hear me doing what Stacey delicately called "laying the verbal smackdown like no other" on someone I deem to be stupid, and you wonder what it takes for me to just unabashedly geek out over a person's awesomeness, there's your example. She's not only smart, but driven and courageous. I think Diana Adams is so cool that I cannot even mock her coolness. That hardly ever happens. Chalk this one up under affirming faith in humanity.

Random current #3: I've been thinking a lot lately about writing. You know, like, a book. I have a couple of ideas for young adult novels. One is more fully-formed than the other. The characters are staring to knock on doors in my head. Partly they're telling me I have the wrong idea about what happenes to them, but we'll see. But then, at the same time, I just finished reading Wonder Boys. That Michael Chabon--holy crap! So I'd be reading, and I'd get smacked with one of those Chabon moments (when SAM and I had this conversation, she called it "a revelation of language," which seems apt), and I'd think "Oh right, THAT. That's writing. Damn!" Because you can't really get to that level in a YA novel. I think there is literary merit in a lot of YA lit, and I think it's a perfectly respectable thing to write, but when I read something like Kavalier and Clay or Wonder Boys, I feel like that's what I should aspire to. Like if I'm going to go to all the trouble to write a whole entire book, I should really write it, you know? So there's that. But I read a couple of Chabon's books before I figured out what all the fuss was about, so maybe that takes time. Even the freakishly talented don't hit that mark every time they put something out there.

There's a lot of other stuff running through my mind at any given moment, but this post is already long and attention spans are short these days, so I'll stop there for now.

S is for Seven

2009-09-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

Somerset, you are seven years old today. You have requested breakfast for your birthday dinner, chocolate-chip pancakes and bacon and sausage. Specifically, you would like a pancake in the shape of an "S."

I have no doubt that when you get it, you will break into one of your funky little dances. You know the dance I mean, where you do kind of a robot meets King Tut meets Elaine from Seinfeld type thing.

Right now, you remind me a lot of myself at your age, except I was sweeter. I wouldn't say that you are mean, exactly, but you are tough. You have the self-preservation instincts of a girl with two big bothers and a little sister who sometimes channels schizophrenic demons.

I'm cool with that. I want you to be kind and compassionate, but I also want you to know how to look out for yourself. You don't take any crap, and I wouldn't have it any other way. We'll keep working on recognizing when butts need kicking and when someone just needs you to cut them some slack.

The thing I admire most about you is your perseverence. More than either of your brothers, you will make up your mind to do something and then keep trying until you do it. It's a quality that will serve you well. I need to help you find something productive to channel that into.

Sometimes when I watch you play now, I catch glimpses of the teenager you'll be in a few years, and the woman you'll be in a few more. I can't wait to meet those versions of you, because I know you'll be even smarter and funnier and stranger than you are now. Happy birthday my beautiful Somerset. I feel lucky to be your mom.

Heart Felt

2009-09-13T08:59:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, BD came home from work with a book called Heart of Croatia tucked under his arm. He told me all about his customer, Dr. Novick, who traveled the world performing life-saving heart surgery on babies and children who were otherwise sure to die. As he spoke, I saw how much this story resonated with him, how much he wanted to tell it to me and anyone else who would listen.

More recently, he and Dr. Novick have been talking about how to get that story to a larger audience. Today's Commercial Appeal bears the first fruit of that labor. It really is an amazing, inspiring story, and I'm both impressed by and proud of the way it turned out. I hope you'll take the time to read it and pass it on. The more people who know about the ICHF, the better their chances of gaining the support they need to continue and expand their important work.

WWSD

2009-09-08T16:39:00.000-07:00

So, the first confirmed H1N1 death in Shelby County occurred yesterday, and the victim was an eighth grader from my child's middle school. Calvin is only in sixth grade and they didn't know each other, but I'm sure the sadness of a death this close to home is disturbing to him. We've talked to him a little about it, and he seems to be handling it well. He's focusing on the precautions he's been told to take, like frequent hand washing. For an anxiety-prone kid, he's doing great.

I, on the other hand, am pretty pissed off. I feel so heartbroken for this family and can't imagine what they must be experiencing right now. But also? I want and expect the issue to be addressed when a student from my child's school dies of an infectious and easily spread disease. Not a letter, not an email, not a pre-recorded phone call. Zilch. We've gotten the district's two preemptive form letters about the plan for staying healthy and preventing an epidemic, but nothing today about this specific case. I'm probably the least paranoid person I know, but come on! I don't think official acknowledgment of a child's death and parental concerns is too much to ask. Should I send irate emails, sit tight, what? What would you do?

I guess they were too busy warning parents that the President of the United States was working up the audacity to address the nation's school children about the value of education and hard work. Clearly, priorities are all in order here.

A Question For You

2009-09-03T11:35:00.000-07:00

If you were going to get the last sentence of your favorite book tattooed on you, where would you put it, and what would it look like?

So Now I Feel Like Showing you

2009-09-02T19:05:00.000-07:00

The ones I think you might not know.

Frying Pan. I like the recorded version better. Probably owing to a less trashed Evan Dando in the studio.

Deathly

Baker Street, Old School. I confess to liking the Foo Fighters' version maybe a tiny bit better because it's louder, but the only videos I could find for it were just stills.

My friend, the lovely Raina Rose, singing her song I Like You Better.

And last but not least...you know it, you love it. Holding Back the Years.

Sing, Sing a Song, Make It happy to Last Your Whole Life Long

2009-09-01T22:30:00.000-07:00

SAM recently put up a post about her top five songs of the past five decades and demanded (so demanding, that one!) that her subjects follow suit. Honestly, though, I just don't think that much about music. Or I don't think about music in that way. My knowledge of these things tends to be centered around personal interest and associations, whereas hers tends to be encyclopedic. It's kind of like the difference between a survey lit class and one centered around thematic units. (You know you like my nerdy English teacher metaphors. Stop rolling your eyes.) So, in much the same way that I follow the utterance of most actors'/directors'/ screenwriters'/athletes'/musicians' names with the question "Who's that?" I find myself unable to remember when any particluar song came out, if in fact I ever knew at all. Also unlike SAM, I'm far to lazy to link you to every song. You know how Youtube works, right?

So, my lists:

Top Five Favorite Songs of All Time, Plus One I Forgot:

1. With or Without You, U2
2. Baker Street, both the original Gerry Rafferty version and the Foo Fighters remake. Man I love that song for no apparent reason.
3. Holding Back the Years, Simply Red. That's right. Simply Red.
4. I've Been Loving You Too Long, Otis Redding. During the actual hearing of this song, I will often decide it is in fact the best, most perfect song ever, and marvel at the fact that anyone ever had the balls to make another song after it.
5. American Pie, Don McLean. I don't care if you think that's cheesey.
6. Frying Pan, Evan Dando version from Sweet Relief, originally by Victoria Williams

Sentimental Favorites:
(Some answers may be used in more than one list. Because I make the rules here.)

1. These Are Days, Ten Thousand Maniacs (*My wedding song.)
2. With or Without You, U2
3. I Like You Better, Raina Rose
4. Hearts and Bones, Paul Simon
5. All I Want, Joni Mitchell

Top Five Favorite Songs to Sing When They Aren't Actually Playing, Such as In the Shower:
(It should be noted that I cannot, in fact, sing.)

1. Mercedes Benz, Janis Joplin
2. Me and Bobby McGee, Janis Joplin version
3. Amazing Grace, whoever
4. Verdi Cries, Ten Thousand Maniacs
5. Dead Flowers, Rolling Stones

Best Songs Ever Put on a Mix Tape/CD Made For Me:

1. Catch, The Cure
2. Deathly, Aimee Mann (my ego really loved that one)
3. Love Me, Elvis Presley (sad but important)
4. Million Faces, Paolo Nutini
5. Two Hearts, U2
6. A Case of You, K.D. Lang version (So I had a number 6. Shoot me.)

Not Technically Individual Songs but Favorite CDs to Sing Along to, Such as In the Car:

1. James Taylor's Greatest Hits
2. Strange Fire, Indigo Girls (Suck it.)
3. Changes One Bowie, David Bowie
4. Various Paul Simon albums; hard to pin down. Something with Me You and Julio and Cecilia but also stuff like Hearts and Bones and Still Crazy After All These Years. I need a CD called Every Song Paul Simon Ever Had Anything to Do With. Someone get on that, please. My birthday is in October.
5. The Girl That Killed September, Garrison Starr (Yes, I love a CD with a bothersome grammatical error in the title.)

I could go into various subcategories, like "Annie Lenox songs I happen to hear and then complain about how we don't have any of her albums except Medusa, which is not the one I want," or "Songs I secretly like and know all the words to," but I think you get the gist. Although I'm guessing there will end up being a list in comments called "Songs I forgot to put on various lists."

Right Now

2009-09-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

A group of girls is looking at my word wall and discussing which literary terms would make good baby names. Such as "Quatrain." To which a boy in the class replied "Y'all don't need to put 'train' nowhere in y'all daughters' names."

True enough.

Worker Bee me

2009-08-11T15:31:00.000-07:00

You may have noticed that I didn't post much over the summer. I guess I was too busy sunning myself and reading in the hammock and pickling fresh okra and being bossed around by a very cute three-year-old dictator with "fishtails." (That's what she calls pigtails.) I was making indulgent lunches for the adults in the house because given the option, I will always choose to make and eat a hot meal. I was enjoying having BD home with us for the first summer ever.

The thing is, not being alone in a tiny house with four kids all summer put a little dent in my usual readiness to return to work. Add to that a room change plus a new and much harder schedule, and well...I just didn't want to do it. Couldn't I just stay home all the time? Haven't we won the lottery yet? I went around muttering those questions in between the litany of gross injustice: "More kids, less time, same material, less time to plan." It seemed I'd run all out of Pollyanna Sunshine just when I needed it most.

Week one was rough. I went to my week of teacher in-service and three of the kids in the household started their new schools. Did I mention that the six kids in this house started four new schools this year? At Monday's training we learned about the frequent random walk-throughs we could expect as often as twice a week in our classrooms. On Tuesday I worked registration while simultaneously de-funkifying my new (to me, but in fact not in any way resembling new) classroom from 8:00 in the morning until 8:30 at night, not counting a two-hour dinner break that involved forty minutes of driving home and back, while my family went to our Neighborhood Night Out without me. Less than twelve hours later I was at my district English training where I learned about the new, huge and multi-faceted "Capstone Experience" project my seniors all have to complete and that I, of course, will be completely responsible for. And so on. And so forth.

But then yesterday, I got to do my job. I taught four 90-minute classes back to back with only a half-hour break for lunch. (Three more minutes than last year!) I talked about supplies and class expectations and played "Two Truths and a Lie" with each class, wowing them with my big finish in which I go around the room and recite all of their names from memory. I was exhausted by the end but also invigorated. It reminded me that, oh yeah, I'm good at this. I can do this. I like these kids. A lot of them like me. Of course there was the kid who told me incredulously when I assigned the descriptive one-syllable word paragraph "It's the first day of school! We're not s'pose to do nothing the first day. I didn't even bring any paper." But there were also a lot of others who shook their heads at that kid and got eagerly to work and then volunteered to read what they'd written out loud. There was the girl who told me "I'm supposed to be in honors but I'm not leaving this class" and the boy who said "I was going to need this block for another class but I'm going to stay here. You seem like an interesting person." For every slack-jawed stare there were more kids smiling at me with wide-open faces and eyes that showed the unmistakable spark of engagement.

I still feel like once I get home, some internal switch flips to "conserve" and I sort of fold up in order to expend the least possible energy. I don't know how elementary teachers can survive being "on" all day every day. At least I know that eventually I'll have days when my students are writing or when I'm only there to facilitate their activities. Hopefully now that I have finally, finally finished the endless daily trips for additional, freshly requested school supplies that must be brought tomorrow, I can finish each day slightly less exhausted and my evening energy levels will balance out a little.

In Defense of High School

2009-08-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

Recently a friend said to me that he learned nothing in high school and that in general it is just a big waste of time. I hear people say this all the time. My husband will readily tell you that once he left the rigors of Catholic school in tenth grade, he never learned another thing. We both went to Kirby, where we met in drama class. That alone should make him think he was where he needed to be, right?

I think this is a bunch of bullshit, people saying they learned nothing in high school. I learned plenty. I learned about Willa Cather and Hemingway and Sylvia Plath, who became my teenage idol. I read "Our Town" and Joyce's "The Dead" and learned about epiphanies. I read the Spoon River Anthology and was asked to write a poem in the style of Edgar Lee Masters, which I found I was able to do quite easily and well. I read about the Transcendentalists and the oversoul and Civil Disobedience and the importance of self reliance. I learned about the basics of economics, opportunity cost and the law of diminishing returns. I learned passable French that I can still speak and read surprisingly well. I gained a fundamental understanding of human genetics and of biology in general. I learned when to say "lay" and when to say "lie" and how to make your junior English teacher laugh and blush during that lesson. I learned about Jung and universal symbols and about Freud and how sometimes the experts turn out to be completely insane but also sort of right about things in a wrong kind of way. I learned to kick a Geometry proof's ass, which is a good introduction to applied logic and which apparently a lot of people can't do.

Maybe you think I'm just listing random crap, but in fact I could tell you the teacher's name that corresponds to each example I gave. I can remember the discussions about Emerson and Thoreau especially well. I'm sure there's plenty that didn't stick with me, and I'm not claiming that my time was never wasted, but overall it was a worthwhile experience. Maybe that's not true for everyone, but I suspect it's true for a lot of people who claim that high school was terrible and taught them nothing. I'm sure there are kids who are better served in other settings. There are very intelligent kids who could wise up and go get their GED and move on to college, and there's nothing wrong with that choice if the traditional path isn't working. But I still argue that there is some value in a classical education, and that a decent-to-excellent version of that can be found in public schools in every city and district in the country.

I guess I take this particular staple of the cynical hipster canon personally because I am a high school teacher. Duh, right? But the idea that I am knowingly and willfully wasting people's time is so insulting because that is something I've given very specific thought to. Early in my teaching career, I had a student in the eighth grade named Jason Carson. He was smart and charismatic and the girls thought he was dreamy. He kind of attached himself to me, and in the remaining years of high school, (it was a 7-12 school) he would often return to my classroom to visit. At times I had to fuss at him and push him away so he would go to his actual classes. When Jason was a senior, he went to visit the college he was planning to attend, where his brother was already a student. Since his brother would be staying at school, they took separate cars. His brother said that one minute he saw Jason in the rear view mirror following him, and the next he was gone. He rolled his car in a ditch and was killed instantly. That was almost ten years ago and I still think about Jason at least once a week. My eyes fill with tears every single time because as much as the potential and promise of his life was wasted by his death, what was most devastating to me at the time was the possibility that I had wasted even one minute of the little time he had. I was a new teacher with a class full of unruly middle-schoolers I'd inherited mid-year after a series of subs. My intentions were good but I'm sure I didn't know what I was doing. What I took away from that is the knowledge that no matter what new test comes along for the administration to hang over our heads or what new crisis the media decides to blame on schools and teachers, my responsibility is to those kids. That doesn't mean I'm at my best every day or that I can't do better, but it means that I think of my students as individuals whose time is valuable. It means that sometimes I remind myself that I can live in a world where those kids might grow up to use incorrect punctuation, but not one in which they are cruel and intolerant and willfully ignorant. It means that I know who I really work for. And I'm not there to waste my employers' time.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

2009-07-19T11:17:00.000-07:00

How does your garden grow?

Late Great Planet 8

2009-07-02T03:04:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, Joshua. It seems fitting that I'm writing this post the day after your birthday. But this is not the time to talk about the day-late, dollar-short parenting afforded so often to middle children, and besides, I don't think you'd mind. You had a good day. Any day that involves a trip to Target is a good one in your book, right? You picked out a new bike from us and spent your adorably wadded birthday cash on a Transformer you don't have to actually transform and a Tomogachi. My little consumer.

It's hard for me to believe you are eight years old. For some reason, eight seems so much bigger than seven. Come August, you'll be in third grade. That was a tough year for me, and each time one of you approaches it, I worry a little. Your brother got through it without a hitch, but you are much more like me. Third grade was the year my rebellious streak first reared its head, but I did have an insane teacher, so maybe you'll do better. There's a lot ahead of you this year: a new school where your big brother has never been heard of, for one. I'm excited that you'll have the chance to blaze your own path, but also a little apprehensive. I know you'll do fine. Mostly I know that.

I try to make myself stay in the moment with the four of you, but it's hard sometimes not to look ahead and wonder what the future will be like. I imagine you will be a lot of fun. You will be in a band and have an endless string of pretty girlfriends that I will try not to worry too much about. Hopefully you'll hold true to the maxim that boys always love their mothers and help keep me sane when your sister is just one year behind you, rolling her eyes and hating me as teenage girls are required to do.

Anyway, that's a ways off. Right now, I just want you to enjoy being eight. Ride your bike, look for frogs with your idolized big brother, get excited over the prospect of a day at the pool. Just be your sunny, springy little self. Happy birthday, Joshua. I love you so much.

And the livin's easy

2009-06-30T19:44:00.000-07:00

Clearly I cannot be counted on to post regular updates about my fabulous summertime existence. We went to Florida, which I couldn't talk about before or during because BD has this pesky thing about not wanting to tell the whole internet we'll be leaving our stuff unattended for ten days. But we did! We drove aaaalllll the way down to Naples. Which is far. Florida is long! We drove eight hours to BD's grandparents' place near Greensboro, Georgia, and then got up the next morning and drove another ten to Naples. In case you have never driven eighteen hours in a minivan with four kids and one adult who will not let you drive, let me tell you, it's a lot of time to spend in a car with those people! It wasn't all bad, though. I got through a good bit of Midnight's Children, which may go on record as the longest I have ever taken to read a book, and I napped some. The rest of the time I refrained from throwing myself under the wheels of passing trucks to get away from the shrieking. Three year old children are the worst idea ever!

So, Naples was fabulous. Since this is the first summer in ten years that BD has not been chained to a small business, it was also the first time he could take enough time off for all of us to drive down that far and still spend enough time there to make it worth while. It was great to be able to let the kids spend time with their paternal Nonna (we do not say the G word) in her own home for the first time ever. They had a great time getting reacquainted with her, and not just because she has a Wii and a wide-screen TV and a pool a block from her house, either. We alternated beach days and pool days, since the beach was a 30 minute drive and we are all a little spoiled from two summers in a row of renting houses directly on the beach for vacations. Walking two blocks from a public beach to paid parking in the ungodly equatorial heat is as close as any of us has come in a while to a sticky, lung-collapsing personal vision of hell. For about ten minutes, then it was all cool again.

On the way home, we were lucky enough to have the use of a townhouse in Panama City Beach for two nights. Thanks Robin! SAM decided on the spur of the moment to drive down and meet us for a mini-vacation of her own. Having two nights really helped break up what ended up being about a twenty hour drive home. We spent Sunday on the sugar-white Gulf beach in front of Schooner's, where I used to work, and where we had an awesome beachside Father's Day lunch. The water at PCB was a refreshing 20 degrees (according to me) cooler than it was in South Florida, which was nice, and also slightly rougher, which the kids enjoyed immensely on their boogie boards.

All in all, it was a great trip. But I'm still glad to be out of the car.

You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky

2009-06-04T08:29:00.000-07:00

Fifteen years ago today, I stood in Fisher Gardens and promised to love, honor, and cherish the only man for me. I was 21 years old, a college graduate of two whole weeks, and absolutely certain that I was doing the smartest thing I'd ever done, or ever would.

I guess I was pretty smart, to be so young, but I had no idea how beautiful life with you was going to be. Happy anniversary BD. I love you more than I can say.

Laziest Post Evah

2009-06-01T17:44:00.000-07:00

What have I been doing during all this aggressive not blogging, you ask? Why, this of course. And also this. Otherwise known as, throwing a Memorial Day cookout and throwing a summer-birthdays/end-of-school party for my kids and their friends. We have at least a few of our own pictures still locked up in the Nikon D40. I think.

So Genevieve is officially 3 now, and Joshua will turn 8 on July 1. And we're all out of school for summer, and all these things have been properly commemorated and celebrated with the blowing up and filling of inflatable pools and slip-n-slides and semi-charred foods and two flavors of cupcakes. Phew!

Wednesday was my last day of work for the school year. I have to move my classroom after three years in a brand spankin' new room of which I was the first and only occupant, so there was a lot of packing those last two days. Also a lot of bitching about a certain superintendent who shall remain unnamed because he made us do a full day of in-service the very last day. But whatever. I'm out!

If you need me, I'll be in the inflatable pool tanning my hide. Coming soon...15th anniversary post.

I don't know those people!

2009-05-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

Why is my Flickr widget showing photos from a blog in China no matter how many times I reset it?

I've temporarily removed the Flickr widget until I can figure out how to make it work. One of my techier friends should help me. Consider that a hint.

John and Kate Plus Hate

2009-05-18T10:08:00.000-07:00

For the record, I normally have a profound lack of interest in anything having to do with either celebrities or reality television (two categories that should probably be mutually exclusive but somehow are not), but I am finding myself sucked into the John and Kate drama. Why is that?

We watched the first couple of seasons, not religiously or in order, but here and there because reruns would be on at night while I was getting Genevieve to sleep in our bed. SAM and I used to tease BD about having a little thing for Kate, at least until he saw the belly surgery episode. We would shake our heads and say "Poor John" when Kate would treat him like her ninth child, and wish for a van like theirs so our crew of nine could someday travel in one vehicle. But then we lost interest, because really, it was never that interesting in the first place.

I've seen whole websites transformed by swarms of loyal J&K fans coming to duke it out with J&K haters on the basis of one editorial. There's a thread of comments over thirteen thousand posts long on a parenting site I frequent. It's nuts! And truly, I would never dedicate that much emotional energy to loving or hating people I don't even know. But I have to admit, I'm not sorry to see Kate getting her comeuppance.

Maybe it's that I find it harmfully dishonest to present such a shiny-happy false facade to the world, in which one woman pretends to (almost) singlehandedly keep her eight children clean, clothed, and fed an all-organic diet in an immaculate house with a perfectly-organized laundry room while maintaining individualized relationships with each child and having a hot date with the hubby on a regular basis. Girl, please. Who are you fooling, and why would you want to?

Here's something I've learned: if you make yourself look too much better than everyone else, they will take the very earliest opportunity to crucify your uppity butt. But if you make people feel like they are not doing so badly after all, they might just love you. Maybe if Kate hadn't been so busy allegedly elbowing people out of her way on the path to fame and fortune, someone would have told her that.

Open letter to Toilet Hoverers

2009-05-14T12:58:00.000-07:00

Dear T-H-ers of the world:

The way this works is that if your butt is actually on the toilet seat, you are not able to pee all over it. In other words, the only one making the seat too nasty to sit on is you, the one who thinks you are too good to sit on it. Please stop doing that.

Yours truly,
Sweet Sassy Molassy

The New Math

2009-05-13T07:11:00.000-07:00

Days since last nursing: 10
Weeks this fell before projected goal: 3
Months spent nursing Genevieve: 35
Months spent nursing Somerset: 36
Months spent nursing Joshua: 14 (he got the shaft because S was born when he was 14 months old and I'm not woman enough to tandem)
Months spent nursing Calvin: 27

Grand total of months spent nursing (drumroll please....): 112

That's 9.333 in human years.

Weeks before I got pregnant again the last time I had a weaned, diaper-free three year old: two
How sure I am that this will not happen again: 100%

Months not spent pregnant or nursing since 1997: 4.5

That's right. Four. And a half.

I just figured that out. No wonder I've been cranky!

Analyze This

2009-05-08T06:25:00.000-07:00

Suddenly this past week, I've been having very strange and vivid dreams. One was very tactile and color specific, involving a lot of grit and the vomiting of orange feathers. One involved a group of roving attackers breaking into my house and keeping me hostage. We'd heard they were on the loose, so we were going around locking the windows, and then they walked right through the front door. That's probably significant.

Last night I dreamed that a group of domestic terrorists (label applied post-dream) killed everyone in the world who wasn't with them with poisonous gas, but I was part of a secret resistance that survived by somehow not breathing the gas while pretending to be dead. Once they moved on from where I was, I quickly packed one bag for myself and my kids. It was a white nylon drawstring backpack of the cheap fundraiser variety, if you want to know. I chose very carefully the clothes that would get us through life on the run. They turned out to be tshirts mainly. I asked myself if I needed to be stealthy, but since the terrorists assumed that everyone who wasn't one of them was dead, I didn't need to. But as I encountered people I had known before the attack and they acted normal toward me, I started to wonder if these were really the same people, or if their bodies had been somehow taken over. If that were the case, did they have some way of recognizing a body that hadn't been snatched?

What does it all mean??

The Ponderous Adventures of Cindabella and Bootie

2009-05-04T06:08:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to act like a good mom and play with my kids yesterday, I parked myself in front of the three-story Barbie mansion with Genevieve. Delighted, she helped me pick a doll and parked her at table on the veranda with her own.

"What's your girl's name?" I asked her.
"Um...Cindabella," she replied. "You can be Bootie."

Clearly the Disney Princess indoctrination starts early. Genevieve has never even seen any of those movies. Oh well. I giggled at her interpretation of the names and dressed my brunette Barbie in a sundress that I could barely yank up over her misproportioned hips. We pondered the mystery of the stairs that go only from the second to the third floor, and the elevator that goes only from first to second. I noted that although the mansion seems spacious, Barbie is apparently the doll-equivalent of 8 feet tall. The bar-height kitchen table sits at her hips when she leans awkwardly against the stool. I guess it doesn't matter, since neither Cindabella nor Bootie was able to bend her elbow to take a drink of her "glass of line."

Barbies were a nice diversion in the middle of a day that both started out and ended up sucking. I have been working toward weaning Genevieve, with her third birthday at the end of May looming as our deadline. Sometimes she's been cooperative with the limits I've tried to set, and sometimes not so much. After she woke up at 6:00 yesterday morning and nursed without ceasing until I finally couldn't take it at 8:00, she screamed and cried and threw a fit about being denied. Then I pretty much screamed and cried and threw a fit at BD, and it was all just ugly and upsetting and the result of a lot of frustration and exhaustion and I think we all realized that we just can't do it anymore, any of us.

So we stayed in our jammies all day except when he took the kids to the book store for a brief outing before dinner, and we played Barbies and watched bad (really bad) tweener TV on Disney and tried to just be easy with each other, and when G asked to nurse and I told her I can't nurse her anymore, she handled it fairly well. Until bed time. We have never night-weaned any of our kids, because I'm too lazy and I can't stand all that crying. This is the first time in four kids and eleven years that I have not wanted to nurse more than I have not wanted to deal with difficult weaning rituals. (Usually I just take a trip or, you know, go to the hospital to have another baby.) BD had warned me not to come to her room no matter how much she screamed and called for me. It seemed to go suprisingly well for a while, then it went horribly. I read until I couldn't, and then I cried and felt like a selfish ass while SAM reassured me that she was in the hands of a loving parent who was taking good care of her, and that she was just mad and was making sure we knew it. I knew she was right, but it still sucked.

I never thought I would be anything but ready by the time she finally weaned, ending a nine-plus year nursing total, but I really hate the thought that Sunday morning will be the last time I ever nurse her, because I was just angry the whole time. And I really do have so many sweet, wonderful memories of curling around her little body, warm in the bed with the comforter around us. I can't decide if I can give us both a different last time or not without setting us back. I guess we'll see. In the meantime, I definitely feel like the Bootie in our little duo.

What Kind of Tree Hugger Are You?

2009-04-13T12:06:00.000-07:00

I am becoming more and more amused by the proliferation of quizzes on Face Book. I love the "Which Grease Character Are You" quiz that asks questions from a purely male perspective, but assigns only female characters. (I was Rizzo, of course.) There are quizzes that ask you if you love the sunshine and hate rain and then tell you Seattle is your perfect city. There's the "What Kind of Parent Are You" quiz whose questions and answers look something like this:

Your child falls down. You

A. Laugh

B. Rub crushed glass into the skinned knee

C. Light up a smoke

D. Pick him up and put a bandage on the booboo

Guess which answer gets you the "You are a great parent" rating. I think my favorites, though, are the ones that are clearly written by someone who speaks English as a second language, because there is nothing more endearing that Japanese syntax applied to English grammar. It makes me feel like I'm living a David Sedaris essay.

Recently I took a quiz that was supposed to tell you where you fall on the political ideology spectrum. Now, you and I both know where I fall, but I couldn't resist getting that terribly unflattering photo of Nancy Pelosi published on my profile, so I took it. The questions were surprisingly valid and grammatically correct, and there were a lot of them, by Face Book quiz standards. I actually started to sweat it a little when several questions about the death penalty came up. What if I lost my liberal cred right there on Face Book for all the world to see? Because, yes, I believe in the death penalty. Not in all cases or for the full range of crimes to which it may now be applied, but yeah. Child molesters and serial killers cannot be reformed. And I don't care if it's a deterrent to others, or if it can't bring back the victims or change what happened. I believe there is a point of no return. I believe you can forfeit your right to share oxygen with the rest of humanity. I'm okay with the concept of purely punitive action in those cases, and yes, I believe I would be willing and able to push the button myself, so to speak.

I have come to accept this fact about myself--I am forgiving to a fault on my own behalf, but my capacity for grudgeholding-by-proxy is astonishing. I have let go of shocking personal betrayals and wrongs, but if you hurt someone I love, or an innocent stranger, I want nothing less than your utter destruction, and I usually want to be the instrument. This rage on the behalf of others is sometimes hard for me to reconcile. I value my inner peace; I loathe drama of any kind. In my personal life I strive for zen-like acceptance of reality and of people with all their flawed humanity. And yet, all the self-talk I can muster falls short of convincing me to let go of my anger on behalf of others. Maybe I should. But maybe, on the other hand, a little righteous indignation never hurt anyone.

So that's how I know the "Which Norse God Are You" quiz is flawed. Clearly I am not Frigg, as stated, but Vidar.

Oh, as for the political ideology spectrum, I guess my pro-gay marriage and anti-victimless-crime answers redeemed me, because it said if I went any further to the left, I'd be in Stalin's back yard. Phew!

Long Slide into Summer

2009-04-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

There are years when spring break makes me feel rejuvenated and recharged enough to finish out the school year, and then there are years when it just makes me ready for summer. This year it did the latter. All I want to do is sit under the massive wisteria-dripping pergola and read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, drinking sweet tea with mint from the courtyard herb garden and tanning my legs while the kids run around in the yard. Isn't it summer yet?

This doesn't bode well for the 100 Othello analysis papers I need to grade, or the classwork for the six weeks that ends Wednesday. Senioritis happens to teachers too.

What Memphis is Like

2009-03-29T17:06:00.000-07:00

Imagine that you are a young woman in the prime of your life. You have this boyfriend; he is sexy and smart and fun to be around, mostly. As soon as you met, he opened himself up to you and you could see all this amazing potential. He could be great, and you could be great by his side. The two of you have chemistry. There's just something about him that feels right to you.

You even like a lot of his friends. They're interesting and sharp and when you all hang out together, you feel so at home. You know that if you were dating some other guy, some Joe Schmoe from the office, you would never have found friends this cool. They introduce you to all this great music and they know all the best places to hear it. There's not a hole-in-the-wall or greasy spoon they haven't tried and judged, and you revel in the fruits of their searching.

He even cooks. He can make all kinds of things, but he has one dish, let's say barbecue, that is really special--the best you've ever had. Sure, maybe sometimes he gets in a barbecue rut, but even then, you have to admit it's good. It's what you want him to make when friends come over, and it's what you crave when you have to be apart.

But this guy, he has some issues. For a while you can overlook the problems--no one's perfect, right? So he's a little moody. A little bit of a slob around the house. The apartment you now share is starting to look a little shabby, especially when you compare it to your friends' places. Still, its better than what you could afford if you weren't with him. And really, you could let all of that go, every bit of it, if it weren't for this anger thing that just seems to be getting worse with every passing day.

At first you only hear about it. There's a story of how he lost it with some guy at a bar, or the office smartass. Then there will be a day now and then when he seems touchy, quick to raise his voice. After a while, it gets harder to relax around him. You're always wondering, in the back of your mind, when he's going to blow. And finally one day, it happens--he directs the full force of his anger at you. You probably didn't even do anything, just minding your own business when suddenly, Bam! He's in your face, screaming about nothing you did, and then the unthinkable happens, and he hits you.

You are stunned. Somehow, even though you knew it was happening all around you, you cannot believe this has hit home. You think about leaving, but it's so hard to wrap your mind around all the things you will lose. And even though it makes you hate yourself a little bit, you still love him. You can't forget all the good times, all the things you only feel when you're with him. You know that you won't get to keep his friends. Sure, you'll stay in touch, but it can never be the same. And you won't be able to go to the old hangouts--they're his territory. You imagine never tasting his cooking again--where will you get babrbecue that good? You look at other apartments and think of how you could fix them up, make them your own, and it all seems great, but then you go home and all your stuff is there, and your good memories, and it makes you angry that he has done this.

Why should you have to leave? Why can't he get himself together, why can't all those things you love about him be the whole story, why can't he see how perfect things would be if he would just deal with his problems? But in the end, you know that he won't. You know that you have to go. And you know, already, that you will never get over the feeling that he was the one, that it really was meant to be between the two of you, but he ruined it, and you just can't forgive him for that. You will never stop feeling angry about what could have been, the waste of it, the frustrating clarity of your vision of the man he could have chosen to become. You're young, you'll meet someone else, but you know there's some small part of yourself that you won't be able to give again, because you never got it back.

That is exactly what Memphis is like.

I'm Okay, You're Okay

2009-03-24T06:04:00.000-07:00

One of the things I like about reading my friends' blogs is the way their thoughts and experiences can lead me to closer contemplation of my own. For example, reading Rita's post about people's reaction to her return to martial arts classes brought me back to something I've been thinking about lately myself. And really, what good are other people if they don't provide me with a platform to talk about me, me, me?

Really, though, Rita was saying that she's gotten a lot of "you're so brave" comments, which she can't help but hearing as "wow, you look so foolish, yet you get out there in that hideous uniform anyway" (to paraphrase). Wisely she has decided to enjoy herself and not care what people think. So how does that relate to me? It's kind of complicated. I think a lot of my persona is built on th foundation of "I don't care what you think of me," and on reflection, for the most part, I find that to be true. The trouble is more with what I think of me, or if your idea of me doesn't match up to my own idea of what you are supposed to think of me. That's reasonable, right?

I know that I have a problem with taking myself too seriously. Sometimes that makes it hard for me to determine why I'm really doing or not doing something. I think there are a lot of things I don't do because in no universe can I comprehend how those things are supposed to be fun. Which wouldn't matter, except they're always things that a lot of other people think are fun, and the end result is that I come across as a curmudgeonly or stuck up or more-highbrow-than-thou. It's hard to even list specific examples because of the mental list of friends who are going to read them and say "Oh, so you think all these things that I do are stupid, huh?" Which is tricky because, while those things do seem kind of unfathomable to me, that doesn't mean I think you're dumb for doing them. Maybe that means that I'm not so much worried about me or what you think of me, but about what you think I think of you? This is getting confusing.

Suffice it to say that even if no one would ever see me or know that I had done it, I would never, ever, ever stand in my own living room and play Rock Band any more than I would ever stand in front of a bar full of strangers and sing karaoke. Just like I really and truly do not like reality TV, even though you may suspect that I secretly watch and love it but just pretend I'm "better" than that. I know that makes some of you sad for me, but really, it's okay. Because knowing that I wouldn't want to do it even if no one were watching or would ever even find out assures me that it's not about making an ass of myself. That's just not what I think is fun. So I'm okay with that. And I guess I want my Rock-Band/various-other-video-game-playing/Rock-of-Love-watching friends to be okay with that too. I won't be embarrassed for you, and you don't have to feel sorry for me for missing all the fun.

As for the American Idol thing, well, maybe we don't need to talk about that right now.

Dirty Santa

2009-03-11T08:47:00.000-07:00

Genevieve has a habit of fixating on ideas and events. For a long time, she was obsessed with her birthday party. We could see a motorcycle and she'd say "I had two motorcycels at my birthday party. They were pink and purple." If she saw something she liked she would insist that she either had or would have that thing at her birthday party. Every day was about her birthday. The funny thing is, she's never even had a birthday party. My kids have their first real party when they turn five and are old enough to remember me spending that kind of money for a Spongebob cake at the bowling alley for them and their spazzy friends.

Lately, though, she has changed her focus. Christmas seems to have been the catalyst, although the effect was slightly delayed. Now it's all about the fat man in the red suit. And even though she sometimes speaks of him as a friend who is going to bring her things, she also blames him for all her injuries.

It started as Christmas approached and we tried to get Genevieve excited about Santa bringing her toys in the middle of the night. Without fail, she would insist that Santa was going to punch her in the stomach. I have no idea where my two year old got the mental image of a jolly old elf sneaking into her room in the dark of night to punch her in the gut as she slept, but it seemed to be firmly entrenched.

Now whenever she has a mysterious bruise or scratch, if I ask her how she got it she replies witout missing a beat "Santa hit me." Where is she getting this? Am I going to catch some stranger lurking around my house at night dressed as Mr. Clause?

Refreshed

2009-03-09T09:37:00.000-07:00

I did not touch a computer all weekend. It was an unplanned break, one that happened naturally, and that's probably for the best since the minute I set a limit for myself, I will defiantly break it just to prove that I can. Such is the life of the ODD sufferer. Anyway, it was nice!

We hosted a group yard sale Saturday, since we do have plenty of yard to go around. I amused SAM and BD by taking seemingly random strangers on a spontaneous tour of the house, including my closet. Because if you come to my house, I'm showing you that closet! But they were not in fact random strangers. They were Kristen from the MOMS' board and her husband Josh and their baby girl whose name, I believe, is Ella. So there.

In other acts of gregariousness to total strangers, I introduced myself to our new neighbors and ended up sitting and chatting with them for an hour on their lovely back porch while my boys joined their boys on their trampoline. Also, last night while going through the U-Scan line at Kroger to buy exactly one tub of Cool-Whip for a terrible pie I attempted to make, I allowed two different people to use my discount card since they didn't have one. Like I do.

Slain

2009-03-05T06:40:00.000-08:00

I read this story on this blog this morning and it just immobilized me. It's from Bird by Bird, by Anne Lammot. I own that book but I've never read it, because she's kind of Christiany and spiritual and I tend to avoid that stuff.

Here is the best true story on giving I know, and it was told by Jack Kornfield of the Spirit Rock Meditation Center in Woodacre. An eight year old boy had a younger sister who was dying of leukemia, and he was told that without a blood transfusion she would die. His parents explained to him that his blood was probably compatible with hers, and if so, he could be the blood donor. They asked him they could test his blood. He said sure. So they did and it was a good match. Then they asked if he would give his sister a pint of blood, that it could be her only chance of living. He said he would have to think about it overnight.The next day he went to his parents and said he was willing to donate the blood. So they took him to the hospital where he was put on a gurney beside his six-year-old sister. Both of them were hooked up to IVs. A nurse withdrew a pint of blood from the boy, which was then put in the girls' IV. The boy lay on his gurney in silence while the blood dripped into his sister, until the doctor came over to see how he was doing. Then the boy opened his eyes and asked, "How soon until I start to die?"

Now, I know this story has some problems: why would it be blood and not bone marrow? Why would it only be a pint of blood? But still! What killed me when I read it was thinking of an eight-year-old boy making what he thought was the sacrifice of his actual life, and doing so while believing that his parents were willing to trade his life for his sister's.

I really hope that is not a true story.

Samoas and Other Mysteries of the Universe

2009-03-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

My girl scout finally located her cookie order form and took a break from edging out the Chip-Juices to bring me my four boxes: Samoas, Trefoils, Lemon Chalet Creams, and of course, Thin Mints. This prompted a discussion on the beautiful mystery that is the Samoa. How is it that none of us likes coconut but cannot resist the luscious Samoa? We talked briefly about the new flavors but agreed that the Samoa is still Troop Leader #1.

This indisputable fact was confirmed whenI shared the fact that I was a girl scout for many years and always sold the most cookies in my troop. This was thanks to the fact that my mom worked at Methodist Hospital and would take my order form in to work with her, then bring it back with several sheets of notebook paper stapled to it and covered with orders. A girl in the class smacked her hand on the desk and said with an earnest face and a voice full of longing: "That's because Samoa's ain't no joke."

That Was When I Ruled the World

2009-02-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

In my English classes, we are starting on the period in British history known as The Restoration (or The Enlightenment or The Age of Reason or any of several other names), which happened around the same period of time that the colonies grew, revolted, and became America. Since so much of the literature we read in this period consists of social commentary and satire, I spend a little more time on background information than usual, and I had my students presenting on various aspects of the period in groups today.

I also had a student selling girl scout cookies in my fourth period as the kids entered the room. So I waited until after the "Relevant Dates and Milestones" group went and mentioned the Boston tea party to charge my cookie tax, paid in cookies. They thought this was hilarious but did not pay up until I insisted "Y'all think I'm kidding. I want my cookies! If you don't want to pay, you can dump all your cookies in the Boston Harbor in an act of protest." They laughed all the way up to my desk to pay me my cookies. I collected five Thin Mints, a Trefoil, a Samoa, and a new flavor called Dulce de Leche.

When I was done I said "Now I'm going to get fat and it's all your fault. I'll have to charge you a fat tax."

It's good to be queen.

Out the Poop Chute

2009-02-19T11:47:00.000-08:00

My baby got sick. As in, sicker than any of my four kids has ever been in my eleven-plus years of motherhood. Sometime around 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning, Genevieve cried and asked to come to our room. I brought her to bed, and instead of wanting to nurse as I expected, she seemed to fall instantly and deeply asleep...for thirty seconds, until she threw up. After a complete strip down of bed, baby, and mom, we layered towels over the clean sheets in standard toddler-vomiting procedure so that they could be stripped away one at a time as needed. Sadly, the towels weren't enough to prevent two more changes of sheets before 10:00 a.m., especially once things started coming out the other end as well.

For those of you who don't know her personally, Genevieve is a little cricket bug. On a good day she weighs about 24 pounds, soaking wet. A full day of being unable to hold down a sip of water while any reserves she had seeped out the back door quickly took its toll. Sometime around 6:00 I was changing her clothes again and she was unable to stand up on her own. I called the pediatrician's after-hours nurse, who called the doctor on call, who confirmed that I needed to take her to the emergency room. I loaded up a diaper bag with extra clothes, a towel, diapers, wipes, and plastic bags and headed to Baptist East.

The emergency department at Baptist is undergoing renovations, and so is the parking lot. After circling a few times, I sucked it up and parked in the garage, which meant I had to walk about six blocks carrying a suddenly-heavy 24 pounds of half-awake toddler and an overloaded bag, along with my purse. Fortunately once we reached the E.R. we only had to wait about half an hour, during which time she threw up the water she'd drunk in the car.

The nurse and doctor we saw were wonderful. The nurse remarked immediately that Genevieve's eyes were very sunken and that she would most likely need IV fluids. The doctor concurred, and soon my poor baby girl was being gently but firmly swaddled in a sheet with one arm pinned to her side, then strapped onto an immobilization board with giant octupus-like blue velcro straps so that she would not injure herself by fighting during the insertion of the needle. She was so weak that all she could do was wimper "Mommy, mommy, mommy" pitifully as I stroked her hair and mumured soothing reassurances while fighting back tears of my own.

Once the needle was in, the nurse quickly took blood and a rectal temp, which was 101.2, and then released her to sit in my lap during the actual receiving of the fluids. She also injected some Zofran into the IV line to stop the vomiting, then left us alone for a bit. There was a wallpaper border of jungle animals at chair-rail height all the way around the small room, and after about five minutes, I pointed out the elephants to Genevieve. For the first time all day, she perked up a little and responded by talking about all the different animals, explaining which was the Daddy and which ones were herelf and her siblings. I was so relieved that I almost cried again. The nurse came in and said she looked noticibly better already and chatted about Genevieve's apparently excellent veins. I told her she must have gotten them from her father, because when I gave birth to that child it took every nurse in the hospital to get my IV in successfully. She looked at my apparently veiny hands and scoffed at the lack of expertise. I think the issue is that mine roll when someone tries to stick them. Anyway...

The doctor came back in and explained how the Zofran works and said he'd give me a prescription for more that could be taken orally if needed. He also explained that now that she was hydrated again, the diarrhea would likely reappear, which it did before we even left the E.R. Over the next two days it really never let up, which added an almost bloody butt rash to the mix of her misery. By Monday she was mostly better but cranky, and by Tuesday she was just plain crabby and over it. She really went 72 hours without eating, so it will probably be a while before she's 100% again. Somerset woke up puking this morning but already seems to be doing better, so I'm hoping it won't hit those of us over 30 pounds as hard, if at all.

Suck it, Ken Starr

2009-02-15T08:22:00.001-08:00

Breathing Room

2009-02-10T05:53:00.000-08:00

It's funny how being in a different space makes everything, well...different. As we settle into the new abode, I can't help being surprised by some of the things I'm noticing. Some are not so much surprising as eye opening, I guess.

I once read an article by an anthropologist who had spent time studying the effects of overcrowding on mice and, later, on people. Well, not just overcrowding but also a shortage of essentials like food and clean water. Long story short, the mice ate their babies, and the humans let theirs wander into the fire and found it funny, or deprived their loved ones of anything they themselves could get their hands on, even if it was something the loved ones needed and they themselves did not, like medicine for a specific illness.

I wasn't quite to the point of eating my young in the small house, but I was getting close. For a long, long time, that house was fine. It seemed to grow as we grew. I felt that people did not really need as much space as we Americans tend to think we need, and I still believe that. But somewhere in the past year or so, suddenly we popped a seam and the house went from cozy to tight like your skinny jeans 20 pounds later. My response to that too-tight feeling was mainly to hide out in my room, yelling at any child who tumbled into my space, and swearing that I hoped my kids either never had kids, or lived far away before they did so that I would not be expected to babysit. Because honestly, for a while now I've been feeling that if I can just get my kids grown and out of the house, I never want to see another child again as long as I live. Ev. Er. And that's a shame, because my kids are beautiful and smart and funny and sweet. But they're also kids, which means they're often spazzy and loud and whiny and needing something, anything, right that minute. Add in the fact that there are so many of them, and the odds that at least one will be doing something undesirable at any given moment go way up. Throw all that into a 1200 square foot house and well, you get the picture.

But now that we have room to spread out, I find myself feeling better. More relaxed and cheerful and less like there's a swarm of spider monkeys climbing up my body and swinging dangerously close to my head. That's not really surprising, but it's still somewhat like waking from a dream in which the bizarre felt normal, and only in retrospect can my rational mind recognize the insanity.

And of course, my being more relaxed and happy has translated to the kids being less clingy and needy. They are even being very cooperative about bedtime, and Genevieve is putting herself back to sleep most of the times she wakes up at night, which is a totally new thing. They're not underfoot while I cook dinner, and they're not fighting over a single couch cushion, b.k.a. "spot!" on the extra-large couch. As a result, I'm spending some time in the evenings on said couch instead of holed up in my bedroom. It's all circular.

Whirlwind

2009-02-06T06:26:00.001-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, my mom called while I was waiting in the car line to pick the kids up from school to tell me that someone she knew was interested in looking at our house. She was already planning to see another house on the street at 4:30 and was hoping she could stop by ours afterward.

Since we are moving this weekend, my house was at that moment a wreck of boxes and mess that I hadn't bothered to clean, thinking I'd do it all as I packed and purged the house of junk. But I need to sell my house, so I agreed. I walked in the door at 4:00 and started cleaning. I had the forsight to stop by a convenience store and get the girls a treat, (the boys stay later on Thursdays for piano and computer club, so BD would be picking them up), and thankfully they sat happily on a box in my room, sweetly sharing their Cheetos and M&Ms and watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets for the eleventy-ninth time while I spun through the house like a whirling dirvish. The whirlwind power clean is a maneuver I am exceptionally good at, if I do say so myself, and in an hour I had the house looking acceptable, with a few neat stacks of boxes, packed and unpacked, the main living areas clear with wood floors and surfaces gleaming, the kids' rooms reasonably straight, and kitchen and bathroom at least wiped down with counters clear.

Being able to make a good pass at cleaning in an hour is something I'm going to miss about my little house. As excited as I am about the new house, there is an element of sadness about leaving the our family's home for the past eleven-plus years. When we bought that house, I was pregnant with our first child. I remember painting the living room and stripping the ugly bathroom wallpaper like it was yesterday. I can remember walking into the room we prepared for Calvin and loving the way the light made the room feel peaceful and perfect for a baby. There was the train ride to New Orleans, en route to Katherine's wedding in Pensacola, when I agreed to name our unexpected third child Somerset instead of Veronica if we could move our room into the back den, giving her a room that would not be shared with her two brothers.

When I remember our house in the years to come, I will think about being able to sit on the couch and see the child playing in the bathtub. I'll remember the rare days when I sat in the living room watching snow fall past the big uncovered back windows in the den, and mornings spent on the front porch glider with a baby in the crook of my arm or playing in the exersaucer while the older kids rode bigwheels and tricycles down the neighbor's driveway. I'll think about making ravioli or having cocktails with a group of friends around the big table in the small dining room, laughing and talking smack over the sounds of too many kids running wild in the front bedrooms. I'll miss the walk to the duck pond and the sight of all four kids piled onto the sectional sofa that has been their favorite sleeping spot since we bought it. I'll remember my twenty-five year old self, buying our first house, expecting our first baby, and feeling like an adult but one who wasn't sure how she got to that point or if she knew what to do now that she was there.

Come to think of it, I'm not sure I feel that different now. I still don't feel like a 36 year old woman with four kids and a real job, but my new house certainly feels very grown up. And big! Did I mention all the space? I can already see it filled with our kids and our friends and our beautiful life, and that makes it a little easier to close the 1240 square-foot, one-bath chapter we're leaving behind.

Home again, home again, jiggity-jig

2009-02-04T08:25:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, I'm moving this weekend. Into a house with triple the square feet of our current home, and shaped like a square doughnut with an atrium (aka Baby ~~Jail~~ Yard) in the doughnut hole, on an acre, with lawn care included in the rent. With three and a half bathrooms, as opposed to the one we all share now, and five bedrooms. Not only is there an actual master bath, but there is a master closet triple the size of my current bathroom, with built in drawers and shelves and shoe racks, and yards of hanging rods. There's a big, open kitchen with a fancy gas range and double wall ovens and a giant Sub-Zero fridge that inexplicably lacks a freezer. That part is okay, because there's room in the laundry room right off the kitchen for my big free-standing freezer. There's also a toilet in there, but we won't worry about that right now.

I'm probably most excited about all the outdoor living space, because I am an outddorsy kind of girl. But also? The kitchen and the multiple bathrooms and the ginormous closet and all the space, space, space! And doors that close to keep kids out, and the big stone corner fireplace that is identical to the one I grew up with. Did I mention all the space? Oh, and, AND, it's within walking distance of both an excellent elementary school and Calvin's middle school of choice.

I could really only be more excited if we had already sold our current house. We are working on that, and having all our stuff out of the way will make it easier to do some of the small repairs and touch-ups that need to be done. Ideally we'd love to sell it to someone who plans to fix it up/flip it, who doesn't want us to fix anything. A girl can dream, right?

In case you're wondering, we haven't won the lottery. The house is a very 1970s ranch in a good but older nighborhood in not-so-hip East Memphis. It's awesome but a little dated. (The kitchen was redone in 1995, so it's awesome in a 90s way, which is fine with me. Let's be real--I'm kind of 90s myself.) There's a whole lotta grasscloth. So the rent is not as huge as you might expect for a house that size. We are also combining households with my very good friend SAM and her two kidlets. That's right, baby makes nine. I've always wanted to live on a commune. I just never expected it to involve an East Memphis to downtown commute and complicated carpooling arrangements. Oh well, you can't have everything, right? There is plenty of room for all of us, and based on several factors and habits established over the last year, it just makes sense. I predict that changes in the economy and the general socio-political climate will engender more unconventional and creative living situations in the immediate future. Who knows, maybe we will be trail blazers!

Inspired

2009-01-20T12:14:00.000-08:00

After the inspiring and hopeful tone of today's inauguration, I started thinking about other speeches and essays I've enjoyed. That led me to re-read this essay by potter, writer, and self-sufficient mama extrordinaire, Kelly Averill Savino. Every time I read it, I laugh, tear up, and finish by wanting to give it a standing ovation. On this pass, these lines in particular jumped out at me:

Everywhere there are women sitting in front of the banquet of their lives, a million sustaining, delicious choices -- oblivious, because they are looking back over their shoulders at the good old days, the old boyfriend, the old body, life before kids, the old freedoms.

I may be guilty of a little of that. And while I think that a little of that is normal and maybe inevitable, it's good to be reminded that what we have is this, now. And to throw that away or overlook it is a terrible mistake.

Make 'em laugh

2009-01-13T11:55:00.001-08:00

You know, I said that I don't really make specific resoultions, but I'm going to make one now. I resolve to laugh more. I do not laugh nearly enough. A little while ago I was reminded of this video, and I watched it again and it cracked me up just like the first time I saw it. And laughing like that reminded me of how good that feels, and how I should do it more often.

So go ahead, tell me a joke. Show me something funny. Clue me in to what gives you a chuckle. I bet I'm not the only one who could use a good laugh.

January Pondering

2009-01-07T06:20:00.000-08:00

Normally, the first of the year is a very motivating time for me. I don't make a list of specific resolutions, but I do feel a sense of renewal and opportunity. I love cycles and change, so it seems very natural to me that the start of a new year should be a fresh start toward personal goals and growth.

This year, I still have that general feeling, but I'm not as motivated and energized as I usually am in January. That could have something to do with the solid week of rain, or the recurring lack of sleep I've experienced so far in '09, I guess. We had a very restful, relaxing Christmas break, though, so I should have enough in the reserves.

On one hand, I know that this year will hold some exciting changes for my family. We'll be trying to move houses (not cities yet), hopefully very soon. Genevieve will finally be weaned, bringing my nine (combined) years of nursing to a final and permanent close. She will also finish potty training, ending my relationship with diapers (not nearly as bitter-sweet an ending) until grandchildren come along.

On the other hand, I have some personal things that I know I need to work on that I am just not feeling. I have kept off twenty pounds for about a year and a half, but need to lose another 20, and yet I'm not doing anything. It's time to get back in the gym, but somehow I just haven't made it there yet. There are other, less tangible things that I know I need to work on, too, but somehow I'm just...not.

The Big C

2009-01-05T11:24:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday Calvin. I can't believe you are eleven years old. Eleven! I guess I shouldn't be surprised that you are so grown up, since you sometimes act like the only adult in the house. You are the child who made me a mother and taught me the job. I couldn't have asked for a better teacher.

Why I Love Being Southern

2009-01-04T19:01:00.000-08:00

Or, things I chatted about with the woman in line behind me while waiting to check out at Kroger this afternoon:

-Why it was so busy and why she didn't expect it to be
-The astonishing amount of food piled in my basket and why I needed to buy three loaves of bread at a time
-How long that giant pile of food would last us (about two weeks)
-How it's easier when kids get older, but then also not
-How hormonal her 12-year-old daughter is and how I dread my kids hitting puberty
-Divorce and how there is life after it
-How high her utility bill was and how my friend Stacey's high utility bill made hers look tiny
-How much we both hate the midtown Schnuck's and just cannot go there
-How you can't go in Kroghetto at night but how it's nice and uncrowded during the day
-How she was so hungry she was about to gnaw off her own arm
-How she should snag one of the warm rotisserie chickens right next to us and run off to hide and eat it, and how once when I was pregnant I wanted to hide in a closet with a whole chicken I'd just roasted so I could devour it all myself

Then as soon as it was my turn at the checkout, she and the woman behind her realized they had a mutual friend. Like you do in Memphis.

How I Spent my Christmas Vacation, by Sassy Molassy

2008-12-30T17:36:00.000-08:00

Oh, hello there. Having a good holiday season? It's almost over; I realize my happy holiday wishes are somewhat belated. So sue me. I have a life!

Actually, I don't really. I am probably the laziest mother of four who ever lived. I'm cool with that. It saves me from having to drive kids to things like soccer practice. Anyway, we have been enjoying our very relaxed and lazy break. Having traveled to the wonderful Fachini family Thanksgiving in Georgia, we spent Christmas here in town. Christmas Eve was spent with my family of origin as is the tradition, although it was my sister's year to spend Christmas with her husband's family, so we did miss them. All I had to cook was homemade mac and cheese for the kids, and my first ever from-scratch cheesecake, which turned out beautifully if I do say so myself. I'm planning to eat the last of it in a little while, if you must know. And no, you can't have any.

The kids got some good loot, and then we came home for our annual viewing of It's a Wonderful Life and then off to bed so Santa could come. He brought more loot. Imagine that! The kids seemed very happy as Santa had answered their main wishes: for Calvin, a cell phone; for Joshua, a tribot; and for Somerset, a bike. Genevieve had no real requests so she got a Little People farm, which she could not care less about. That's okay though, as she is busy caring for the four or five baby dolls she received from various parties.

Tomorrow we plan to ring in the new year with a few of our closest friends. I love New Year's Eve, which puts me in the minority around here, but I will save that discussion for another post. Meanwhile, here are some pictures!

Cousin Kyle got an American bulldog puppy for Christmas. Even though I do not like dogs and do not in anyway understand the desire to own a pet, she was sort of sweet in a puppy kind of way. For a couple of hours.

Somerset about to dive in at the grandparents'.

Genevieve enjoying many of her gifts simultaneously. (Some of them were hair accessories. Can you tell?)

Calvin checking out his new phone Christmas morning.

Smiley Christmas morning Calvin.

Christmas morning extravaganza!

Joshua cozying up to his new Tribot.

Christmas morning Monkey Bread.

Video chat with Nonna down in South Florida.

Lost and Found

2008-12-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

Things I could not find this morning:

1. The will to get out of bed before hitting snooze for the fourth time
2. The pink travel mug
3. The lid to the blue travel mug
4. Any lid that fit any suitable container for my lunch
5. The words to convince my two year old that she would be much happier in bed than sitting in a daze on the counter watching me put on my makeup. ("I want your eyes to be pink, Mommy.)
6. Anything worth listening to on the radio
7. A wormhole that would save me from being five(ish...okay maybe closer to ten) minutes late for the eleventyninth day in a row.

Things I did find:

1. A snuggle before getting out of bed
2. A two-year old who just wanted to sleep sweetly on her mama's shoulder
3. An about-to-be-eleven-year-old who put his newly pulled tooth under his pillow just for old time's sake
4. The red travel mug that I filled with delicious hot tea with real cream
5. A container I thought would be too small for my lunch but wasn't
6. Pants that only needed a quick spin in the dryer to make them wearable
7. Matching, hole-free, new black socks, and in plain view
8. The already-graded pile of papers on my desk far outsizing the to-be-graded pile
9. Homemade chocolate-peanut clusters from a student and fellow-teacher's son (breakfast!)
10. That it's Wednesday of the last, short week before Christmas break

As always, the good far outweighs the bad. I really can't complain at all, can I?

Let me count the ways

2008-12-03T09:27:00.000-08:00

Lately I'm noticing all the little ways in which my children are like me. It's an interesting experience, because in many ways they are not like me at all. And of course, sometimes they act like me in ways that are not at all good. This is different, though. I'm not talking about them being impatient and sarcastic and snippy with each other. I'm talking about little ways that show how they take after their ma.

Calvin: Has read the first four Harry Potter books in the past week or so. This is exciting to me on so many levels! I've waited for the day that he would read and enjoy these books that I adore, and it's finally here! It was also fun to sit at the table with a group of our friends as we all watched him sit and read without ceasing amid the whirlwind of activity that is the cocktail hour kids and even lift a plate out of toddler range with one hand while never tearing his eyes from the page. That's my boy! He also continues to demonstrate my tendency to eschew anything resembling a dry crust of bread/pizza/cookie edge, etc.

Joshua: Has always reminded me the most of myself as a child because he is just so clueless. The other night I went through his homework folder, and all his signed papers from the past two months were still sitting in there. When I was his age, I remember having no idea what was going on, ever. I was in my own little world, and so is he. The fact that I know where he gets it is what makes it okay. I grew out of it, and so will he. In the meantime, he's mostly just my happy-go-lucky little guy.

Somerset: Wants to do what she wants to do. The fact that you or I want her to do something different does not necessarily mean she's going to happily abandon her pursuit. This may be frustrating to me as a parent, but I also find it reassuring. I consider my willingness to tell other people that I do not care what they want me to do is one of the reasons I'm the happy person that I am, and I can only be glad if she possesses that particular tool. The flip side of that is that, like me, she also happens to be extremely sensitive to the people she does care about. Just when we think she's an incorrigible rebel, she can be devastated by a disapproving or angry statement from BD or me. And the way she cries when that happens is just 100% me with hurt feelings. It's heartbreaking.

Genevieve: Honestly at 2 1/2, her main Sassy-like personality trait is binge eating. That girl can put away the groceries! Oh, and she shows my preference for non-breakfast foods for breakfast. She woke up this morning asking for macaroni, but there was none in the fridge so she settled for Spaghettios. According to her Dad, she scarfed them down and chased them with a chocolate chip waffle. Unlike me, however, she often requests her food cold for the simple reason that she is too impatient to wait for the microwave. This is more like BD, whose mother says he would cry and beg "Don't cook it, don't cook it!" when she tried to heat his food. I, on the other hand, will not eat anything cold that is normally served hot. Blech! She also talks a lot. A. Lot.

Secretive-like

2008-11-20T07:30:00.000-08:00

Recently SAM accused me of having a "secret food blog." I laughed and replied that it wasn't secret, I just didn't think she'd be interested in it because she doesn't cook. It's not even my blog--Rita created it and invited me to contribute. Lately I think my fellow contributors have gotten busy and I must be bored or cooking a lot or just thinking about food too much, because I seem to have become the main recipe poster of the moment.

It's not a fancy food blog, just basic stuff you can easily whip up with minimal cooking skills. But lest I be accused of hoarding food knowledge and building a secret food blog underground, I thought I'd share. Bon apetit!

Ravioli Day

2008-11-12T08:52:00.000-08:00

I think I've said before that one of the things I loved about BD from the very beginning was his big Italian family and the fact that they all liked each other so much. Being from a small family myself, I found it fascinating that there were so many of them, and that they were all so themselves together, and that my cooly cynical teenaged boyfriend's face lit up like a little boy when he talked about upcoming get-togethers with all of them. It still does.

One of the traditions from BD's family that we have taken upon ourselves to pass on (ahem, aside from having lots of babies...), is the massive making of his great-grandparents' ravioli recipe each year before the holidays. We've expanded the tradition to include our friends, who truly are family to us. They are the aunts and uncles our kids will remember always having around (in addition to their real ones, of course), and their kids are the passel of cousins our family does not really have in abundance here in town. This past weekend, we all got together and made 58 dozen ravioli from scratch (I originally miscounted, but bagging them up revealed the true numbers). Thanks to Chip for the great pictures. I love ravioli day.

BD and SAM rolling out the dough and passing strips to the assemblers (with Shannon there to document)

Somerset working very diligently

Calvin preparing for the pickup tray.

Me being the pickup lady
Stacey and Jiro bonding over a ravioli moment

The group enjoying the fruits of their labor

Hillary Clinton reflects

2008-11-11T06:13:00.000-08:00

This morning when I woke up I was
not The President, again. I lay in bed
pretending for just that last moment before
opening my eyes that it had happened. That
I was Her, the first, and that I was just about to
sit up, swing my legs over the bed and slide
my feet into the fuzzy presidential slippers.

I think that it is time I took up a hobby. Maybe
I'll go away, get a little cottage and grow things. What
is it that people grow when they do that? Orchids? Too
complicated. Rhubarb? Too...something. Where is the right
climate for cucumbers and mint?

I will let my hair grow long and
stop getting it colored. Or color it pink. I will get a bunch
of cats and let them go just shy of feral, knots of blind kittens
in baskets all the time. I will have a democracy of cats,
who will love me.

And Bill can't come.

Sassy Molassy

Possibly dead, possibly alive cats, or why I did well in Geometry

Between the A and the T (or where I'm at)

40 by 40

Happy Birthday to You

Five Alive

Listy

It seemed like a good idea at the time

Your kid should read this book

"Dear" Lamar Alexander

I just have to say...

All This and She Cooks Too

What Not to Care (about)

Hell Has Frozen Over, or How I Became a Soccer Mom

The Magical World

Open Letter to Bobby Franklin, GA

My Country, 'Tis of Thee

On the other hand

Out of House and Home

The C Word

Since everyone else is doing it

Manifest it, "The Secret"-like

Up to speed

All I have to do is dream

Comission on Missing and Exploited Children

Four for Four

Bag Duty Addendum

Bag Duty

On Failure

You Are Here

Suck on that, fat pants

Good Day Sunshine

Springtime at The Compound

Stuff I did over spring break

Three-Minute Fiction

Scattered Pic-Tures

Note to Self

Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me

A Long, Long Time Ago and Apparently Awesome

A Long, Long Time Ago and Essentially True

Ten SImple Things

Overheard in the minivan

Dogs are from Mars, Cats are from Venus

My infinite coolness

Vitametavegamin

Ennui

Hibernation

C is for Awesome

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2!

She's Crafty

The Rule of Threes

Bookish

What does it say about me...

37

License to Breed

A smattering of things that go on in my vaccuum cleaner head

S is for Seven

Heart Felt

WWSD

A Question For You

So Now I Feel Like Showing you

Sing, Sing a Song, Make It happy to Last Your Whole Life Long

Right Now

Worker Bee me

In Defense of High School

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

Late Great Planet 8

And the livin's easy

You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky

Laziest Post Evah

I don't know those people!

John and Kate Plus Hate

Open letter to Toilet Hoverers

The New Math

Analyze This

The Ponderous Adventures of Cindabella and Bootie

What Kind of Tree Hugger Are You?

Long Slide into Summer

What Memphis is Like

I'm Okay, You're Okay