Being proud of your children

Lately I can't escape the overwhelming feeling that my father would proud of my choice of the man I married. It wouldn't matter if he didn't tell me so. I'd still know.

I'm Glad To Go, I Cannot Tell a Lie

I keep thinking it’ll be easier to write this, but I’m stymied. So I’m just going to start typing.

I haven’t enjoyed blogging for a while. I’m not sure why. It wasn’t until this month, when I attempted to blog every day, that I realized it. I’d start thinking about that day’s topic and I’d groan inwardly. I dreaded blogging. I’d never done that before. And when you find yourself dreading something that used to fuel you, it’s time to sit back and assess how you got here from there.

The words just don’t come like they used to. I used to use this blog to figure things out, to keep in touch with friends. But it’s become too impersonal. When you rely on something as one-sided as a blog (and I think of mine that way, though I know not everyone’s is) for communication, it takes a toll. I’ve been digging deeper into my relationships lately and I’ve been better for it. And I know who I am. I don’t need to dissect everything to find out what kind of sense it makes for me. It makes sense already. And these days I’d much rather read other people’s blogs (you know who you are) than populate my own with posts I have to drag out of myself. Readers are wise. You’d sense this. I don’t check my stats, but I’m willing to bet they’ve dropped in pace with my interest in writing, even if my posts were frequent.

I also have been censoring myself too much for my liking. I’d have one, two, three terrific ideas for posts, then I’d realize I’d have to disguise people’s names to adequately tell the story, or disguise locations. That’s too messy for me. It’s not that the stories I’d tell would be offensive; it’s just that my rights don’t extend into other people’s privacy, including my family’s. It’s a fine line to walk. Till now it’s been easy, but now it’s like moving a really heavy couch. Push. Push. Rest. I started writing in a “What I Did On My Summer Vacation” way. That’s not me. This blog has never been a diary. My life is too mundane. I want to share the “aha” moments. But lately I’m too comfortable for ahas. I’m good. Really good.

This isn’t meant to be a downer. I’m having a fabulous time right now in my life. My kids fill our world with hilarity and poignancy. My marriage is secure and comfortable. I’m finding social outlets I never knew were here. Careerwise, I’m writing pretty successfully for the amount of work I put into it. Which, frankly, is not much lately. Right now, I'm kind of sick of sentences. Period.

My appreciation for the readers who continue to click onto my site to read the words I put together runs deep. I don’t consider you lightly. For years you have provided me with an audience, which is all a writer – any writer, published or not — wants. Thank you.

My dear, longtime friend Nancy told me (I’m paraphrasing) that a novel is supported by thematic pillars, and everything that happens in that novel needs to support one of those pillars. I’ve been relating that to my life. I’m reprioritizing. I’m selecting a shortlist of things to put at the forefront of my life, and anything that doesn’t support those priorities is moving to the back burner. This blog is one of them. Spreading myself thin has always been a personal weakness, and I want to build on strength right now. I want to do a few things really well instead of a spectrum of mediocrity.

I will still be on Flickr, and I’ll still be blogging, only in a different capacity on a specific subject that is not me. I’ve also, God help me, gotten a myspace. Let me know if you want to friend me (or for me to friend you - I’m still muddling my way through the myspace TripTik).

Thanks for being here. We had a time.


ps: I have to say this: don't count out a return. I know myself well enough to know that one of my favorite things to do is make a liar out of myself. mwah.

Hat and Glasses Day

I'm organizing photos, so this is what you get for my holiday post. (Click on the photo to view it on Flickr -- it looks a whole lot better.)

Those theme weeks at school are exhausting. Icing on the cake was I was the one lucky enough to be substitute teaching on Hat and Glasses Day -- in kindergarten. Do not give those children sunglasses!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Yeah, It's Tuesday

OK, you caught me. I've been pre-dating some of my posts so it seems like they were posted earlier than they actually were. But here it is nine-fifty-six pee-em and I don't think anyone's going to buy that I wrote this on Tuesday. Then again, it's holiday time, so who'll notice? Regardless, I'm fessing up.

But I'm still dating it yesterday.

Here's what I'm looking at today on the Internet. Yes, today.

Oksana, honey, why? (Go ahead, keep clicking through to the other outfits. It gets better.)

In other news, old-skool Sesame Street now comes with a warning label. Paging Roosevelt Franklin ...

And finally, something exciting. Look who likes me!

Rejected Magazine Pitches Don't Die ...

... they just turn into blog posts.

Games Moms Play

Hide and Seek: When you stay in the pantry with the door shut eating Rolos because the crinkling of the package will be the wrapper heard 'round the world and you just don't want to share.

One Potato, Two Potato: What you resort to to get your kids to eat dinner.

Marco Polo: When you realize you haven't heard your kids in a while and you trace them through the house with a call and response.

Twister: The limb contortions you undergo as you navigate small bodies trying to reach the doorbell or the ringing phone - which should be a straight shot.

Go Fish: Sifting through your collection of sippy cups to match cups with lids, as well as locate the 40-odd pieces that make up the no-spill stoppers.

Red Rover: When your neighbor makes your day by offering to take your daughter for a playdate.

Musical Chairs: What you desperately hope dinnertime won't turn into.

Candy Land: The secret part of your house, inaccessible to kids, designated for the bounty collected each Halloween.

Freeze Tag/Statues: When you and your husband, otherwise occupied, realize that the kids you were sure were sleeping are awake.

Duck Duck Goose: What you look like you're playing as you stoop through the house picking up toys, sippy cups, and clothes.

Mother May I: Negotiating with yourself for permission to go get a massage or that long-due manicure.

Dress Up: When morning jelly hands and runny noses force you to change your work clothes. Twice.

Add your own!

Five Is Such a Cool Age

On a celery day -- we've been having a lot of those lately -- I introduced Boss Girl to "ants on a log." Celery stalks spread with peanut butter and dotted with raisins. The day she brought them to school for lunch she declared "I want them every time I bring lunch."

Alas, the next day, she was over it. "I don't like raisins."

She's lying. But whatever. "OK," say I, "would you like just celery with peanut butter?"

Her eyes lit up. "Yes."

"And maybe would you like ... craisins instead of raisins?" Every day is a craisin day in our house.

"YES!"

"OK then," I said, all business. "So just the log, no ants."

"No ants," she said thoughtfully. "It's LADYBUGS on a log!"

I love that kid.

Seven Years

Seven years of reading your mind, which is fun.

Seven years of you reading my mind, which isn't.

Seven years of getting to know you, 'cause I married you so damn quick.

Seven years of being myself. That's seven years more than I'd done it before.

Seven years of knowing someone's got my back.

Seven years of "Yep, I married a farmer."

Seven years of having somewhere, always, to rest my head.

Seven years of hugs.

Seven years of twinkling eyes.

Seven years of compromise.

Seven years of faded Levis.

Seven years of entwined nights.

Seven years of tequila and beer.

Seven years of career support.

Seven years of never hearing I told you so, even though you told me so.

Happy anniversary. Look what what we did!

Loss Leader

Whoops, I missed a day. But I made it halfway through the month! I'm choosing to call that a victory.

I think I have a problem. Behold, if you will, the things I have lost in the past few weeks, in and around town here in the middle of nowhere in southwest Kansas. I count “lost” as “unable to find for at least 24 hours even after extensive searching.”

My cell phone charger

My eyeglasses

My clip-on sunglasses

My laptop power cord

My iPod

Here’s how the recovery process went.

Cell phone charger. Wedged between the passenger seat and the console of my car, accessible only via impressive body contortions. I swore it wasn’t there.

Eyeglasses. This was serious. My eyesight, perfect into my 30s, has deteriorated so utterly that driving at night without them is impossible. But my glasses were gone. Cowboy and I deduced that I could have left them in the library, the town restaurant, or the grocery store. He got as far as calling the restaurant when it occurred to him to check my office again, which, of course, I had already thoroughly combed through. (As had he, it’s worth noting.) But on his second sweep, there they were, on the floor, just waiting to be stepped on or rolled over by a wayward Aeron chair.

Clip-on sunglasses. When Cowboy got sick of my complaining about being unable to see with my sunglasses on (the sun is bright here, yo, year-round), he suggested clip-ons. I won’t get prescription sunglasses on principle, because unquestionably, inside of five seconds of ownership I’ll sit on them (or roll over them with a wayward Aeron chair). The idea of clip-ons repulsed me. I pictured Dwayne Wayne and professed a firm No way. But apparently I’m way behind the technological times when it comes to clip-on sunglasses. These babies are magnetic – no “clipping” necessary – and are so unobtrusive you can’t tell they aren’t regular sunglasses. Except I can see through them. So I am a clip-on convert. But of course, as I’d known I would eventually, I lost them. Not to be found anywhere after days and days of looking. Sixty freakin’ dollars to replace. Ouch.

Laptop power cord. I have no idea how this had disappeared. I had a very, very distinct memory of wrapping it up in the library as I got up to leave, winding it around so it would sit snugly at the bottom of my backpack. “Maybe you didn’t put it in your backpack,” Cowboy gently suggested. “There is no way I would wind it up and not put it in my backpack,” I retorted. Of course, that is in fact just what I did. Cowboy called the library and they said, yep, the cord is right here behind the desk. Lucky for both of us, he’s never said “I told you so” -- and he won’t start now.

iPod. This, too, just seemed to vanish. I tore my purse apart, my backpack, the inside of my car. Four thousand songs, gone. “Maybe you left it in the gym,” Cowboy suggested. “I didn’t leave it in the gym,” I shot back. But the next time I went to work out, I slunk into the front office, almost like an afterthought. “I don’t suppose anyone happened to turn in an iPod?” I said, practically apologizing for asking. Yup, they had. Go look -- it’s right inside the door of the gym, in the cabinet, waiting for the owner to pick it up. Which I did.

Seriously, would that happen anywhere else? A freakin' Nano.

I gotta get over this. I swear, my brain has maxed out. It’s to the point where if anything is added in, something's gotta fall out.

From the MBTA to Driving All Day, Part 2

If you ask 100 women, if they’re offered the chance to complain about the guy they’re pining for, even via email, even to someone they barely know, even if that person is another guy, 100 women will say hell, yeah. Can I get a witness?

So with an enthusiasm that I’m sure was the epitome of sexy appeal, I vented. To a marked degree. And then five minutes later, feeling silly about my venting, I took a chance that his email address was the same as his instant messaging handle. I messaged him. He wrote back. From thereafter, we were buddies.

I only know this because I went back and looked. I read emails and group posts and pieced things together. Only one concept is crystal-clear to me now, and that is that I don’t remember anything. I have to read to remember how I felt. Some emails I have no recollection—none whatsoever—of conceiving, let alone composing. Sure I can extrapolate from the facts I can assemble, but I can’t swear it’s reality. I can’t be Pioneer Woman, reconstructing conversations and feelings and innuendoes when the real truth exists somewhere between 12-point Arial font and buzzing phone lines between Massachusetts and Kansas.

We instant messaged for hours. We chatted about music and men and women. I told him “One Week” by the Barenaked Ladies described my ideal relationship. He confessed his love for Cowboy Junkies. I bruised my foot sliding into third in a softball game and he typed me through an Epsom-salt soak. We talked about homosexuality and domestic violence and addiction. I challenged him and he laughed at my toughness.

But we did not flirt. That was my rule. No flirting.

I had done the Internet dating thing. I’d done it hardcore for three months. I met men I never wanted to see again, men I wanted to be friends with, men I wanted to walk around Harvard Square with and kiss in the T station, and, once, a man I liked a lot. Until I discovered he was insane. And probably gay. But we made a nice ride of it for a few weeks.

A hundred personal ad responses, three months, and nothing to show for it but a narrow escape from a closeted, Prozac-popping compulsive liar and an appreciation for Hope Davis’s character in Next Stop, Wonderland. So I was done. I wasn’t against online dating as a general rule, but I, personally, was finito . By the time you find yourself staring over a beer glass at someone, I’d realized, you’re at ground zero no matter how many words you’d exchanged or phone conversations you’d had. Writing ability--which naturally I’d judged each potential suitor on, and harshly—-wasn’t a good barometer for compatibility. I figured I may as well start out knowing whether they had love handles.

But we were friends. As the days passed, we revealed more of ourselves to each other. He lived in Kansas, not Oklahoma as I'd somehow assumed. And he was single, in fact, not attached to the woman in his email address. I’ve alluded to that story before, and for the most part it’s not mine to tell. But three things I’ll share: he was married to her, she passed away, and she was terminally ill when he met her.

That told me all I needed to know about him as a person.

tbc

Memories, Interrupted

I've got a TBC post on meeting Cowboy halfway written, but I've just gotten word from the one source I need to talk to before filing my story that the only time he's availalbe between now and Thanksgiving is tomorrow morning.

Before 8:30 AM.

At least he is available, right? Sigh.

So instead of going through old emails to remind myself of what I thought of the stranger from Kansas seven years ago, I've got to high-tail it to bed.

With my folder of notes.

The Perennial Question

Cake and ice cream, then presents, or presents, then cake and ice cream?

I didn't realize this was a question until the discovery that Cowboy and I engaged in these activities in opposite orders.

Three

Ten years ago, when my redheaded, delicious nephew was three, I was known to say “If I knew I’d get a kid like him, I’d be pregnant tomorrow.”

Which wasn’t really true. At the time, I wasn’t even going to get married, never mind procreate. Ever. Before I learned indiscriminately that life has a way of making a liar out of you.

Today, I have that kid. Today, he turned three. Sometimes I watch him and I can’t believe I got so lucky. My boy.

Right now, as I type on the couch with a laptop, he’s sitting leaning up against me. “Mommy? What you doing?” He’s my snuggler, the one who loves his mom. My daughter loves me too, but with him it’s like this: one night, he made a midnight trip to the potty. Not unusual – he’s a champion in potty training. What was unusual was that he was crying. I turned the dimmer light on and knelt down beside him. “What do you need?” I asked him.

He sniffed and held out his arms. “Hugs.”

A year and a half ago, when he was 18 months old, we were told by a (for-profit) speech therapist in Texas that he was operating at a ten-month level in terms of oral communication. She recommended weekly visits at her center — three hours from here — if he had any hope of ever catching up to a normal level. Half of me was crushed and terrified, the other half knew she was full of shit. Luckily we left on a cruise the next morning, so I had four days with the extended family--time enough for the latter to crystallize.

Two days ago, my boy had his very last appointment with Miss Tara, his speech therapist from the state-sponsored, grant-supported child development center here in Kansas. All free. Today, he no longer qualifies for therapy. He talks like a normal three-year-old. Like my three-year-old.


He’s got his Daddy’s body, fit and stocky and muscular, with wide, stubby hands and feet. I want to eat him up or at the very least kiss the birthmark on his lower stomach that I noticed when I held him the day he was born. He was just a few hours old, and I found myself thinking of the woman who would kiss that birthmark someday, and I was jealous of her. I don't want anyone else to have him, ever. He’s a blonde, just like I always wanted to be, just like Cowboy was when he was a boy. He’s got Cowboy’s eye shape – all Cowboy’s aunts marvel at his resemblance to a toddler Cowboy, particularly in the smile.

Boss Girl used to push him around and trick him into doing her bidding, but he’s learned to give as good as he gets, and has become quite adept at manipulating her right back. Or bopping her on the head, as needed.

Since March of this year, his name has been “Boss.” Ironic, I know. But if you ask him his name, that’s what he says as he puffs out his chest: “Boss.”

His mischievous. And he’s funny. He tries to be funny. His facial expressions leave Cowboy and me poking each other and laughing, particularly when he’s on the phone and imitating the expressions he’s seen other people make. He also challenges us through narrowed eyes quite often. In anticipation of Dubya’s recent haircut, Cowboy was lamenting the loss of the shock on his forehead that he so likes to stare through. “Do you think he’ll still give The Look if he doesn’t have his hair to add to the expression?”

We needn't have worried. He still gives The Look.

He’s my boy and my baby, and I for now I'm OK keeping him that way. I should probably send him back to bed when he pads into our room in the middle of the night, but I don’t mind sleeping with him. When he comes in, he’s usually loaded down with all his necessary traveling possessions. First, it was just his binky. Then he started bringing his sippy cup. Then his stuffed moose. Then his monkey. After a while, he added some books. Eventually he must have decided that he wasn’t capable of toting all of his midnight luggage by himself. He’s started loading it into his toy grocery cart. The first time he walked in at 3 AM pushing his loaded cart—all of which must make its way into bed with him—I couldn’t help it. I laughed till I cried.

I’m only a little bit embarrassed to admit that he still uses a binky. Only at night, but I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t come in handy. I could be making excuses – I’m probably making excuses -- but for now, he needs it. On our recent trip to Taos, Cowboy and I left the kids with Grandma and Granddad. The first night, Dubya asked where Mommy was. Grandma explained as gently as possible that Mommy and Daddy were away and wouldn’t be home tonight. Dubya’s eyes got big and with his face about to collapse, he ran over to his overnight bag. He reached in the outside pocket, pulled out his binky, and sucked on it furiously for five seconds. Then he took it out of his mouth and put it back in his bag, and walked forlornly over to Grandma.

He’s heartbreaking ... and he’s gonna be a heartbreaker.

Happy birthday, Dubya. Welcome to three.

From the MBTA to Driving All Day

I've been reading a lot of Pioneer Woman, including her ongoing saga of meeting her man, Black Heels to Tractor Wheels. Now I can't draw out a story the way she can, but the fact that her impending anniversary with Marlboro Man led her to start her saga in the first place has inspired me. I'm staring down the barrel of my own anniversary -- seven years. seven! -- so I think I'll be a copycat.

It'll be a good incentive to keep posting every day, anyway.

The first I ever heard of Cowboy, he was a screen name. I didn't think much of him. Not that I thought little of him; there just wasn't much to think. His screen name was also an amalgam of his and a woman's name, so I had even less of a reason to consider him. I was mending a broken heart.

That fact alone was a bit silly. I'd met this Boy the previous summer; it was now late winter. Instead of falling hard and fast for him as had been my custom, I'd been pulled in gradually. The night I met him, I wasn't even sure that I liked him until 30 seconds before he kissed me. I didn't see him again for a month. Once or twice I tried to back off, but just as I was giving up, there he'd be again, pulling me in. We were electric together. But he was gunshy. He'd been hurt before, badly, and he didn't want to get into anything too deeply. I both respected this and found it maddening. I wasn't used to doing things halfway. I needed to be, in the immortal words of Luke Danes, "all in." Or if not, all out. In a fit of impatience that I mistook for maturity, in late November I decided to end it, citing my fear that he couldn't -- not wouldn't, couldn't -- meet me where I was at. I was going to bow out.

But me, the idiot, I wrote him a letter. Not an email. Not a note. A full-on, snail-mailed letter.

I don't know what I thought he'd do. Deep down, did I want him to chase me down and fight for me? Maybe. But at the time I truly believed I'd done the right thing. I was trying to keep myself from getting hurt. November turned into December which gave way to January, and late that month I saw him at a party. When I finally saw him it was with a mixture of relief and surprise. I'd thought he might be there, but by the time he showed up it was so late that I'd given up expecting him.

Nothing happened that night but conversation ... and longing. A few weeks later, after a couple phone calls and an email or three, his refusal to pick up where we left off was steadfast, and he was calling me "needy" and "desperate."

I hated him. He was an asshole. And he was right.

Of all the many ways a man will break his heart, there ain't none meaner than he pulls his own apart.

It was in this state of mind that I joined an email group for my favorite band -- ironically, a band that had been recommended by the Boy, but that I'd not listened to until our demise. And I fell in love. Real love. Not I-wanna-like-you-cause-this-cute-guy-does playful flirtation, but genuine, deep-seated, where-have-you-been-all-my-life unquestionable devotion.

On the email group, we members talked about the band -- upcoming shows and unreleased songs and such -- but we delved into off-topic chatter far more often. One day in June, another girl complained to the group about some guy that was messing up her life. I read her post, nodded, and typed back an agreeable phrase or two, then went on about my guy and my mistakes and my questions -- namely, since I never even got to the point where I was calling him my boyfriend, this question:

"will SOMEONE tell me just when i will finally get over this???"

It was rhetorical. Sort of. But I got a response. I got an email, not a public post for the entire world to see. It was an email of empathy and explanation and advice, and it was thoughtful. It was also written by the guy who shared his screen name with a woman.

tbc ...

My TV Life Is Barely Breathing

Here's what's unwatched in my TiVo queue:

Episodes of Grey's Anatomy: 2
Episodes of Desperate Housewives: 5 (clearly I'm not going to watch this season)
Episodes of The Office: 1 (I only watched last week's on Tuesday, yo)
Episodes of ER: 2
Episodes of Brothers and Sisters: 1
Episodds of 30 Rock: 4
Episodes of My Name Is Earl: 12 (I record it every week but have never seen it. I know.)

The only thing I made time to watch this week was Degrassi. Poor Spinner. And Friday Night Lights. And Scrubs. Apparently I do have my priorities.

I did manage to catch about an hour of the CMA Awards last night, the very night they were on. Yes, that would be the Country Music Association Awards. Used to be that I'd just wait for the awards shows to show up in my TiVo (ever since I inadvertently missed the Emmys one year they've all gotten recorded, from Porn Awards to the Latin Grammys) and eventually settle down to fast-forward through the Grammys/CMAs/MTV Awards for anything good. But I'll tell ya, this year, I've known the airdate of the CMAs for months. Then I found out Miranda Lambert was nominated. Then I found out she was performing.

I still fast-forward through it. One of my favorite parts of watching the CMAs is seeing what non-musicians are there presenting. It's always nice to find out who the closet -- or not so closet -- country fans are. Addison Montgomery, who knew? (Sorry I'm not watching your new show.) And the sight of Father-of-the-Bride Kimberly Williams-Paisley still makes me giggle. This time, I found myself slowing down and watching performances quite a bit. Like Brad Paisley. And Taylor Swift, whom, yep, I love. And, um ... mumblemumblebigandrich.

I've already combed YouTube for Miranda Lambert's performance to post it here for y'all's enjoyment, but no dice. If you don't believe me that it was unfreakingbelievable (singing a song that's not even in my top three faves on the album), believe Gretchen Wilson, who was caught on camera afterwards with a small smile affirming: "That was great." I think she was actually thinking "That was fucking great." And next to her, Kid Rock -- whose association with country music I have yet to unravel -- was nodding and applauding in agreement.

So far, no one I've directly recommended Miranda Lambert to likes her. To that I say a hearty: eh. Everyone can't like everything. She's too twangy for some, and not mainstream country enough for others. But man does she need to be heard.

Click the Vote

Freshman (or was it sophomore?) year in high school our teachers actually let us take time out of school to fill out index cards. It was a contest. Whoever sent in the most index cards got a famous band -– I’ve forgotten who by now … Tears for Fears? The Hooters? Any DHS alum recall? –- to play at their school. We were winning handily up until the very last day, which is why, I think, the teachers got in on the action too. Then, just as voting closed, a neighboring town swooped in and stole the victory from us. Bastards.

Oh! It was Til’ Tuesday. I guess they’re not famous, and they may not even be that well known, since they’re from Boston. But I’m still bitter.

Which brings me to today. Most of you reading here probably already read Chris over at Notes From the Trenches, née The Big Yellow House. She, of the seven children from 12 down to almost-3, homeschooler and house renovator extraordinaire, is nominated for Best Parenting Blog in the 2007 Weblog Awards. I’m unfamiliar with this particular set of awards. But that's nothing new; I’m unfamiliar with pretty much all web awards. And I tend to not vote in things like this. But this one sounds important.

So I voted. More than once. Because not only is Chris a hilarious writer and enviable photographer, but when I read her blog, half the time I want to send her my kids to parent and the other half I want her to be my own Mom. What? She is older than me. OK, just barely. ;)

She also blogs for Parenting magazine’s web site, and gets paid for it. Every blogger wishes they could get paid for it. But only 1 zillionth of a percentage actually do. She’s that good.

You can only vote until tomorrow, Thursday, at 5 PM eastern. And you can vote once each day. If you haven’t read her blog, do. And vote. Today and tomorrow. Two clicks and you’re done. Right now she’s in second place, and we’ve gotta pull her through.

Get her that Til’ Tuesday concert. The girl’s got it goin’ on.

When I Was In Kindergarten, Carter was Inaugurated

There’s lots I want to blog about, but the only thing I’m compelled to write about today is kindergarten.

It’s depressing.

I just spent two days substitute teaching in kindergarten. That makes six days I’ve subbed since August in kindergarten alone.

Kindergarten is hard.

There’s always a lot of talk between parents of four- and five-year-old kids around kindergarten time. Are you sending your kid? Are you waiting a year? Will you -- horrors -- hold them back? No, I’m giving them the gift of time. Up until now I had no real opinions on the matter. I figured every parent should evaluate his or her child’s emotional and academic aptitude, as well as their age, and sometimes even their size, and make the decision they thought was best for their kid.

I don’t believe that anymore.

My new opinion, at least in my school, in my county, in my state, is this: kindergarten is for six-year-olds.

Not that my daughter is six. She’s barely four months into being five. And she’s doing well. Exceptionally well, in fact. She’s in full-day kindergarten and loves every inch of school, every day. Wishes she could go on weekends. And she’s smart. She’s the only kindergartener in the school to skip on down the hall to first grade for reading.

On the surface, that’s a bragfest. But stay with me. Even though my daughter loves school, even though she’s doing incredibly well, had I known then what I know now, I would have had her wait a year.

Do you know what they do in kindergarten these days? Since my only mode of comparison was thirty-year-old memories, I did not. But I’m here to tell you: they work. They have homework. They have reading lessons and math lessons and limited recess (again, my school) because they have so much they need to get done to move to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing so they can do well in testing. Testing, testing, testing.

One-two-three?

There are also no naps and no snack time -- both of which were in place as recently as last year.

In our school -– which has full-day kindergarten –- we also have something euphemistically called the “after-school program” where the lowest third of kindergarteners (and they determine this how?) are pretty much required to keep working after school. Yep. Send the underachievers to the equivalent of summer school while the rest of the kids go out to play. That’ll foster a love of learning.

Gah.

That's all I can say at this point. I'm monosyllabic. I just finished two days of teaching in kindergarten. Gah. Gah gah gah. If I fail my life this time around, I’m coming back as a kindergarten teacher. I just know it.

I’ll probably delete this post eventually for confidentiality purposes (yeah, I know, good luck with that) so enjoy it while you can.

See How I Did That?

See how I did that? I garnered some comments, and I gave myself an automatic topic for today's post. (Didn't think I'd stick to this posting-once-a-day thing? Oh ye of little faith.)

Seriously though. OK, the costume requires some background, and I want to ask a question about it. Did y'all watch General Hospital back in the 80s? With Luke and Laura and the Cassadines and the Asian Quarter and Blackie and Noah Drake? Well, back then, there was Rick. Rick Weber, I think his name was. And he was married to Lesley, who had long red hair but was not Bobbi. I think Lesley was Luke's sister.

Anyway, we all know the saying, "I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV." This had an origin, as everything does -- a commercial for some medical issue or other. Although I wouldn't swear to it, I have a deep-seated belief that commercial starred Dr. Rick Weber as the "doctor." Can anyone corroborate? (I hope Becca is reading.)

Yeah, like this has anything to do with a Halloween costume.

Stay with me.

Cowboy wore a scrub shirt, cut off at the chest, and regular clothes underneath. He carried a scrub cap in the shirt pocket. We cut out a frame from cardboard and made it into a TV set, with channels and antennas. We taped a stethoscope to the bottom of it.

Here's how it was supposed to work:

"Hey, Cowboy, what's your costume?"

"I'm not a doctor" -- up goes the frame, around his face and shoulders, on goes the scrub cap -- "but I play one on TV."

Crickets.

I know. I fully admit it was way out there. But at the time we thought it was really, really clever.

He Should Have Been A Cowboy

My thought as I'm writing this post: How many consecutive days will I post before someone comments reads?

First off, I have to apologize. To Beth, and perhaps to others. The bad news is: No Halloween costume pictures. We do have one rather hideous picture of both our faces, but nothing that shows our costumes. As it happens, someone at the party did snap our picture purposefully, and she even said "So you'll have a picture together!" Only I don't know who the Sam Hill she is.

So yeah, Cowboy and I went to a Halloween party. We decided to go at the Very Last Minute, partly because I'd forgotten it was happening and partly because I had no idea for a costume for either of us. Also, partly because I know very few people. But my friend K was going, and her friend C. So we went. And brought gin and tonic and limes. There were costumes, there was food, there was dancing. (Apparently, Cotton-Eyed Joe, which I only know because my kickboxing instructor used to use it in class, is a very popular line-dancey type of song. I was fascinated watching everyone. I think in another life I would have been a very good country line dancer.)

My costume wasn't original, but I stole the idea shamelessly. I wore a red dress and red cowboy boots. I dyed my hair red. Around my neck was a necklace that I adorned with several stalks of celery.

I was a Bloody Mary.

NOBODY GOT IT. No one was really curious about it either.

And no one asked what Cowboy was. Admittedly, it was a bit out there. OK, way out there. It was one of those costumes that requires an explanation. There's no way you'd know what he was unless you asked him. But no one did.

I don't know if it was how dark the party was (it was in a warehouse-type building), or the fact that we arrived fashionably late, and maybe people were beyond caring about clever costumes. Or maybe we looked sillier than we thought. I don't know.

Next year I guess I'll just be a witch.

Friends By Referral

I met a new friend. By referral. I like how that's been happening. People keep telling other folks "Hey, you should look that girl up. You'd get along with her." And they do. And we do. I prefer not to dwell on the conversation that precedes that recommendation. (The last time I got a referred friend she told me I'd been called "eccentric." Ultimately, I decided to take that as a compliment. What choice did I have?)

Anyway. This new girl. She's actually from this area, born and raised, but has been living in the Pacific Northwest for her adult life and only just moved back. Her daughter's in kindergarten, though not in Boss Girl's class. And her son's a few months younger than Dubya.

She's a singer, very artsy, and very horsey. She seems a little eccentric herself. And I mean that in the best possible way.

I'm Not a Cheapskate

Well, not a big one. I'm a minor cheapskate. But still. When I have an online shopping order that totals $65, and shipping costs are THIRTY DOLLARS, well, the math is insulting.

What's more insulting is that because I'd already sunk 45 minutes into meticulous shopping -- Christmas presents, natch -- on my agonizingly slow computer that often took three days (give or take) to load a page, I paid it.

So consider this a public service announcement. These assholes charge a hell of a lot for shipping.