The desk calender on my, ahem, desk is so ready for a new page. The page which was once white is now gray. The series of rectangles that once marched singularly across the page are now joined by brownish half moon coffee stains, and blue and purple exes marking off each date. Notes are scattered randomly over the page--some of them written in the date boxes as reminders of events, but more are just things I needed to write down and used the first handy paper surface.
Up at the top of the calendar, right next to the "Bell Photographers Inc." title, I've scrawled the words, "The Bad Place." I think this is the name of a book recommended to me by a student, rather than commentary on my state of mind about my job.
The box for Wednesday the 3rd contains the phrase "Awesome Scrabble Prowess." If I remember right, the 3rd is not "Awesome Scrabble Prowess Day." Rather, a student who has been trying for years finally beat me at Scrabble. She demanded a certificate--so I downloaded one from the computer. When I wrote it, I was probably making sure not to spell "awesome" or "prowess" wrong.
Reading across and down the squares as if they were words on a page, the next item of interest is a phone number. I've written it in the square for the 6th and oddly, the 12th and don't have any idea at all who would pick up the line if I called it. The 13th has a url--www.buydixie.edu--and this one I recall. It's the purchasing site for Dixie State--and the spot where I purchased my Willie Nelson tickets. Sharing the square for the 13th is a math problem, written with one number on top of the other. Apparently 14 times 3 is 42, but I have no idea why I needed to know that.
The 14th contains the words "Vente Tall Tall Grande Vente." I was trying to remember coffee sizes for my post about Starbucks. Looks like 2 students had birthdays the week of the 14th. One turned 18--a birthday we dread here, because we usually loose the kids shortly after they turn 18. Some hang in there, but most just slowly fade away, a few to turn up next year at the adult high school.
The week of the 21st starts off with the words "synthetic blend,": E's instructions for me when I was having the oil in the car changed--a job I detest! The 23rd was the school wide family picnic--a surprising success.
The next week, the one in closest reach when I'm using the computer, has an array of very puzzling notes that I've made to myself over the month. Sunday the 20th has my ex-brother-in-law's email address. I sent him a note asking how things were, but the bastard never got back to me. Then I have the puzzling note, "12/1 Rex." I don't know anyone named Rex. Never have. And why 12/1? Such a mystery. Another weird fraction sits in the blank square following the 31st--"13/22" with the name Anna next to it. I know Anna. She has enrolled every year for the past 3, and comes diligently for the first 2 weeks, then is never seen from again. Why did I write her name on my January calendar when I haven't seen her since September? Again--I have no clue.
So--2 more days 'till a fresh, February page. I peeked ahead and while it is nice and white, 2 coffee rings have soaked through. A whole week is filled with the letters "UBSCT" which is pronounced "you-biscuit" and stands for "Utah Basic Skills Competency Test." This is the test all Utah students (ALL--Even sped and ell kids) must pass to receive a diploma. It tests competency in reading, writing, and math, so in reality, it's my job to prepare the kids for 2/3ds of it. Talk about high stakes testing. I'm currently deep in the trenches of the persuasive essay and reading for content. They get 2 chances a year from 10th through 12th grade. And know what? I hate it and I don't want to talk about it any more.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
This one's tricky today. Ok. She slows me down. This helps me see the world and enjoy more moments. Unfortunately it also makes me late for work. Every day.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's just a little sick. Not really sick. Her eyes were just slightly goopy day before yesterday. She has a tiny cough. I've been sending her to school because I'm evil, but have also been feeling way guilty about it. I sent her with a note today telling her teacher to call me if she feels at all like I should come pick her up. Does that make it ok?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
I SUCK!!!
Truly. I suck so so so so bad.
Mandy's birthday was ELEVEN DAYS AGO!!
Last night Soph was having nightmares and climbed in bed with me (again) at about 4:00 a.m. She sleepily told me that she wanted to see Cinderella Three. I sleepily told her that we were going to go see the ballet of Cinderella in a few weeks. This made me think that I'd better write the date of the ballet on the calendar, which made me think that I'd better GET a new calendar, which made me wonder if I'd missed any important events in January by NOT having a calendar which caused me to sit bolt up right in bed because I realized that, yes, I HAD missed an important event--MANDY'S BIRTHDAY!
No one even reminded me. I mean, there was that ONE day (probably the 17th) when my mom and dad and Katy all asked me if I had talked to Mandy. At the time, I thought it was kind of an odd coincidence that they all asked me that on the same day.
DUR!
So, here are 11 things that make me SO GRATEFUL for my big sister. One for each day that I have TOTALLY FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY AND AM A HUGE ASS HOLE.
1. She introduced me to ALL of my favorite authors. I may be the English teacher, but she is the true reader. Starting with Sweet Valley High, (Which, on a side note, taught me how to read. I wasn't a great reader in the early elementary grades because I HATED the crap they gave me to read and would look at he pictures and make up my own MUCH more interesting stories. I picked up a SVH book and my mom told me I couldn't read it because it was both too hard and too racy for me--so, of course, I did, asking her "What is this word" about a million times.) and moving on to Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Robin McKinley, Anne McCaffrey, Robert Heinlein, Tamora Pierce, and seventeen or eighteen more that I have ALSO forgotten.
2. Because of her, I didn't have to tell my mom right off when I started my first period, which, for some reason, I really didn't want to do. We were living in Carmel Valley, and I remember seeing the rust colored spot on my panties and thinking, "I better tell Mand about this." She totally hooked me up with a pad and some Midol. Then that night she poked her head in my room after I had gone to bed to check on me, and advise me against sleeping on my back, if I wanted to avoid nasty sheet washing in the morning.
3. More girly stuff--but I had the HARDEST time nursing Soph. Luckily she was nursing Zack at the same time, and we would bust out boobs and babies and she'd show me how it was done. She also showed me how to manually express the milk when my boobs were about ready to explode.
4. She also introduced me to yoga. She, of course, has been ROCKING the yoga lately, while I have been rocking the cheese. I AM going to a class today, though.
5. When I need someone to talk me down, she always has the grounded advice that I need.
6. Madeline's hand-me-downs have kept Soph clothed for, like, her entire life.
7. Mandy's courage in following her own path has given me the courage to follow my own more than once. In school, religion, family life, motherhood, and a number of other things, she has followed her intuition and listened to her own voice. I'm super shitty at doing that. Often when I'm doing something for ME, I hear her voice in my head telling me it's ok.
8. She taught me how to make roasted veggie and goat cheese sandwiches on foccacia. Yum.
9. I also have benefited from Mand's love of music. Growing up, she always had a music collection (composed of a surprising number of cassette singles) and I always had a music collection to borrow from. More recently, she has introduced me to Nina Simone, KT Tunstall, and Mindy Smith.
10. Need I say that I've had a BFF since I was born because of her?
11. She loves me. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT. I rest in that. Often.
So big sis, I'm so, so sorry to be a birthday forgetting tool. Keep your eye on your mail box when you return from Seattle. I love you. No matter what.
Mandy's birthday was ELEVEN DAYS AGO!!
Last night Soph was having nightmares and climbed in bed with me (again) at about 4:00 a.m. She sleepily told me that she wanted to see Cinderella Three. I sleepily told her that we were going to go see the ballet of Cinderella in a few weeks. This made me think that I'd better write the date of the ballet on the calendar, which made me think that I'd better GET a new calendar, which made me wonder if I'd missed any important events in January by NOT having a calendar which caused me to sit bolt up right in bed because I realized that, yes, I HAD missed an important event--MANDY'S BIRTHDAY!
No one even reminded me. I mean, there was that ONE day (probably the 17th) when my mom and dad and Katy all asked me if I had talked to Mandy. At the time, I thought it was kind of an odd coincidence that they all asked me that on the same day.
DUR!
So, here are 11 things that make me SO GRATEFUL for my big sister. One for each day that I have TOTALLY FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY AND AM A HUGE ASS HOLE.
1. She introduced me to ALL of my favorite authors. I may be the English teacher, but she is the true reader. Starting with Sweet Valley High, (Which, on a side note, taught me how to read. I wasn't a great reader in the early elementary grades because I HATED the crap they gave me to read and would look at he pictures and make up my own MUCH more interesting stories. I picked up a SVH book and my mom told me I couldn't read it because it was both too hard and too racy for me--so, of course, I did, asking her "What is this word" about a million times.) and moving on to Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Robin McKinley, Anne McCaffrey, Robert Heinlein, Tamora Pierce, and seventeen or eighteen more that I have ALSO forgotten.
2. Because of her, I didn't have to tell my mom right off when I started my first period, which, for some reason, I really didn't want to do. We were living in Carmel Valley, and I remember seeing the rust colored spot on my panties and thinking, "I better tell Mand about this." She totally hooked me up with a pad and some Midol. Then that night she poked her head in my room after I had gone to bed to check on me, and advise me against sleeping on my back, if I wanted to avoid nasty sheet washing in the morning.
3. More girly stuff--but I had the HARDEST time nursing Soph. Luckily she was nursing Zack at the same time, and we would bust out boobs and babies and she'd show me how it was done. She also showed me how to manually express the milk when my boobs were about ready to explode.
4. She also introduced me to yoga. She, of course, has been ROCKING the yoga lately, while I have been rocking the cheese. I AM going to a class today, though.
5. When I need someone to talk me down, she always has the grounded advice that I need.
6. Madeline's hand-me-downs have kept Soph clothed for, like, her entire life.
7. Mandy's courage in following her own path has given me the courage to follow my own more than once. In school, religion, family life, motherhood, and a number of other things, she has followed her intuition and listened to her own voice. I'm super shitty at doing that. Often when I'm doing something for ME, I hear her voice in my head telling me it's ok.
8. She taught me how to make roasted veggie and goat cheese sandwiches on foccacia. Yum.
9. I also have benefited from Mand's love of music. Growing up, she always had a music collection (composed of a surprising number of cassette singles) and I always had a music collection to borrow from. More recently, she has introduced me to Nina Simone, KT Tunstall, and Mindy Smith.
10. Need I say that I've had a BFF since I was born because of her?
11. She loves me. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT. I rest in that. Often.
So big sis, I'm so, so sorry to be a birthday forgetting tool. Keep your eye on your mail box when you return from Seattle. I love you. No matter what.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
2 Haiku
Who do I look like?
Modern pre-schools ne-
ver, would dress kids up like In-
dians? Or would they?
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Gateway Drink
When I was going to high school, there was nowhere to get a fancy coffee in Cedar City. Kara Thompson and I would skip class (for me, this was usually seminary), go to Shoney’s, and share a pot of pretty crappy coffee while commiserating the state of our love lives (which were actually pretty jumpin’), our family lives (which were also down right reasonable), and living in a crappy one horse town (which did kind of suck).
I probably don’t need to talk too much about the Mormon/coffee connection. The bottom line is-they don’t drink it. It’s part of the “Word of Wisdom” which counsels against MANY things, including “hot drinks,” “strong drinks,” and even eating too much animal flesh (a caveat which most LDS people have conveniently dismissed.) It’s assumed that the caffeine is the enemy in the case of coffee—but caffeine in other forms is much more socially acceptable. In fact my #1 favorite Mormon joke is, “How do you tell a Mormon from a non-Mormon? Take the temperature of her caffeine.” (My second favorite is, “Why should you always take 2 Mormons fishing? If you just take one, he’ll drink all the beer.”)
Then, as I entered into my college years, the odd coffee spot began popping up. Those Cedar Cidians who were “into that kind of thing” were found scratching their heads at blackboard menus, trying to figure out the difference between a cappuccino and a late, as well as translate exotic terms such as café au lait, breve, grande, and vente. For years all I drank were cappuccinos and mochas because I knew what they were and how to order them.
Coffee shops came and went—and they all had 2 things in common. They were locally/privately owned, and the service and ambiance was crappy. Not much has changed in the last 10ish years, until very recently. Our 3 coffee places were ok. The barista was usually a college kid (and apparently, I’m an old lady) and more often than not, he/she was a bit grumpy. The shops themselves were all right, leaning toward the comfortable and hip, but falling short for a number of reasons. Then about 6 months ago, the devil came to town.
Starbucks.
I stuck to my local coffee, as I do with most things. My husband’s family are all local entrepreneurs, so “shop local” is a matter of family, not just community loyalty. Yea, I did hit the drive-thru a few times when I had Soph in the car and didn’t want to drag her out into the snow. And yes, when E brought me a Starbucks in the morning I certainly didn’t turn it down. But today I went in.
Damn is that place nice! Yes, yes, yes, I know it’s all packaged and produced and designed for me to feel very comfortable and cool at the same time. And I did! Nice music? Check. Comfy seating? Check. Tasteful yet slightly exotic décor? Check. Friendly, helpful, and kind of hot red-head lady barista to patiently, but not at all condescendingly help me through my order? Check. I was having a MORNING today, and needed the big guns, so enter the Vente Cinnamon Dulce Latte. Yummy. Oh so, so, so yummy.
It’s official. I’ve been seduced.
I probably don’t need to talk too much about the Mormon/coffee connection. The bottom line is-they don’t drink it. It’s part of the “Word of Wisdom” which counsels against MANY things, including “hot drinks,” “strong drinks,” and even eating too much animal flesh (a caveat which most LDS people have conveniently dismissed.) It’s assumed that the caffeine is the enemy in the case of coffee—but caffeine in other forms is much more socially acceptable. In fact my #1 favorite Mormon joke is, “How do you tell a Mormon from a non-Mormon? Take the temperature of her caffeine.” (My second favorite is, “Why should you always take 2 Mormons fishing? If you just take one, he’ll drink all the beer.”)
Then, as I entered into my college years, the odd coffee spot began popping up. Those Cedar Cidians who were “into that kind of thing” were found scratching their heads at blackboard menus, trying to figure out the difference between a cappuccino and a late, as well as translate exotic terms such as café au lait, breve, grande, and vente. For years all I drank were cappuccinos and mochas because I knew what they were and how to order them.
Coffee shops came and went—and they all had 2 things in common. They were locally/privately owned, and the service and ambiance was crappy. Not much has changed in the last 10ish years, until very recently. Our 3 coffee places were ok. The barista was usually a college kid (and apparently, I’m an old lady) and more often than not, he/she was a bit grumpy. The shops themselves were all right, leaning toward the comfortable and hip, but falling short for a number of reasons. Then about 6 months ago, the devil came to town.
Starbucks.
I stuck to my local coffee, as I do with most things. My husband’s family are all local entrepreneurs, so “shop local” is a matter of family, not just community loyalty. Yea, I did hit the drive-thru a few times when I had Soph in the car and didn’t want to drag her out into the snow. And yes, when E brought me a Starbucks in the morning I certainly didn’t turn it down. But today I went in.
Damn is that place nice! Yes, yes, yes, I know it’s all packaged and produced and designed for me to feel very comfortable and cool at the same time. And I did! Nice music? Check. Comfy seating? Check. Tasteful yet slightly exotic décor? Check. Friendly, helpful, and kind of hot red-head lady barista to patiently, but not at all condescendingly help me through my order? Check. I was having a MORNING today, and needed the big guns, so enter the Vente Cinnamon Dulce Latte. Yummy. Oh so, so, so yummy.
It’s official. I’ve been seduced.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Tasty Cakes
That's right. Tasty cakes. I mean, Patrice is awesome and all, but awesomer still are the Tasty Cakes which she brought us that are now ALMOST GONE. Well, the little round peanut butter chocolate ones ARE gone (sigh) but I have hidden the last 2 Butterscotch Krimpits in the crock pot--a place where only I would ever find them.
All right, maybe Patrice is equally, or even more awesome than sponge cake-that-is-only-available-in-Philadelphia (What can be done to rectify this immediately?). After all, she took to prison-rules dominoes as though she had been playing it all her life (something you're not telling us Patrice?), has been a gem to Soph, who has been letting her winey flag fly like mad this weekend, (and I'm sure impressed Patrice very much with her table manners and conversational skills. After all--who doesn't want to see a four year old eat over-easy eggs, which she has topped with jelly, with her fingers, and at the same time, listen to her talk baby-talk with her mouth full?) and has been one of the loveliest, easiest house guests it has ever been my pleasure to have.
So--a quick run-down of events:
Patrice arrived at 4:00 a.m. on Friday. You read it right. 4:00 a.m. E was a total peach and picked her up at the airport in Vegas--and with the time change + late-ish flight + slightly longer distance from Vegas to Cedar, I think she was pretty shocked to find herself arriving in the wee small hours. Actually, she was so tired she could hardly move, and white as a sheet. I expected her to sleep until at least noon, but she surprised me by rising at 8:30.
Friday was nice--but we were both pretty exhausted. I took the day off and we had breakfast at the local cowboy haunt, visited Kolob Canyon and then made a quick trip the the grocery store (riveting--eh?). Patrice took a much needed nap and I did a little to get ready for a small gathering. We frittered the afternoon away, and then that evening had a blast playing games with Katy, Paul, Jen and Kodi, and laughing at E who was in life-of-the-party mode.
Today we took a nice long drive up Cedar Mountain. (I got us stuck in the snow--but only for a couple of minutes.) Other than being slightly mortified at the lack of guard rails on the mountain drop-offs, I think Patrice enjoyed seeing our mountain. Then we headed to Grandees for lunch and ice cream, and then to the LDS book store to buy CTR rings for Patrice and family as souvenirs, dropped by my brothers new jewelry store. We leave for the airport in a couple of hours, and although the visit has been short, I think/hope Patrice had a good time. I know I have.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
It's been really fun watching her interact with Patrice.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's so sensitive. And it's getting so old.
All right, maybe Patrice is equally, or even more awesome than sponge cake-that-is-only-available-in-Philadelphia (What can be done to rectify this immediately?). After all, she took to prison-rules dominoes as though she had been playing it all her life (something you're not telling us Patrice?), has been a gem to Soph, who has been letting her winey flag fly like mad this weekend, (and I'm sure impressed Patrice very much with her table manners and conversational skills. After all--who doesn't want to see a four year old eat over-easy eggs, which she has topped with jelly, with her fingers, and at the same time, listen to her talk baby-talk with her mouth full?) and has been one of the loveliest, easiest house guests it has ever been my pleasure to have.
So--a quick run-down of events:
Patrice arrived at 4:00 a.m. on Friday. You read it right. 4:00 a.m. E was a total peach and picked her up at the airport in Vegas--and with the time change + late-ish flight + slightly longer distance from Vegas to Cedar, I think she was pretty shocked to find herself arriving in the wee small hours. Actually, she was so tired she could hardly move, and white as a sheet. I expected her to sleep until at least noon, but she surprised me by rising at 8:30.
Friday was nice--but we were both pretty exhausted. I took the day off and we had breakfast at the local cowboy haunt, visited Kolob Canyon and then made a quick trip the the grocery store (riveting--eh?). Patrice took a much needed nap and I did a little to get ready for a small gathering. We frittered the afternoon away, and then that evening had a blast playing games with Katy, Paul, Jen and Kodi, and laughing at E who was in life-of-the-party mode.
Today we took a nice long drive up Cedar Mountain. (I got us stuck in the snow--but only for a couple of minutes.) Other than being slightly mortified at the lack of guard rails on the mountain drop-offs, I think Patrice enjoyed seeing our mountain. Then we headed to Grandees for lunch and ice cream, and then to the LDS book store to buy CTR rings for Patrice and family as souvenirs, dropped by my brothers new jewelry store. We leave for the airport in a couple of hours, and although the visit has been short, I think/hope Patrice had a good time. I know I have.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
It's been really fun watching her interact with Patrice.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's so sensitive. And it's getting so old.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
This is me bitching.
2 nights now with fewer than 6 hours of sleep have gone by. And let me just say, if I had the energy, which I do not, I would rip out the trachea (possible?) of anyone who gave me the slightest reason.
I’m having a terrible time falling asleep—and don’t manage to drift off until about 12:00, just in time for Soph to wake me up with various shenanigans. Last night the sound of her bedroom door opening woke me just as I was drifting—you know, that moment in time when you’re falling asleep and the slightest interruption causes your heart and many of your other internal organs to attempt an escape right through your throat? I went looking for her, and couldn’t find her anywhere. She wasn’t in the bathroom, or the living room, or the kitchen. Just when I started to truly panic, I gave the kitchen a more thorough look, and found her, naked, asleep on her belly, on the floor next to the refrigerator. I guess, to her, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It took a half hour or so for her to truly fall back asleep. Apparently, the universe has decided that my optimum sleep hours are between the hours of one and six p.m. Frankly, the universe can shove that idea up its ass, because I am going to truly go crazy if I don’t get some decent sleep.
As for all my news yesterday, with the exception of Patrice’s visit, I’d like to formally complain about all the work involved with the rest of it. New carpet means moving all the crap out of the bedrooms. Also, the ass hats who owned the house before we did did all kinds of crazy stuff to it, so new carpet has necesitated even floors which has necesitated some business with a jack hammer and cement laying (E, not me, of course) which as created quite a mess--all over my new wood floors. New linoleum means taking the toilet out of the bathroom. Remember how I have only 1 potty? I still have no idea how that’s going to work. Don’t get me wrong—I have no major problem with peeing outside, but it’s been around minus 10 or so for the last few nights, and I don’t fancy a pee-cicle forming on my nethers. Plus, not to put too fine a point on it, what if someone has to poop?
The carpet cleaners are going to have to be able to FIND the carpet in the basement. At my house, the basement is “no women’s land.” That is, E and Janz have the run of the place. That + the fact that it’s become a bit of a dumping ground make demucking it a daunting task, to say the very least.
So, I’m telling myself that on Friday, when Patrice is here, the carpets look immaculate, the shitter is reinstalled, and I’m in the middle my second Chardonnay, I’ll look back at today and tomorrow and laugh. At least I better.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Well, it’s definitely NOT finding your kid naked on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Not being able to call in the nanny at 12:01 a.m.
I’m having a terrible time falling asleep—and don’t manage to drift off until about 12:00, just in time for Soph to wake me up with various shenanigans. Last night the sound of her bedroom door opening woke me just as I was drifting—you know, that moment in time when you’re falling asleep and the slightest interruption causes your heart and many of your other internal organs to attempt an escape right through your throat? I went looking for her, and couldn’t find her anywhere. She wasn’t in the bathroom, or the living room, or the kitchen. Just when I started to truly panic, I gave the kitchen a more thorough look, and found her, naked, asleep on her belly, on the floor next to the refrigerator. I guess, to her, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It took a half hour or so for her to truly fall back asleep. Apparently, the universe has decided that my optimum sleep hours are between the hours of one and six p.m. Frankly, the universe can shove that idea up its ass, because I am going to truly go crazy if I don’t get some decent sleep.
As for all my news yesterday, with the exception of Patrice’s visit, I’d like to formally complain about all the work involved with the rest of it. New carpet means moving all the crap out of the bedrooms. Also, the ass hats who owned the house before we did did all kinds of crazy stuff to it, so new carpet has necesitated even floors which has necesitated some business with a jack hammer and cement laying (E, not me, of course) which as created quite a mess--all over my new wood floors. New linoleum means taking the toilet out of the bathroom. Remember how I have only 1 potty? I still have no idea how that’s going to work. Don’t get me wrong—I have no major problem with peeing outside, but it’s been around minus 10 or so for the last few nights, and I don’t fancy a pee-cicle forming on my nethers. Plus, not to put too fine a point on it, what if someone has to poop?
The carpet cleaners are going to have to be able to FIND the carpet in the basement. At my house, the basement is “no women’s land.” That is, E and Janz have the run of the place. That + the fact that it’s become a bit of a dumping ground make demucking it a daunting task, to say the very least.
So, I’m telling myself that on Friday, when Patrice is here, the carpets look immaculate, the shitter is reinstalled, and I’m in the middle my second Chardonnay, I’ll look back at today and tomorrow and laugh. At least I better.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Well, it’s definitely NOT finding your kid naked on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Not being able to call in the nanny at 12:01 a.m.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Newsflash
Just kidding. More of a news--flicker?
Exciting things happening in the next 3 days include...
3. New carpet being installed in my bedrooms and hallway.
2. Having the carpet downstairs cleaned.
and (the reason for the cleaning but not installing, because, she's awesome but I'm not a TOTAL freak show...)
1. Patrice is coming for a visit!
She's just staying for 2 nights, but that's so much better than none. I've arranged for Friday off, so as to commence with the smokin' good times asap. Friday day I'm thinking a drive down to Kolob to see the sights and say hi to Kods. Maybe also breakfast at the Market Grill so she can get her cowboy spotting quota filled right off. Friday night is a party with the palls--so dominoes and Uno and adult libations aplenty. (Note to self: find out ingredients in a Shirley Temple and purchase, as this seems to be Patrice's favorite "drink.") Saturday we'll have most of the day to kick it, and then Kods (and hopefully, I) will drive her back to Vegas, and possibly dine at Memphis Barbecue (we all met up there for her last trip to these general parts)--thus starting a mini-tradition, and also creating the opportunity for fried pickles. Sweet.
Let's see. Any other news? I'm pretty deep into Angel--just finished the episodes with Faith, and they were fabulous. Anyone know the back-story of why Doyle cut out so quickly?
Oh--Soph is totally reading, and writing. Mostly 3 letter words with a short vowel, but she's getting a kick out of it. She sounded out and wrote "frog" all by herself a few days ago. Her new favorite past-time is going "tummy diving." While I'm laying on the couch, she pulls my shirt up over my fat stomach, takes a deep breath, plugs her nose, and "dives" her face into my stomach. She then blows a huge raspberry/zrbt into my stomach. I drew the line at her filling my navel with water. I do have SOME pride/parental control.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Bragging about how smart she is
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Being woken up a full half-hour before the alarm goes off
Exciting things happening in the next 3 days include...
3. New carpet being installed in my bedrooms and hallway.
2. Having the carpet downstairs cleaned.
and (the reason for the cleaning but not installing, because, she's awesome but I'm not a TOTAL freak show...)
1. Patrice is coming for a visit!
She's just staying for 2 nights, but that's so much better than none. I've arranged for Friday off, so as to commence with the smokin' good times asap. Friday day I'm thinking a drive down to Kolob to see the sights and say hi to Kods. Maybe also breakfast at the Market Grill so she can get her cowboy spotting quota filled right off. Friday night is a party with the palls--so dominoes and Uno and adult libations aplenty. (Note to self: find out ingredients in a Shirley Temple and purchase, as this seems to be Patrice's favorite "drink.") Saturday we'll have most of the day to kick it, and then Kods (and hopefully, I) will drive her back to Vegas, and possibly dine at Memphis Barbecue (we all met up there for her last trip to these general parts)--thus starting a mini-tradition, and also creating the opportunity for fried pickles. Sweet.
Let's see. Any other news? I'm pretty deep into Angel--just finished the episodes with Faith, and they were fabulous. Anyone know the back-story of why Doyle cut out so quickly?
Oh--Soph is totally reading, and writing. Mostly 3 letter words with a short vowel, but she's getting a kick out of it. She sounded out and wrote "frog" all by herself a few days ago. Her new favorite past-time is going "tummy diving." While I'm laying on the couch, she pulls my shirt up over my fat stomach, takes a deep breath, plugs her nose, and "dives" her face into my stomach. She then blows a huge raspberry/zrbt into my stomach. I drew the line at her filling my navel with water. I do have SOME pride/parental control.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Bragging about how smart she is
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Being woken up a full half-hour before the alarm goes off
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I'm willing to tell you; I'm wanting to tell you; I'm waiting to tell you.
(Bonus points if you know the movie *hint--it's a musical* from which the subject quote was lifted.)
I really am! That is, willing, wanting, and waiting to tell you all the new and exciting news of my life. Problem is--there just isn't any. Soph is still equal parts precocious, naughty, and sweet as a bug; E is still equal parts maddening and amazing; work is still equal parts gratifying and exasperating; Utah is still equal parts crawling with Mormons and as safe and comfy as a well worn t-shirt; and I am still equal parts mother, wife, teacher, and inner-rock-star-who-is-dying-to-get-out.
What can I say? The days go by, and nothing happens that I feel is blog-worthy. It's both sad and a relief that 4 year-old Soph seems to be past the shenanigans of the last couple of years. I'm afraid there will be no more blogging about pudding art or anatomy lessons. I've said all there is to say about my struggles with weight and body image. I mean really, now many times and ways can you rephrase, "I'm fat but too lazy to do anything about it." I don't know folks. I think this blog may be going the way of the dodo.
I was kind of trying to think of some kind of formulaic approach to the blog--as I've seen others do: Monday, meme day; Tuesday, tantrum day; Wednesday, what-if? day; etc. But I just don't know.
I love my blog. I've fought battles for my blog. But I think I'm about blogged out.
This isn't a plea for comments like, "Don't quit blogging! You are totally awesome and if you quit, my pet hamster Gertrude and I will just absolutely perish!" I'm not deleting the blog or anything. Just thinking about why posting used to be a fun, daily ritual, and now it's a bit of a bi-monthly grind. If you have any ideas about how to bring back the zing, I'd much rather hear those.
So--enough meta-blog-nition. Onto the few bits of news I DO have.
Sophie has another bad hair cut. It's SHORT! Like, boy short. I had it cut at the beauty school (error 1) and it was ok, but not great. Then my mom did a little snipping here and there to try and fix things up (error 2) and I finally took her to my girl (who I go to like once a year) and the result is, well SHORT! No pics but I'll get some up soon. E hates it. I don't HATE it per say, but it's definitely short. I bought her some cute clippies and headbands--that she won't keep in, and even sprung for some $16.00 spray wax stuff (Am I the only one who thinks that calling various hair-goos "product" is kind of lame? As in, "Let's put in some product.") to--what did she say, "piece it out," which I think really means, "mess it up on top a little." I even asked her if she wanted to get her ears pierced--and she did, until the gal said, "Let me get my gun." Dur lady.
In TV news, I finally ordered Angel season one and it arrived yesterday. That lead to a much later night than I'm accustom to (11:30--jump back!) AND reopened the "Who's hotter: Angel or Spike" debate, and what a lovely debate it is. (Pause for vampy threesome fantasy. Ok. Done.) So far, I can say that it's definitely watchable. I'm kind of addicted to the watching-completed-series-on DVD thing. In my brain it feels like reading a nice long novel much more than watching the tube.
What else? Oh--I bought tickets for E and myself to the Willie Nelson and Family concert in February. I love me some Willie. I think I scored pretty decent seats, so that's something to look forward to.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Kissing her forehead while she's sleeping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She has SO many questions about death lately and I just don't know how to answer them. I'm trying to be honest and age appropriate, but for some reason, she seems to be afraid that I'm going to die. I think it's from all the Disney princess movies. Think about it. Snow White? Mom's dead. Sleeping Beauty's mom? Dead. Belle's mom? Dead. They don't come out and say that Ariel and Jasmine's moms are dead, but it's implied by their absence. I can't tell her I'm never going to die, and that's what she wants me to say. I tell her I'm young and healthy and that she doesn't need to worry about it, but man does she.
I really am! That is, willing, wanting, and waiting to tell you all the new and exciting news of my life. Problem is--there just isn't any. Soph is still equal parts precocious, naughty, and sweet as a bug; E is still equal parts maddening and amazing; work is still equal parts gratifying and exasperating; Utah is still equal parts crawling with Mormons and as safe and comfy as a well worn t-shirt; and I am still equal parts mother, wife, teacher, and inner-rock-star-who-is-dying-to-get-out.
What can I say? The days go by, and nothing happens that I feel is blog-worthy. It's both sad and a relief that 4 year-old Soph seems to be past the shenanigans of the last couple of years. I'm afraid there will be no more blogging about pudding art or anatomy lessons. I've said all there is to say about my struggles with weight and body image. I mean really, now many times and ways can you rephrase, "I'm fat but too lazy to do anything about it." I don't know folks. I think this blog may be going the way of the dodo.
I was kind of trying to think of some kind of formulaic approach to the blog--as I've seen others do: Monday, meme day; Tuesday, tantrum day; Wednesday, what-if? day; etc. But I just don't know.
I love my blog. I've fought battles for my blog. But I think I'm about blogged out.
This isn't a plea for comments like, "Don't quit blogging! You are totally awesome and if you quit, my pet hamster Gertrude and I will just absolutely perish!" I'm not deleting the blog or anything. Just thinking about why posting used to be a fun, daily ritual, and now it's a bit of a bi-monthly grind. If you have any ideas about how to bring back the zing, I'd much rather hear those.
So--enough meta-blog-nition. Onto the few bits of news I DO have.
Sophie has another bad hair cut. It's SHORT! Like, boy short. I had it cut at the beauty school (error 1) and it was ok, but not great. Then my mom did a little snipping here and there to try and fix things up (error 2) and I finally took her to my girl (who I go to like once a year) and the result is, well SHORT! No pics but I'll get some up soon. E hates it. I don't HATE it per say, but it's definitely short. I bought her some cute clippies and headbands--that she won't keep in, and even sprung for some $16.00 spray wax stuff (Am I the only one who thinks that calling various hair-goos "product" is kind of lame? As in, "Let's put in some product.") to--what did she say, "piece it out," which I think really means, "mess it up on top a little." I even asked her if she wanted to get her ears pierced--and she did, until the gal said, "Let me get my gun." Dur lady.
In TV news, I finally ordered Angel season one and it arrived yesterday. That lead to a much later night than I'm accustom to (11:30--jump back!) AND reopened the "Who's hotter: Angel or Spike" debate, and what a lovely debate it is. (Pause for vampy threesome fantasy. Ok. Done.) So far, I can say that it's definitely watchable. I'm kind of addicted to the watching-completed-series-on DVD thing. In my brain it feels like reading a nice long novel much more than watching the tube.
What else? Oh--I bought tickets for E and myself to the Willie Nelson and Family concert in February. I love me some Willie. I think I scored pretty decent seats, so that's something to look forward to.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Kissing her forehead while she's sleeping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She has SO many questions about death lately and I just don't know how to answer them. I'm trying to be honest and age appropriate, but for some reason, she seems to be afraid that I'm going to die. I think it's from all the Disney princess movies. Think about it. Snow White? Mom's dead. Sleeping Beauty's mom? Dead. Belle's mom? Dead. They don't come out and say that Ariel and Jasmine's moms are dead, but it's implied by their absence. I can't tell her I'm never going to die, and that's what she wants me to say. I tell her I'm young and healthy and that she doesn't need to worry about it, but man does she.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
This is the part where...
When the alarm woke me up this morning, I very nearly began to cry. Two weeks of vacation went by in the flashiest of flashes. Exit sleeping in, playing with cousins, big-sister bonding time, home-made candy and cheese ball, and time to clean the house. Enter a hurried snuggle with Soph, followed by scraping ice off of the car with a credit card and no gloves in the wee hours of the morning, dealing with surly teenagers, catching up on grades (the WORST part of being a teacher), and knowing that the hurricane of 3 people fleeing the house this morning awaits me when I get home today. Sigh-a-nara Christmas.
Best images of Christmas break: (Mandy has most of these as real pictures, so badger her to post them asap.)
Of course, Soph much prefers the little parrot she got in her last Happy Meal to any of her Christmas presents, and I truly do hate taking down the Christmas tree, so I'm not completely without things to bitch about.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Morning snuggles
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Taming the bed-head
Best images of Christmas break: (Mandy has most of these as real pictures, so badger her to post them asap.)
- Soph flopped on her back in the snow, making yet another snow angel
- Zack chanting "Trudge, trudge, trudge, trudge" with a huge grin on his face, making his way through the thigh deep (for him) snow in the back yard of the little house Mand rented for the week.
- Happening to glance into the evergreen tree in same back yard, and spying a minuscule screech owl totally kickin' it mellow style.
- Jimmy leaping through the show to catch his frisbee, and landing in a spray of sparkly white.
- Madeline in her St. Lucia ensemble, reading her part in the Smith family Christmas program (which was complete with unexpected and hilarious interruptions by the Wack-a-Mole game and an accidental fart.)
As a whole, Christmas Vacation, or rather, Winter Break was awesome. Having Mandy and her kids here was, well, awesome. The kids got along SO well, and really, there are few things in the world that beat just spending time doing nothing with my best friend/big sis. The 3rd annual Karaoke in Kannaraville was, again, awesome. A little mild debauchery once a year is such a good thing. I rocked a couple of my classic Karaoke numbers, and once again talked E into his once a year rendition of "Sweet Caroline."
Of course, Soph much prefers the little parrot she got in her last Happy Meal to any of her Christmas presents, and I truly do hate taking down the Christmas tree, so I'm not completely without things to bitch about.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Morning snuggles
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Taming the bed-head
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Plugged In
I am all kinds of plugged in now.
Remember when I mentioned that E was hooking me up with a new Mac PowerBook? (Of course you don't; but a gold star to anyone bored enough to find the post.) Well, some several months later, ta da! I'm typing this post on my couch, from my new (well, at least to me. It's actually a couple of years old.) laptop! I believe this is my first very own computer. Mine mine mine. Not the school's or loaner from E's work or the family's. Mine! Porn sites here I come. ;)
Also--my new phone finally came today! I've been without a cell since Thanksgiving. Then today, just as I had scraped the gravy out of the power outlet on the old phone to see if that would help it keep a charge (it did) the Fed Ex guy delivered my new one. Poor guy. I was on the phone (land line with a 12 inch cord. If anyone is last minute shopping for me, boy could I use a new cordless for the house.) with Katy, and Soph answered the door. Jimmy was just getting ready to freak out on the guy (He's totally ok with strangers that we've let in the house, but those standing outside the door are considered highly suspect.) when I intervened. What kind of new phone do I have? A black flippy one. Sweet.
I'm down to just 2 more gifts to buy--one for my dad and one for Mandy and Clark. (Mand--shut your eyes.) We're headed to Best Buy tomorrow to look for those. I'm crossing my fingers that I can find a cheep boxed set of a season of Dr. Who for my dad. The one with the guy in the scarf. For Mand and Clark, I'm hoping they don't have Firefly yet. If they do, maybe Buffy season one. (Ok. You can open them now.) I hate people (except for you) who tell you all smugly that they have all their shopping done and wrapped--like in November. Those people are worse than the ones (again, present company excluded) who have delicious, homemade, nutritious dinners in the freezer in little labeled containers, ready to bust out at a moments notice.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Cutting snowflakes out of coffee filters and muffin cups together.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
TV guilt.
Remember when I mentioned that E was hooking me up with a new Mac PowerBook? (Of course you don't; but a gold star to anyone bored enough to find the post.) Well, some several months later, ta da! I'm typing this post on my couch, from my new (well, at least to me. It's actually a couple of years old.) laptop! I believe this is my first very own computer. Mine mine mine. Not the school's or loaner from E's work or the family's. Mine! Porn sites here I come. ;)
Also--my new phone finally came today! I've been without a cell since Thanksgiving. Then today, just as I had scraped the gravy out of the power outlet on the old phone to see if that would help it keep a charge (it did) the Fed Ex guy delivered my new one. Poor guy. I was on the phone (land line with a 12 inch cord. If anyone is last minute shopping for me, boy could I use a new cordless for the house.) with Katy, and Soph answered the door. Jimmy was just getting ready to freak out on the guy (He's totally ok with strangers that we've let in the house, but those standing outside the door are considered highly suspect.) when I intervened. What kind of new phone do I have? A black flippy one. Sweet.
I'm down to just 2 more gifts to buy--one for my dad and one for Mandy and Clark. (Mand--shut your eyes.) We're headed to Best Buy tomorrow to look for those. I'm crossing my fingers that I can find a cheep boxed set of a season of Dr. Who for my dad. The one with the guy in the scarf. For Mand and Clark, I'm hoping they don't have Firefly yet. If they do, maybe Buffy season one. (Ok. You can open them now.) I hate people (except for you) who tell you all smugly that they have all their shopping done and wrapped--like in November. Those people are worse than the ones (again, present company excluded) who have delicious, homemade, nutritious dinners in the freezer in little labeled containers, ready to bust out at a moments notice.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Cutting snowflakes out of coffee filters and muffin cups together.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
TV guilt.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Have a Happy Zappy Christmas!
My top 5 favorite things about Christmas, this year. (Less than 50% are dairy related. Sweet.)
5. Clam dip
4. Going to Sophie's school and having the cute little girl with the speech impediment rave and rave to me about her new "kitty" pronounced, "titty." (Ok, not super Christmas related, but pretty freakin' funny none the less.)
3. Having cute Soph-made Christmas decor to hang up.
2. Peppermint stick blizzards
1. Listening to Soph sing her new favorite made-up song, "Have a happy, zappy Christmas."
Oh--and honorable mention goes to this outfit she opened last night from her Aunt Karynn. Too Cute.
My top 5 most hated things about Christmas this year.
5. The gravy boat nonsense.
4. Bronchitis
3. Christmas light malfunctions
2. Being dragged into the living room to see every toy commercial and being informed that that is what she REALLY wants. Tough kitties. The Santa shopping is done.
1. Gift anxiety
Today's best thing about being a mom:
We're having our first "Mommy and Sophie" day in a long, long time. I've been making an effort today to just enjoy her company.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Her god-damn bedroom is so filthy, again. I know she can't tackle a mess like that on her own. When are kids old enough to REALLY clean their own room--not just throw shit in the closet?
5. Clam dip
4. Going to Sophie's school and having the cute little girl with the speech impediment rave and rave to me about her new "kitty" pronounced, "titty." (Ok, not super Christmas related, but pretty freakin' funny none the less.)
3. Having cute Soph-made Christmas decor to hang up.
2. Peppermint stick blizzards
1. Listening to Soph sing her new favorite made-up song, "Have a happy, zappy Christmas."
Oh--and honorable mention goes to this outfit she opened last night from her Aunt Karynn. Too Cute.
My top 5 most hated things about Christmas this year.
5. The gravy boat nonsense.
4. Bronchitis
3. Christmas light malfunctions
2. Being dragged into the living room to see every toy commercial and being informed that that is what she REALLY wants. Tough kitties. The Santa shopping is done.
1. Gift anxiety
Today's best thing about being a mom:
We're having our first "Mommy and Sophie" day in a long, long time. I've been making an effort today to just enjoy her company.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Her god-damn bedroom is so filthy, again. I know she can't tackle a mess like that on her own. When are kids old enough to REALLY clean their own room--not just throw shit in the closet?
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Sick, Sick and Tired, and Sick OF
Today, I'm all of the above. I have something fluish/coldish going on, and frankly, I feel like total shit. Yesterday I called a sub, but today, that was not an option.
You see, I've been working tirelessly (ok, I've been tired sometimes ) for 5 years now to find a way to help my kids be better readers. According to some assessments I've done, at least half are below grade level, and at least half of those are 4 or more grades below grade level. Sheesh. In my teacher ed classes, I was never taught to teach reading. Sure I got the literary criticism stuff, and I can teach the hell out of a novel, short story, poem, essay, what have you, but never anything on what to do with the kid who simply can't READ the novel, short story, poem, essay, etc. I spent a ton of time studying up on comprehension and vocabulary strategies, and for a fraction of my kids, that helped, but only for the ones who were doing ok to start with.
So this year I've been attending a series of classes to get my reading endorsement. Usually it's me, a fellow teacher, and about 100 3rd grade teachers. I've learned a TON, the most important being that if the kid can't decode the word, no amount of comprehension study in the world is going to help him/her comprehend the text. Period.
Long story short, I'm now teaching phonics, decoding, affixes, and multisyllabic fluency. Sounds fun, huh? For fluency (speed+emotion=meaning) to increase, kids have to read the same passage at least 6 times. Then fluency goes up both for that passage and future passages. Enter: (da du du da!!) readers' theater! We've been practicing 4 holiday themed readers' theater(s?) for the last few weeks, and let me tell you, I've seen more improvement with this one activity than any number of expensive, time consuming programs combined. Today they are performing the pieces (The Christmas Orange, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, The Christmas Orange and The Christmas Truce) for the school AND I (much to the horror of the kids) sent invitations to the parents.
So--I'm here, Theraflu in hand, bag of cheep Christmas cookies under my desk, classroom rearranged into as theater-like a place as I can, hoping that at least a few parents show and that the kids won't cut class.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
When I'm sick, Soph always brings me little things to help me feel better. Yesterday it was a potato chip, a dolly, and a Christmas ornament.
Today's worst t thing about being a mom:
Because of the floor debacle, and me being sick, we were all out of stuff to make her lunch today.
You see, I've been working tirelessly (ok, I've been tired sometimes ) for 5 years now to find a way to help my kids be better readers. According to some assessments I've done, at least half are below grade level, and at least half of those are 4 or more grades below grade level. Sheesh. In my teacher ed classes, I was never taught to teach reading. Sure I got the literary criticism stuff, and I can teach the hell out of a novel, short story, poem, essay, what have you, but never anything on what to do with the kid who simply can't READ the novel, short story, poem, essay, etc. I spent a ton of time studying up on comprehension and vocabulary strategies, and for a fraction of my kids, that helped, but only for the ones who were doing ok to start with.
So this year I've been attending a series of classes to get my reading endorsement. Usually it's me, a fellow teacher, and about 100 3rd grade teachers. I've learned a TON, the most important being that if the kid can't decode the word, no amount of comprehension study in the world is going to help him/her comprehend the text. Period.
Long story short, I'm now teaching phonics, decoding, affixes, and multisyllabic fluency. Sounds fun, huh? For fluency (speed+emotion=meaning) to increase, kids have to read the same passage at least 6 times. Then fluency goes up both for that passage and future passages. Enter: (da du du da!!) readers' theater! We've been practicing 4 holiday themed readers' theater(s?) for the last few weeks, and let me tell you, I've seen more improvement with this one activity than any number of expensive, time consuming programs combined. Today they are performing the pieces (The Christmas Orange, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, The Christmas Orange and The Christmas Truce) for the school AND I (much to the horror of the kids) sent invitations to the parents.
So--I'm here, Theraflu in hand, bag of cheep Christmas cookies under my desk, classroom rearranged into as theater-like a place as I can, hoping that at least a few parents show and that the kids won't cut class.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
When I'm sick, Soph always brings me little things to help me feel better. Yesterday it was a potato chip, a dolly, and a Christmas ornament.
Today's worst t thing about being a mom:
Because of the floor debacle, and me being sick, we were all out of stuff to make her lunch today.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Gravy Grinch
Hmm. Tried switching to Blogger Beta and apparently something is awry. I hope it won't mess things up too bad. Also, my blogrolling seems to be out of wack. FYI--Sophie Says has been updated.
Now then. Here is why I hate Christmas. All my mother wants is a new gravy boat. In my family, we take the gravy pretty seriously. The old gravy boat broke, and the gravy needs a new home. What she really wants is a plug in gravy boat that keeps the gravy warm. So, I figured--a quick trip to Wal-mart and that's one gift down, right? Wrong. There are no. gravy. boats. at. Wal-mart. Not plug in ones. Not not plug in ones. Not any ones at all. Ok. So I try the other 2 options in Cedar City. Nope. No gravy boats. Apparently there was a run on gravy boats right before Thanksgiving, and no one has reordered. Ok. Breathe. That's what the internet's for. Right? Only, shipping on a plug-in gravy boat is like ten bucks. And I'l be damned if I'm going to pay ten bucks shipping on a twenty dollar gravy boat. I calculated the hours I spent shopping for a gravy boat--both on and off line. People. 5+ hours. I finally (dur) looked on Amazon and got free shipping and the gravy boat is en route, but crimeny--how lame am I to spend 5 hours of my life on a hunt for the perfect recepticle for fat thickened with flour? (And why is it a boat? How about the gravy bus? Gravy ship? Gravy raft?) Sigh.
In other news, the bulk of my furniture has spent the last week sitting on my front lawn. We're finally having the wood floors redone, and frankly, I don't want to talk about it. What I thought would be a 2 day project has ballooned into a week long project and between living without a kitchen, dining room, or living room and the fumes and dust, I'm about ready to kill people. But, I think the work is done, and tomorrow the floors will be dry enough to move the furniture back in.
Much more to report, but just don't wanna. Maybe more tomorrow.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Grandma J took Soph to see Santa a few days ago. Apparently he was pretty crappy. Maybe 18 years old with a fake-o-rama beard and cheap suit. When I asked what she thought of Santa, she answered, "Well, I think it must have been his brother."
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Do I have enough stuff for her? Too much? Should I break down and get the Bratt? Does she really need stocking stuffers?
Now then. Here is why I hate Christmas. All my mother wants is a new gravy boat. In my family, we take the gravy pretty seriously. The old gravy boat broke, and the gravy needs a new home. What she really wants is a plug in gravy boat that keeps the gravy warm. So, I figured--a quick trip to Wal-mart and that's one gift down, right? Wrong. There are no. gravy. boats. at. Wal-mart. Not plug in ones. Not not plug in ones. Not any ones at all. Ok. So I try the other 2 options in Cedar City. Nope. No gravy boats. Apparently there was a run on gravy boats right before Thanksgiving, and no one has reordered. Ok. Breathe. That's what the internet's for. Right? Only, shipping on a plug-in gravy boat is like ten bucks. And I'l be damned if I'm going to pay ten bucks shipping on a twenty dollar gravy boat. I calculated the hours I spent shopping for a gravy boat--both on and off line. People. 5+ hours. I finally (dur) looked on Amazon and got free shipping and the gravy boat is en route, but crimeny--how lame am I to spend 5 hours of my life on a hunt for the perfect recepticle for fat thickened with flour? (And why is it a boat? How about the gravy bus? Gravy ship? Gravy raft?) Sigh.
In other news, the bulk of my furniture has spent the last week sitting on my front lawn. We're finally having the wood floors redone, and frankly, I don't want to talk about it. What I thought would be a 2 day project has ballooned into a week long project and between living without a kitchen, dining room, or living room and the fumes and dust, I'm about ready to kill people. But, I think the work is done, and tomorrow the floors will be dry enough to move the furniture back in.
Much more to report, but just don't wanna. Maybe more tomorrow.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Grandma J took Soph to see Santa a few days ago. Apparently he was pretty crappy. Maybe 18 years old with a fake-o-rama beard and cheap suit. When I asked what she thought of Santa, she answered, "Well, I think it must have been his brother."
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Do I have enough stuff for her? Too much? Should I break down and get the Bratt? Does she really need stocking stuffers?
Sunday, December 03, 2006
...and a pony and a race car and...
I put up all the Christmas Crap today: tree, wreath, stockings, etc. If I wanted to, I could blog about Christmas light trauma, but I really don't want to relive it. To summarize, lights attached to the tree are a great idea--until the lights quit working.
Instead, here is Sophie's Santa letter, as dictated to E this morning at 6:30 while I was still asnooze in my bed.
Dear Santa Clause,
My name is Sophie Gene.
I want a (Like how she cuts right to the chase?)
1. Super Rocket Snowboard
2. Racer Scooter
3. Dinosaur set for Dad
4. Pom Pom
5. A baby like Bianca's
6. Polly Pocket set with a Jacuzzi, camera, and sunglasses
7. Music box
8. Magnet set that makes a cool monkey
9. Phone number set
10. Glowing Ariel that sings
11. Pom pom sister wig
12. Digging dinosaur bones set
13. Pop up elephant that pops up butterflies
14. My own sproinging Christmas tree
15. A green and pink basket for Bianca
16. My own carriage with real horses
17. Cleaning list like Cinderella's
18. Ariel Vanity
I've been good.
Sophie
I'm afraid she's going to be pretty disappointed. Last year she played with most of her Christmas toys for about 1 day. The Disney Princess talking vanity was a total piece of shit. The Polly Pocket beading machine was worse than a piece of shit. It was a piece of shit with eighty-million pieces and a battery. She's getting a scooter, a couple of new Barbies, and the rest of her stuff is going to be well made, and learning/craft centered--not because I'm a good granola mommy, but because that's the stuff she plays with.
That said, Christmas is such a good influence on Miss Sophie Gene. I feel equal parts hella guilty (you know--because of the lying and coersion) and elated, but the "be good or Santa won't bring you any toys" works like a fucking magic charm with that girl. I'm serious. She's totally minding, picking up her shit, and did I mention, minding? This weekend was absolutely dreamy. It must be so nice to be the parent of a child that does what you say--like--all the time. Oh--and after she finished her Santa letter, she drew a picture for Mrs. Santa because, "Mommy, I bet Mrs. Santa doesn't get very much mail."
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Seeing Christmas through the eyes of someone who still thinks it's magical and wonderful and not a huge damn pain in the ass. Oh, and watching "The Grinch." Not the Jim Carrey one. The awesome old-school one with Boris Karlof.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Well I ever, ever be able to sleep in until noon on a Sunday again?
Instead, here is Sophie's Santa letter, as dictated to E this morning at 6:30 while I was still asnooze in my bed.
Dear Santa Clause,
My name is Sophie Gene.
I want a (Like how she cuts right to the chase?)
1. Super Rocket Snowboard
2. Racer Scooter
3. Dinosaur set for Dad
4. Pom Pom
5. A baby like Bianca's
6. Polly Pocket set with a Jacuzzi, camera, and sunglasses
7. Music box
8. Magnet set that makes a cool monkey
9. Phone number set
10. Glowing Ariel that sings
11. Pom pom sister wig
12. Digging dinosaur bones set
13. Pop up elephant that pops up butterflies
14. My own sproinging Christmas tree
15. A green and pink basket for Bianca
16. My own carriage with real horses
17. Cleaning list like Cinderella's
18. Ariel Vanity
I've been good.
Sophie
I'm afraid she's going to be pretty disappointed. Last year she played with most of her Christmas toys for about 1 day. The Disney Princess talking vanity was a total piece of shit. The Polly Pocket beading machine was worse than a piece of shit. It was a piece of shit with eighty-million pieces and a battery. She's getting a scooter, a couple of new Barbies, and the rest of her stuff is going to be well made, and learning/craft centered--not because I'm a good granola mommy, but because that's the stuff she plays with.
That said, Christmas is such a good influence on Miss Sophie Gene. I feel equal parts hella guilty (you know--because of the lying and coersion) and elated, but the "be good or Santa won't bring you any toys" works like a fucking magic charm with that girl. I'm serious. She's totally minding, picking up her shit, and did I mention, minding? This weekend was absolutely dreamy. It must be so nice to be the parent of a child that does what you say--like--all the time. Oh--and after she finished her Santa letter, she drew a picture for Mrs. Santa because, "Mommy, I bet Mrs. Santa doesn't get very much mail."
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Seeing Christmas through the eyes of someone who still thinks it's magical and wonderful and not a huge damn pain in the ass. Oh, and watching "The Grinch." Not the Jim Carrey one. The awesome old-school one with Boris Karlof.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Well I ever, ever be able to sleep in until noon on a Sunday again?
Monday, November 27, 2006
A one horse soap and sleigh
I think I was 14 before I realized that it was actually a "one horse open sleigh."
You know, as much as I fucking HATE Christmas sometimes, I love all the singing. The last few days as Soph and I have been driving around, she's been requesting, "Sing Christmas songs Mommy." I've been having fun doing "The Christmas Song" a la Karen Carpenter, "The Little Drummer Boy" a la David Bowie, and last night, I was totally channeling Billy Holiday while sing "Jingle Bells."
Soph's favorite is, like most 4 year olds, "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." She has totally mastered the "like a lightbulb!" and "like monopoly" bits. My favorite just-for-fun Christmas song has got to be "Let it Snow." There's so much room to slide around in that one. Plus it's so cozy and just ever-so-slightly naughty. As for the more "serious" carols, for my money you can't beat "O Holy Night." Even though I'm not a believer, that crescendo "Fall on your knees. O hear the angels' voices. O night divine...." and so on gives me the shivers every time. That song just swells an breaks and swells again until you're ready to just shout out "God bless us, every one!"
Of course, I've always found "Santa Clause is Coming to Town" to be down right creepy. The, "He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake," is just too Santa-as-Stalker for me.
I also hate the "push-the-button-and-listen-to-the-carol" toys, ties, and whatever else. Yesterday, after Thanksgiving Part Deux at Grandma Bud's house, Soph, Grandma, and I all made the pilgrimage around the corner to the Griswalds. (Actually, I have no idea what their last name is, but their house is lit up like, well, like something very, very light-y. Katy, I think, refers to it as "The house Christmas threw up on.") This year along with the plastic baby Jesus surrounded by light up candy-canes and polar bears and every other tacky Christmas decoration in creation, they added a very electronic sounding carol bonger-outer. Yikes.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Crayon masterpieces on the fridge
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
We just can't seem to get the haircut right these days.
You know, as much as I fucking HATE Christmas sometimes, I love all the singing. The last few days as Soph and I have been driving around, she's been requesting, "Sing Christmas songs Mommy." I've been having fun doing "The Christmas Song" a la Karen Carpenter, "The Little Drummer Boy" a la David Bowie, and last night, I was totally channeling Billy Holiday while sing "Jingle Bells."
Soph's favorite is, like most 4 year olds, "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer." She has totally mastered the "like a lightbulb!" and "like monopoly" bits. My favorite just-for-fun Christmas song has got to be "Let it Snow." There's so much room to slide around in that one. Plus it's so cozy and just ever-so-slightly naughty. As for the more "serious" carols, for my money you can't beat "O Holy Night." Even though I'm not a believer, that crescendo "Fall on your knees. O hear the angels' voices. O night divine...." and so on gives me the shivers every time. That song just swells an breaks and swells again until you're ready to just shout out "God bless us, every one!"
Of course, I've always found "Santa Clause is Coming to Town" to be down right creepy. The, "He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake," is just too Santa-as-Stalker for me.
I also hate the "push-the-button-and-listen-to-the-carol" toys, ties, and whatever else. Yesterday, after Thanksgiving Part Deux at Grandma Bud's house, Soph, Grandma, and I all made the pilgrimage around the corner to the Griswalds. (Actually, I have no idea what their last name is, but their house is lit up like, well, like something very, very light-y. Katy, I think, refers to it as "The house Christmas threw up on.") This year along with the plastic baby Jesus surrounded by light up candy-canes and polar bears and every other tacky Christmas decoration in creation, they added a very electronic sounding carol bonger-outer. Yikes.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Crayon masterpieces on the fridge
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
We just can't seem to get the haircut right these days.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Random acts of capitalism
Sophie's school sent home a For Small Hands catalogue. Check out the link because let me tell you, their stuff is awesome! I particularly loved the "classic toys" section. Your kid (or niece/nephew, grandkid) doesn't have to be in Montessori to love it. We're talking classic well made stuff for kids. Stuff they'll like, and use, and possibly--gasp--learn from. The stuff ranges from very well-made child-sized kitchen ware, cleaning products and gardening tools to yoga sets, classic toys like a cobblers benches and lacing kits, to wonderful musical instruments like spin drums and egg shakers. I'm totally getting her this. That girl will shred paper until the cows come home.
Also, if anyone reading this has Soph on his/her shopping list, please consider getting her something from these guys. She does not need more plastic Disney Princess crap. Not that you would give her crap. Because you are awesome. And she really loved the Princess crap you gave her last year. Ok. Shutting up now.
Also, if anyone reading this has Soph on his/her shopping list, please consider getting her something from these guys. She does not need more plastic Disney Princess crap. Not that you would give her crap. Because you are awesome. And she really loved the Princess crap you gave her last year. Ok. Shutting up now.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
What can you really say?
A letter I just finished writing:
Dear ****,
I received your letter on Wednesday, right as my family was heading out the door to drive up to
Brad was a student of mine—but only for a short time, and his attendance was slightly worse than yours. I remember him as a charming, fun kid who seemed in desperate need of a hug—or beating—or maybe both. What I’m trying to say is that he seemed particularly lost to me, even then. Beyond that, anything I could say about his choice, your choice, your proximity to his choice, would be presumptuous. There’s no way I can imagine the feelings either of you experienced, or offer anything by way of insight or advice on such a heartbreaking event.
That said, I was surprised that you chose to write to me. Somehow I always imagined that I was a bit of a pain in your ass. And while I’m flattered that you classify me as a “civilized being,” I don’t necessarily always classify myself as one. It sucks that you took a fall, and/but meth is nasty, nasty, insidious stuff, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. I speak from a small amount of personal experience, and the experience of watching many friends and students loose themselves in it. As a teacher it’s so hard to know when to step in with a suspicion—even a very well supported one. You find the insides of pens laying around—notice a kid breaking out—chewing his/her fingernails—sniffing and sniffing--tapping, tapping, tapping on the desk-- and just shake your head and say a prayer. I watched you go up and down—orbit toward and away from your education, and finally just quit coming. I’m sorry you felt like you were kicked out of school. I want you to know that every teacher at SEA tried to hold on to you for as long as possible. Ultimately, you just simply weren’t there, ever, and we had a bunch of kids to place and needed your spot. It sounds shitty—but unfortunately, numbers do end up making decisions like that at times.
I really don’t have much to offer by way of advice. Here’s what comes to me though. First—there are a TON of opportunities for education in the corrections system. Take full advantage of as many of those as possible. I’ve known guys who went in without a high school diploma and came out with almost the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree. If you need help or information on anything school related in there, I’m your man, um, woman. Second—you know, I’m not a religious person. In fact, after I left the LDS church, I pretty much swore off all spiritual stuff as complete bullshit. But, in the last few months I’ve been having a bit of a change of heart. I think there is a spark of some kind in everyone. Whatever you want to call it—higher self, the divine, shit, call it “Barry” if you want to. But I think that internal spark has the answers. I don’t think you’ll find them outside yourself. For me that spark kicks in in nature, listening to Gillian Welsch CDs, singing with my daughter, or when I (rarely) just let myself sit in silence. I’m thinking you may have more of a chance to sit in silence in the next little while than you have before. It sounds cheesy, but try and tune into that spark and see if it has anything to say. Finally—write. Write it all down. Start from as early as you can remember and just write it. Don’t worry about who is going to read it—although I will if you want me to—but write it. It’s weird how words on the page are such good house-keeping for the mind and, if you will, soul, but they are.
I believed in you when you were my student and I believe in you now.
Your friend,
Mrs. J
Monday, November 20, 2006
Dur Dummy
"What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?"
I got out of the shower this morning--10 minutes behind schedule as usual--and heard E asking this question--each time with different emphasis--each time the volume of his voice rising significantly.
So, wrapped in a too small towel--pretty much just boobs and cooter coverage (Janz is staying with us and I didn't want to scar him for his ENTIRE life.)--I scurried into the kitchen. Here's what I found. Sophie, pantsless (of course) her bare ass just at my eye level, standing tippy toe on the counter, reaching into the back of the top shelf of the cupboard and pulling out a canister of Italian seasoned bread crumbs with a triumphant and slightly sheepish look on her face.
I repeated her dad's earlier statement: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Soph gave me her best, "well dur dummy" look and answered, "Getting some breadcrumbs."
Luckily, I needed both of my hands to hold the glorified hand-towel over my naughty bits, so I couldn't strangle the life out of her as I asked, "Why in the hell do you need breadcrumbs?"
Again with the "dur dummy" look and, "To feed the birds."
What followed was me not allowing her to traipse through the neighborhood, pantsless, at 7:00 pm, in the 40 degree blackness, scattering breadcrumbs for the "poor, starving birdies" and her having a breakdown and subsequent time out. This breakdown was followed by another involving her eating an entire bowl of butterscotch chips for breakfast--well, not being allowed to eat an entire bowl of butterscotch chips for breakfast, thus the breakdown.
(Insert transition)
While having a fairly major relational and spiritual breakdown of my own this weekend, I went and saw a lady--Melanie I think--who does angel readings. In addition to teaching me how to connect with my higher self and filling me in on my past life as a slave to a very cruel master (I won't tell you who the master was.), she told me--unsolicited--that Soph is an exceptionally old, wise, and intuitive soul who is here to be one of my main spiritual teachers. I broke into our higher-plane revelry to say, "But she's such a naughty brat!" Melanie looked a little startled that I hadn't said something like, "Yes, yes, I've intuited our many incarnations together." Then she paused for a while, and cocked her head to the side like she was listening to someone and said, "Well, it's hard for her to remember that she can't do everything she wants." I tried very hard, but wasn't very successful, to not give her my best "well dur dummy" look.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Being missed by someone after being at work all day.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Sometimes it's just too spiritually enlightening.
"What are you doing?"
"What are you doing?"
I got out of the shower this morning--10 minutes behind schedule as usual--and heard E asking this question--each time with different emphasis--each time the volume of his voice rising significantly.
So, wrapped in a too small towel--pretty much just boobs and cooter coverage (Janz is staying with us and I didn't want to scar him for his ENTIRE life.)--I scurried into the kitchen. Here's what I found. Sophie, pantsless (of course) her bare ass just at my eye level, standing tippy toe on the counter, reaching into the back of the top shelf of the cupboard and pulling out a canister of Italian seasoned bread crumbs with a triumphant and slightly sheepish look on her face.
I repeated her dad's earlier statement: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
Soph gave me her best, "well dur dummy" look and answered, "Getting some breadcrumbs."
Luckily, I needed both of my hands to hold the glorified hand-towel over my naughty bits, so I couldn't strangle the life out of her as I asked, "Why in the hell do you need breadcrumbs?"
Again with the "dur dummy" look and, "To feed the birds."
What followed was me not allowing her to traipse through the neighborhood, pantsless, at 7:00 pm, in the 40 degree blackness, scattering breadcrumbs for the "poor, starving birdies" and her having a breakdown and subsequent time out. This breakdown was followed by another involving her eating an entire bowl of butterscotch chips for breakfast--well, not being allowed to eat an entire bowl of butterscotch chips for breakfast, thus the breakdown.
(Insert transition)
While having a fairly major relational and spiritual breakdown of my own this weekend, I went and saw a lady--Melanie I think--who does angel readings. In addition to teaching me how to connect with my higher self and filling me in on my past life as a slave to a very cruel master (I won't tell you who the master was.), she told me--unsolicited--that Soph is an exceptionally old, wise, and intuitive soul who is here to be one of my main spiritual teachers. I broke into our higher-plane revelry to say, "But she's such a naughty brat!" Melanie looked a little startled that I hadn't said something like, "Yes, yes, I've intuited our many incarnations together." Then she paused for a while, and cocked her head to the side like she was listening to someone and said, "Well, it's hard for her to remember that she can't do everything she wants." I tried very hard, but wasn't very successful, to not give her my best "well dur dummy" look.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Being missed by someone after being at work all day.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Sometimes it's just too spiritually enlightening.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Battle of the Bratz
Much like her mother, Sophie does not respond well to the word, “no,” particularly when the no is in response to a request for a new toy.
Soph has been BEGGING me for a Brat. Any kind of Brat. I realize that in the past I have been the most permissive parent in the land, but I’ve put my foot down when it comes to Bratz dolls. I know I don’t have to tell you that they look like little whores, and that the Baby Bratz are particularly offensive—you know that already—but let me just say that THEY LOOK LIKE WHORES AND THE BABY BRATZ ARE DOWN RIGHT PERVY!!
I tried to explain to Soph why I will not buy her a Brat (unlike her grandma, who bought her the sluttiest Baby Brat in the store.) I told her that I thought Bratz dressed way too sexy for little girls, and that little girls should dress like little girls and not play with toys that are sexy. This, of course, led to Soph asking me, “What’s sexy mom?” That one is almost as tricky as, “Who’s God mom?”
I tried to explain to her that dressing in clothes that show a lot of your skin or are very tight is sexy. Things went down-hill from there as she asked questions and I back-tracked, trying not to say that bodies are bad, or baths are bad or that even her nakey time is bad. I couldn’t very well say, “Dressing sexy means that you wear clothes that are designed to show your body in a way that turns people on physically,” could I? I mean, a four year old isn’t ready for even a way toned down “talk” of that nature, is she?
So now we’re having the discussion of what is and isn’t sexy, like, ALL THE TIME! No—mommy changing into her jammies isn’t too sexy. No, the baby in the diaper on TV isn’t too sexy. Yes, the girl jogging down the street in a sports bra and mini-shorts is kind of sexy, but exercise clothes are in kind of a different category.
I spent about one second trying to explain that sexy clothes aren’t bad, if you’re old enough and are wearing them in the right place and time, but that was going less than nowhere.
She’s also taking every opportunity to point out to me that “Bratz are nice mommy!” Any commercial, any time we accidentally walk past anything Brat related (There are Bratz fruit snacks for Christ’s sake!) at the store, she’s right there, pointing out to me that the Bratz are, in fact, wearing clothes, and “Look, that one isn’t too sexy mom.”
(Let’s not even start on the “z” instead of “s” that pluralizes “Brat.” Are these people trying to wreck both the moral and grammatical fiber of our young girls?)
Then, this morning, Erik called me at work to ask where the camera was/is/whatever. Well, it was/is in my purse. I guess Soph insisted this morning that if she was going to dress herself (a skill we’re working on—she can do it, but would rather sit limply and watch cartoons while Mom or Dad does it. My fault—I know) she should be able to pick out her own clothes. E said OK, and Soph announced, “OK then. Today I’m dressing like a BRAT!” Apparently the result was decidedly un-sexy (thank goodness) but also quite hilarious. From E’s description, I think she was trying to go for the current “leggings under a shirt/dress with a big belt and ankle-boots” look, and ended up with more of a “multi-colored sweat pants and socks and a big stained mermaid t-shirt with a brown crocheted scarf wrapped around it for effect plus some Strawberry Shortcake snow-boots” look. I told him to go ahead and let her wear the outfit she chose to school. All the Montessori stuff shoves “let the child do for him/himself” down my neck all the time (not that I don’t love it—I do) so I guess they can deal with the result of Soph “doing for herself” today.
Sheesh.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Ample opportunities for righteous indignation?
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Trying, in the face of, well, everything, to raise a confident, informed little girl, and still letting her be a little girl for as long as possible.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
And...ACTION!
A quick ramble on my film class--
1st quarter was kind of, well, crappy. (Crappy, if you don't know, is a professional term we educators use.) I found some great curriculum guides, and ordered them, but, because they are put out by a Canadian company, and thus didn't have a US zip code, our school district's purchase order computer had an aneurysm. It took, literally, months for the powers that be to address the problem, and I didn't end up with the stuff until last week. Plus, attendance was really hit and miss, and--although I know better-- it's hard for me to get revved up and super prepared for a class when only 2 kids are showing up. This was a huge problem when screening the films, as 1/2 of the class would show up one day, then totally different kids would show up the next.
We did, however, make some progress. The movies we've seen so far are Modern Times (which they loved), Singin' in the Rain (which they hated), Moulin Rouge (loved), Some Like it Hot (Loved), and North by Northwest (HATED), and The Nightmare Before Christmas (lukewarm). I've been a little surprised by the kids' responses to some of the movies, but frankly, I expected even more bitching than I've gotten.
As far as our study of the art/science of film making, we had a pretty good time with art direction and music/sound, but have been foundering a bit with editing/cinematography--probably because I'm just learning about editing myself.
Now that 2nd quarter has started, I have about 5 new kids in class. I mentioned before that the class was all girls--with the exception of one guy whose attendance was pretty spotty. Now I have a pretty even mix.
The next genre on our agenda is the western. Frankly, the only westerns I've ever seen are fairly modern--Tombstone, Dances With Wolves, Unforgiven. I've never once sat through a John Wayne western, or an old Clint Eastwood one. I even thought of just throwing the western out of the mix, but it does have its place historically and otherwise in the study of film, and just because I'm not a huge fan is no reason to skip it, I guess.
Originally, I had planned to show Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but after watching it, I changed my mind. I don't think my kids are ready to embrace anything that was scored by Burt Baccarat (sp). Instead, I'm probably going to show The Searchers (A 1956 John Wayne/John Ford about a fanatically racist man searching for his niece who was kidnapped by a Comanche)--even though I haven't seen it yet. (That's my plan for tonight.)
Another reason I have been a bit hesitant about addressing the western with my kids is that the class has both cowboys and Indians in it. But--I decided to just jump in and use the western and The Searchers as a vehicle for addressing racism and racial stereotyping in film, and to extend our discussion of how the change, over time, of individual genres, reflects change in our society. This quarter I'm going to try to have a movie night once or twice a month, and I'd like to show Dances with Wolves and then compare it to The Searchers and have the kids write a paper about the evolution of the western--with particular emphasis on the portrayal of Native Americans. We'll see.
I also came across a bunch of stuff that argued that the connection between the release date of the last "great" western, The Wild Bunch (which I also haven't seen), which came out in 1969, and the the lunar landing--also 1969--is absolutely not accidental or incidental--that the western, with it's major symbol of the western frontier, simply morphed into modern science fiction as the "final frontier" shifted to space. An interesting thought--and one that does seem to hold water in many ways. Plus--now I have a really good reason to show either Serenity or the pilot for Firefly (which I'm leaning toward) in class.
1st quarter was kind of, well, crappy. (Crappy, if you don't know, is a professional term we educators use.) I found some great curriculum guides, and ordered them, but, because they are put out by a Canadian company, and thus didn't have a US zip code, our school district's purchase order computer had an aneurysm. It took, literally, months for the powers that be to address the problem, and I didn't end up with the stuff until last week. Plus, attendance was really hit and miss, and--although I know better-- it's hard for me to get revved up and super prepared for a class when only 2 kids are showing up. This was a huge problem when screening the films, as 1/2 of the class would show up one day, then totally different kids would show up the next.
We did, however, make some progress. The movies we've seen so far are Modern Times (which they loved), Singin' in the Rain (which they hated), Moulin Rouge (loved), Some Like it Hot (Loved), and North by Northwest (HATED), and The Nightmare Before Christmas (lukewarm). I've been a little surprised by the kids' responses to some of the movies, but frankly, I expected even more bitching than I've gotten.
As far as our study of the art/science of film making, we had a pretty good time with art direction and music/sound, but have been foundering a bit with editing/cinematography--probably because I'm just learning about editing myself.
Now that 2nd quarter has started, I have about 5 new kids in class. I mentioned before that the class was all girls--with the exception of one guy whose attendance was pretty spotty. Now I have a pretty even mix.
The next genre on our agenda is the western. Frankly, the only westerns I've ever seen are fairly modern--Tombstone, Dances With Wolves, Unforgiven. I've never once sat through a John Wayne western, or an old Clint Eastwood one. I even thought of just throwing the western out of the mix, but it does have its place historically and otherwise in the study of film, and just because I'm not a huge fan is no reason to skip it, I guess.
Originally, I had planned to show Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but after watching it, I changed my mind. I don't think my kids are ready to embrace anything that was scored by Burt Baccarat (sp). Instead, I'm probably going to show The Searchers (A 1956 John Wayne/John Ford about a fanatically racist man searching for his niece who was kidnapped by a Comanche)--even though I haven't seen it yet. (That's my plan for tonight.)
Another reason I have been a bit hesitant about addressing the western with my kids is that the class has both cowboys and Indians in it. But--I decided to just jump in and use the western and The Searchers as a vehicle for addressing racism and racial stereotyping in film, and to extend our discussion of how the change, over time, of individual genres, reflects change in our society. This quarter I'm going to try to have a movie night once or twice a month, and I'd like to show Dances with Wolves and then compare it to The Searchers and have the kids write a paper about the evolution of the western--with particular emphasis on the portrayal of Native Americans. We'll see.
I also came across a bunch of stuff that argued that the connection between the release date of the last "great" western, The Wild Bunch (which I also haven't seen), which came out in 1969, and the the lunar landing--also 1969--is absolutely not accidental or incidental--that the western, with it's major symbol of the western frontier, simply morphed into modern science fiction as the "final frontier" shifted to space. An interesting thought--and one that does seem to hold water in many ways. Plus--now I have a really good reason to show either Serenity or the pilot for Firefly (which I'm leaning toward) in class.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Treats and Sweets
Can you imagine opening your door on Halloween night and finding this cuteness waiting for you?
Sophie and Bianca were a big hit with all the folks in our predominantly elderly neighborhood. Of course, all the old ladies were very concerned about Bianca's lack of a sweater, but she wouldn't wear one, and I'm not her freakin' mother, so I didn't force the issue.
I waited on the sidewalk while these two trotted up to front doors, and so I didn't hear the comments from the door openers, but I can guess pretty well what they had to say.
You see, Soph's favorite part of Halloween wasn't trick-or-treating, although she thought getting candy from strangers was pretty bitchin'. No, what she truly loved was answering the door (at our house and both grandmas') and handing out the candy. And as she thoughfully chose a candy from the bowl and deposited it in each waiting bag, bucket, or pillowcase, regardless of if the candy recipient was 4 or forty, she said things like, "Well aren't you a sweet little princess?" or "Oh, what a precious ninja," or my personal favorite, "My goodness! What a darling, umm, scary gross guy."
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Just listening
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Soph peed her pants at school today. There's a big plastic ziplock bag of pee-soaked jeans and socks (even her tennis shoes smell like pee. ew) waiting for me to wash them.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Great Dane
Because I know you were on the edge of your seats (I almost typed seat of your pants), here is the final product for International Children's Day. I hit Walmart and found a cute little skirt and blouse on clearance that were Scandinavian-ish. Then I bought a cheep lace table runner and some white ribbon and fashioned her a little cap and apron.
As you can see from the other kids' "costumes, " I may have placed a bit more importance on International Children's Day than was necessary. Oh well. I'll know next year.
Oh--what kind of food did my little Danish princess take today? Wait for it....Wait for it....
DANISH!
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sometimes getting things right
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Regulating candy intake on Halloween
As you can see from the other kids' "costumes, " I may have placed a bit more importance on International Children's Day than was necessary. Oh well. I'll know next year.Oh--what kind of food did my little Danish princess take today? Wait for it....Wait for it....
DANISH!
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sometimes getting things right
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Regulating candy intake on Halloween
Monday, October 30, 2006
Weekend Update
Wow. I haven't done one of these for a while. Let's see if I remember how.
Saturday: E drove up to Salt Lake for the day to visit Janz. I don't really know what has happened to the plan for him to move back. I thought that would have happened by now. But--I'm on a need to know status on that one, and apparently, I don't need to know. Soph and I spent a nice morning together. Apparently, whatever was causing her to be the biggest brat in all the land, be it spiritual, physical, or just temperamental has passed. Other than the occasional 4 year old crap, she's doing much better.
We babysat (of course) her pal Addison most of the day. We had a picnic, played with some play dough (colored with Kool-Aid. It makes it smell nice.), and did other assorted messy stuff. Those two girls just want to boss the pants off of each other. They are both only kids, and both are used to calling the shots. We had a few breakdowns, but nothing too serious.
Saturday night we went to a little Halloween party. Soph rocked as Scooby Doo, and Aunt Katy made me up into a pretty bitchin' pirate. I was tired and grumpy and menstruating, so we didn't last too long.
Sunday: What a total waste of a day. Not bad really, but I was tired as hell, and so was Soph. We stayed in our pajamas pretty much all day, watched too many movies, ate too much ice cream, and accomplished less than nothing.
So, as I said earlier, Soph's doing better. Good thing too, or the shit was going to hit the fan in a major way.
So ends this boring post.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Hugs
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
So, tomorrow at pre-school, they're having international children's day. The kids are supposed to dress up as a kid from a foreign country, preferably from our family's heritage, and bring a food from same country. I get that this is a fun thing to do without having to deal with Halloween costumes and candy, but sheesh. Now I have to come up with ANOTHER costume. We're pretty much Danish, with a bit of English and German tossed into the mix. How the hell do I dress my kid up like a Dane? A Viking helmet? Plus, the Danes eat a lot of fish--a lot of salted and pickled fish. Not a favorite treat among the under 5 crowd.
So, the plans I'm kicking around in my head are: 1) Make up a Danish costume with no attention paid at all to authenticity--maybe a little apron and a garland of flowers in her hair or something and sent her with some cubed Havarti on toothpicks or 2) Forget the family heritage thing and go Greek--wrap her in a quick toga and grab some baklava at the store to send with her. Votes? Other ideas?
Saturday: E drove up to Salt Lake for the day to visit Janz. I don't really know what has happened to the plan for him to move back. I thought that would have happened by now. But--I'm on a need to know status on that one, and apparently, I don't need to know. Soph and I spent a nice morning together. Apparently, whatever was causing her to be the biggest brat in all the land, be it spiritual, physical, or just temperamental has passed. Other than the occasional 4 year old crap, she's doing much better.
We babysat (of course) her pal Addison most of the day. We had a picnic, played with some play dough (colored with Kool-Aid. It makes it smell nice.), and did other assorted messy stuff. Those two girls just want to boss the pants off of each other. They are both only kids, and both are used to calling the shots. We had a few breakdowns, but nothing too serious.
Saturday night we went to a little Halloween party. Soph rocked as Scooby Doo, and Aunt Katy made me up into a pretty bitchin' pirate. I was tired and grumpy and menstruating, so we didn't last too long.
Sunday: What a total waste of a day. Not bad really, but I was tired as hell, and so was Soph. We stayed in our pajamas pretty much all day, watched too many movies, ate too much ice cream, and accomplished less than nothing.
So, as I said earlier, Soph's doing better. Good thing too, or the shit was going to hit the fan in a major way.
So ends this boring post.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Hugs
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
So, tomorrow at pre-school, they're having international children's day. The kids are supposed to dress up as a kid from a foreign country, preferably from our family's heritage, and bring a food from same country. I get that this is a fun thing to do without having to deal with Halloween costumes and candy, but sheesh. Now I have to come up with ANOTHER costume. We're pretty much Danish, with a bit of English and German tossed into the mix. How the hell do I dress my kid up like a Dane? A Viking helmet? Plus, the Danes eat a lot of fish--a lot of salted and pickled fish. Not a favorite treat among the under 5 crowd.
So, the plans I'm kicking around in my head are: 1) Make up a Danish costume with no attention paid at all to authenticity--maybe a little apron and a garland of flowers in her hair or something and sent her with some cubed Havarti on toothpicks or 2) Forget the family heritage thing and go Greek--wrap her in a quick toga and grab some baklava at the store to send with her. Votes? Other ideas?
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Take this job and shove it.
Woot!
I've found a rogue computer here in the computer lab where I help/babysit my one independent study class that will let me log on to blogger. Sweet.
Know what? My daughter is a big spoiled brat pain in my ass.
That's right. You heard me. She's a brat. She's spoiled. She's a pain. The pain resides in my ass.
She's not sleeping. She's throwing huge screaming bawling fits every time she doesn't get her way, which is often, as she constantly wants to do things like take the eggs out of the refrigerator and make "egg sauce" (wtf is egg sauce anyway?) in the middle of the living room floor. The last 2 mornings have been tortuous. Tortuous like, "I'm so glad you are going to preschool and that those sorry saps there can deal with you instead of me. I'll be at work all day. See ya!" rather than "Oh my sweet love. Mommy hates to go to work and leave you because I love you so...oh the guilt" tortuous.
Every time she yells at me, I'm giving her a 3 minute time-out in her room. This morning she had 3 time outs between 6:30 and 7:30. The last one was because I wouldn't stop blow drying my hair to tie her up on a chair with her rainbow jump rope while saying "heh, heh, heh."
Night before last she got up like 5 times, the last being at 2:00, and she refused to go to back to bed. I'm talking screaming, kicking, and generally going to bits. Finally at 4 she fell asleep on the couch, exhausted with herself.
Now lately, I am a total skeptic to all things spiritual/religious/whatever. (This IS related to the above. I promise.) But over the last few weeks, the energy (I know--mumbo jumbo) in my house has been bad. Ugly bad. Like I pick up Soph and we both don't really want to go home. It's not just the filth, though that's part of it. After a night of no sleep at all, I was feeling desperate. So yesterday I picked Soph up from school, and we went to The Wizz, the local store for everything from hemp soap to glow in the dark skulls to fairy tarot cards. I consulted with the owner, Sally, and ended up buying a sage smudge stick (bundle of sage tied together.) I went home, lit it up and got it smoking, and feeling very silly, went from room to room, spreading the "sacred smoke," blessing my house, asking that only the "good, pure, and peaceful" remain. Then I put the smudge out in a bowl of salt, and sprinkled the salt around my house, repeating the blessing. I also bought a little dream catcher and hung it above Sophie's bed.
Did it work? I don't know. She slept better, but that may be due to the adult dose of benedryl I gave her before bed. She was back to being her bratty self at 5:30 this morning.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
It sucks.
I've found a rogue computer here in the computer lab where I help/babysit my one independent study class that will let me log on to blogger. Sweet.
Know what? My daughter is a big spoiled brat pain in my ass.
That's right. You heard me. She's a brat. She's spoiled. She's a pain. The pain resides in my ass.
She's not sleeping. She's throwing huge screaming bawling fits every time she doesn't get her way, which is often, as she constantly wants to do things like take the eggs out of the refrigerator and make "egg sauce" (wtf is egg sauce anyway?) in the middle of the living room floor. The last 2 mornings have been tortuous. Tortuous like, "I'm so glad you are going to preschool and that those sorry saps there can deal with you instead of me. I'll be at work all day. See ya!" rather than "Oh my sweet love. Mommy hates to go to work and leave you because I love you so...oh the guilt" tortuous.
Every time she yells at me, I'm giving her a 3 minute time-out in her room. This morning she had 3 time outs between 6:30 and 7:30. The last one was because I wouldn't stop blow drying my hair to tie her up on a chair with her rainbow jump rope while saying "heh, heh, heh."
Night before last she got up like 5 times, the last being at 2:00, and she refused to go to back to bed. I'm talking screaming, kicking, and generally going to bits. Finally at 4 she fell asleep on the couch, exhausted with herself.
Now lately, I am a total skeptic to all things spiritual/religious/whatever. (This IS related to the above. I promise.) But over the last few weeks, the energy (I know--mumbo jumbo) in my house has been bad. Ugly bad. Like I pick up Soph and we both don't really want to go home. It's not just the filth, though that's part of it. After a night of no sleep at all, I was feeling desperate. So yesterday I picked Soph up from school, and we went to The Wizz, the local store for everything from hemp soap to glow in the dark skulls to fairy tarot cards. I consulted with the owner, Sally, and ended up buying a sage smudge stick (bundle of sage tied together.) I went home, lit it up and got it smoking, and feeling very silly, went from room to room, spreading the "sacred smoke," blessing my house, asking that only the "good, pure, and peaceful" remain. Then I put the smudge out in a bowl of salt, and sprinkled the salt around my house, repeating the blessing. I also bought a little dream catcher and hung it above Sophie's bed.
Did it work? I don't know. She slept better, but that may be due to the adult dose of benedryl I gave her before bed. She was back to being her bratty self at 5:30 this morning.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
It sucks.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Thanks, but no thanks
It looks like this year we’ll be heading up to
When I say extended, do I ever mean extended. They have to reserve the church to have room for everyone. My mom has 6 brothers. With one exception, they all have at least 4 kids—I think. I quit keeping track of my cousins a decade or so ago. Now that the grandkids have started procreating, the numbers have reached fairly ridiculous proportions. I honestly have no idea how many 2nd cousins I have. Something like 10 or so.
I haven’t been to
So, my dad was in the Navy, and nearly every summer, whether we were living in
When I was little, I loved these trips. Cousins, cookouts, trampolines, and my grandma’s homemade strawberry jam. As the years went by, though, they became more, well, torturous. I grew boobs, lost my faith in the LDS church, and realized that just because people are related to you, it doesn't necessarily make them nice. I suddenly felt like the blackest of black sheep. Then I remembered the basement incident.
So, why am I going to
Family is family I guess. None of my uncles, aunts or cousins have met Sophie, and I’d like (some) of them to. Plus, there are a handful of 2nd cousins just her age, and I’m sure she’ll have an absolute ball running through the halls of the church with them. My girl LOVES cousins. She misses the Krause kids like crazy, and absolutely adores the Jorgensen cousins. For Soph, playing with cousins is better than Disneyland. When I tell her that we’re going to meet new cousins—a whole building full, she’s going to flip.
Those little bastards better be nice to her, or I will loose my shit.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Bock Bock?
So, my brother-in-law is currently undergoing chemotherapy for a brain tumor. (He had surgery a few weeks ago and the surgeon removed most of it. The prognosis is pretty positive.) You’d think that would be the topic of my post, wouldn’t you? Well, it’s not. Somehow it doesn’t seem my story to tell.
Why, then, do I bring it up? Well, soup. Soup and chickens.
When I asked Mike what he could keep down, he said soup. Actually, he said. “Well, brothy soups don’t seem to make me hurl too bad.” So Sophie and took it upon ourselves to make him a pot of the most delicious, nutritious, non-hurl-able chicken noodle soup in all the land.
I’m actually a pretty kick-ass chicken-soup maker. For this one, I threw a nice big fresh chicken, some onion, carrot, celery, bay, peppercorns, and a little garlic in my big stock pot to make the broth, cook the chicken, and get the soup ball rolling. When the chicken was cooked, I took it out of the pot, let it cool, and commenced to remove the meat from the bones.
Soph was sitting on the counter, as is her usual MO when I’m cooking. Now, my girl has eaten a lot of her chicken in her day, but I think this was the first time she saw an actual whole cooked chicken. Her chicken usually appears in nugget or drumstick form. She looked at the chicken for a while and said, “This isn’t a real chicken. Right Mommy?”
I answered her, “Well, yes. It is.”
She thought a while and asked, “But it never had a head. Right Mommy?” Warning bells began to ring on my mommy radar.
Deciding that honesty was the best policy, I told her, “Well, actually, yes. It did have a head.”
She sat for a while, and then asked the inevitable, “Where is the head now?”
Again, going with the honesty, and trying to head off further questions, I decided to give her the whole story. “Well Soph. This chicken was alive. And then somebody killed it and chopped of its head and pulled off its feathers and sent it to the store. We bought it at the store to make some soup for Mike.”
“Was it a bad guy?”
“Was who a bad guy?”
“The guy that chopped off the chicken’s head.”
“Nope. It wasn’t a bad guy. It was just a regular guy. Honey, when we eat meat, it means we’re eating an animal. The animal was alive once. Farmers raise animals for us to eat. That’s why there are farms. We need to be grateful for our food and not waste it, because the animals were alive once. Some people have decided that eating meat is not ok, and they are called vegetarians. That’s ok. But Mommy thinks it’s ok to eat meat. She just tries to be very thankful.”
“But not cows. Right mom? We don’t eat cows.”
“Well, yes. We do. Hamburgers are made from cows.”
Now the whole time we’re having this conversation, she’s been picking little bits of chicken out of the bowl I’m using and munching on them. At this point, she kind of looked at the piece of chicken in her hand, then sort of shrugged and popped it in her mouth.
This conversation is not unlike the one we had when Soph was just learning to talk. If I remember correctly, I was eating a chicken sandwich. She was curious, so I offered a little piece to her, asking, “Would you like to try some chicken?” She looked with horror at my offering, and asked, “Bock bock?”
It does seem weird that her whole life we’ve read books about farms, watched shows about farms, sang songs about farms, but never once have we talked about the fact that the animals on the farm are pretty much dinner walking around. It seems weirder that we do that to begin with. That is, personify our future food. Why do we romanticize farm animals so much?
This is the part where I should deconstruct the above, and wax all philosophical about it. But I don’t think I will.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
It makes me think about things I should think about but don’t.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
There’s no denial allowed.
Why, then, do I bring it up? Well, soup. Soup and chickens.
When I asked Mike what he could keep down, he said soup. Actually, he said. “Well, brothy soups don’t seem to make me hurl too bad.” So Sophie and took it upon ourselves to make him a pot of the most delicious, nutritious, non-hurl-able chicken noodle soup in all the land.
I’m actually a pretty kick-ass chicken-soup maker. For this one, I threw a nice big fresh chicken, some onion, carrot, celery, bay, peppercorns, and a little garlic in my big stock pot to make the broth, cook the chicken, and get the soup ball rolling. When the chicken was cooked, I took it out of the pot, let it cool, and commenced to remove the meat from the bones.
Soph was sitting on the counter, as is her usual MO when I’m cooking. Now, my girl has eaten a lot of her chicken in her day, but I think this was the first time she saw an actual whole cooked chicken. Her chicken usually appears in nugget or drumstick form. She looked at the chicken for a while and said, “This isn’t a real chicken. Right Mommy?”
I answered her, “Well, yes. It is.”
She thought a while and asked, “But it never had a head. Right Mommy?” Warning bells began to ring on my mommy radar.
Deciding that honesty was the best policy, I told her, “Well, actually, yes. It did have a head.”
She sat for a while, and then asked the inevitable, “Where is the head now?”
Again, going with the honesty, and trying to head off further questions, I decided to give her the whole story. “Well Soph. This chicken was alive. And then somebody killed it and chopped of its head and pulled off its feathers and sent it to the store. We bought it at the store to make some soup for Mike.”
“Was it a bad guy?”
“Was who a bad guy?”
“The guy that chopped off the chicken’s head.”
“Nope. It wasn’t a bad guy. It was just a regular guy. Honey, when we eat meat, it means we’re eating an animal. The animal was alive once. Farmers raise animals for us to eat. That’s why there are farms. We need to be grateful for our food and not waste it, because the animals were alive once. Some people have decided that eating meat is not ok, and they are called vegetarians. That’s ok. But Mommy thinks it’s ok to eat meat. She just tries to be very thankful.”
“But not cows. Right mom? We don’t eat cows.”
“Well, yes. We do. Hamburgers are made from cows.”
Now the whole time we’re having this conversation, she’s been picking little bits of chicken out of the bowl I’m using and munching on them. At this point, she kind of looked at the piece of chicken in her hand, then sort of shrugged and popped it in her mouth.
This conversation is not unlike the one we had when Soph was just learning to talk. If I remember correctly, I was eating a chicken sandwich. She was curious, so I offered a little piece to her, asking, “Would you like to try some chicken?” She looked with horror at my offering, and asked, “Bock bock?”
It does seem weird that her whole life we’ve read books about farms, watched shows about farms, sang songs about farms, but never once have we talked about the fact that the animals on the farm are pretty much dinner walking around. It seems weirder that we do that to begin with. That is, personify our future food. Why do we romanticize farm animals so much?
This is the part where I should deconstruct the above, and wax all philosophical about it. But I don’t think I will.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
It makes me think about things I should think about but don’t.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
There’s no denial allowed.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Give Peace a Chance
Soph reported to me that she had a "problem" today and that she sat on the "peace" rug.
Here's how the story goes.
Soph: Mom. I had a problem today and went to the peace rug.
Me (hesitantly): Oh yeah? Tell me about it.
Soph: Well, Isabel wouldn't tell me it was ok.
Me: Hmm. Wouldn't tell you WHAT was ok.
Soph: She wouldn't say, "I accept your apology."
Me (worried): What did you apologize for?
Soph: I called her fat.
Long pause so I could collect my thoughts and address the issue as a calm, skillful parent.
Me: YOU DID WHAT!? SOPHIE GENE WE NEVER NEVER EVER CALL PEOPLE FAT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?! EVER! THAT IS NOT KIND. DON'T YOU EVER EVER DO THAT AGAIN. I WILL SPANK YOUR BARE BUTT IF I EVER HEAR YOU CALLED SOMEONE FAT AGAIN!
Soph (in tears): But mom, you told me that you're fat. Grandpa Ray says his belly is fat.
Me (contemplating my eternal suckitute at parenting): Ok. You're right. But it really hurts people's feelings when OTHER people say they're fat.
Soph: But she is fat.
Me: Sometimes we don't say things even when they're true. We need to protect other people's feelings. Why did you tell Isabel that she's fat.
Soph: She got stuck in a chair.
Me (biting a hole in my cheek, trying to prevent myself from laughing): Well. Bodies are all different sizes. Some are big and some are little. Everyone is different. That's ok. I want you to be really really nice to Isabel, ok?
Soph: Mom. There are too many rules. I don't want to go to school anymore.
So, after Soph went to bed, I called her teacher. Mrs. E explained to me that actually, the "fat calling" incident happened a week ago. She didn't even know about it. Then today, Soph started kind of crying quietly. After digging a bit, Mrs. E found that Soph was feeling really really hurt that she kept apologizing to Isabel, and that Isabel wouldn't accept her apology. So the three of them sat down on the peace rug and talked it out. Big sigh.
I'm feeling equal parts responsible, sad, angry, and really, slightly amused. The thing is, "fat" is a description. Its connotation, obviously, is negative, but none-the-less, it is just a little ol' adjective. Of course, in our place/time, fat, when used to describe a person, = bad. Very, very bad. Kids read, "The fat cat sat," and it's fine, but call someone fat (particularly ME) and the shit will hit the fan. No more to say really. I'm going to sleep on this one.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Well, I never become overly cocky.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Having a walking, talking conscience.
Here's how the story goes.
Soph: Mom. I had a problem today and went to the peace rug.
Me (hesitantly): Oh yeah? Tell me about it.
Soph: Well, Isabel wouldn't tell me it was ok.
Me: Hmm. Wouldn't tell you WHAT was ok.
Soph: She wouldn't say, "I accept your apology."
Me (worried): What did you apologize for?
Soph: I called her fat.
Long pause so I could collect my thoughts and address the issue as a calm, skillful parent.
Me: YOU DID WHAT!? SOPHIE GENE WE NEVER NEVER EVER CALL PEOPLE FAT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?! EVER! THAT IS NOT KIND. DON'T YOU EVER EVER DO THAT AGAIN. I WILL SPANK YOUR BARE BUTT IF I EVER HEAR YOU CALLED SOMEONE FAT AGAIN!
Soph (in tears): But mom, you told me that you're fat. Grandpa Ray says his belly is fat.
Me (contemplating my eternal suckitute at parenting): Ok. You're right. But it really hurts people's feelings when OTHER people say they're fat.
Soph: But she is fat.
Me: Sometimes we don't say things even when they're true. We need to protect other people's feelings. Why did you tell Isabel that she's fat.
Soph: She got stuck in a chair.
Me (biting a hole in my cheek, trying to prevent myself from laughing): Well. Bodies are all different sizes. Some are big and some are little. Everyone is different. That's ok. I want you to be really really nice to Isabel, ok?
Soph: Mom. There are too many rules. I don't want to go to school anymore.
So, after Soph went to bed, I called her teacher. Mrs. E explained to me that actually, the "fat calling" incident happened a week ago. She didn't even know about it. Then today, Soph started kind of crying quietly. After digging a bit, Mrs. E found that Soph was feeling really really hurt that she kept apologizing to Isabel, and that Isabel wouldn't accept her apology. So the three of them sat down on the peace rug and talked it out. Big sigh.
I'm feeling equal parts responsible, sad, angry, and really, slightly amused. The thing is, "fat" is a description. Its connotation, obviously, is negative, but none-the-less, it is just a little ol' adjective. Of course, in our place/time, fat, when used to describe a person, = bad. Very, very bad. Kids read, "The fat cat sat," and it's fine, but call someone fat (particularly ME) and the shit will hit the fan. No more to say really. I'm going to sleep on this one.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Well, I never become overly cocky.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Having a walking, talking conscience.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Haiku Hodge-Podge
Draw a circle first
Dots for eyes and lines for legs
Add a smile--Voila!
Six-thirty a.m.
Thirty six degrees and dark
We're waiting for what?
Auntie Shannon's COLD!
Grandma keeps wrapping me up,
And mom says "Say Cheese"?!
Photo op again?Grandma says Mom deserves her
picture taken too.
I found my friend mom!
We'll catch you guys later. What?!
We can't go alone?!
2 hours of waiting
Shivering, nose wiping, hell
Was worth it for this.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The Neighborhood of Make-Believe
You see, I don’t WANT to blog about getting fatter and sleepier and less interested in, well, pretty much everything. I don’t want to talk about going to bed pretty much immediately after getting Soph tucked in (at 7:30). I don’t want to talk about the 2 pairs of pants that fit me, and money being tight-ish, and so not having the desire or the means to go buy more. I don’t want to talk about getting to school, late (again) and sitting here, forcing myself to do the minimum—the bare minimum--to keep my classes afloat, fighting off sleep every second, every second, and then giving into the urge to close my eyes and feeling sleep creep through my brain, settling for a 2 second sitting-up nap, though it would so prefer to climb under the covers and sleep, ahh, sleep all all all day.
I don’t want to. But on the other-hand, I don’t want to let the blog go completely. It’s been part of my life for more than a year now, quite considerably more, actually. That’s an investment. I still want SOMETHING to be there when I wake up some day. Maybe I’ll just blog about what I wish I was doing and feeling instead of what I’m actually doing and feeling.
Woke up at 5:00 this morning and went to the gym. Did an hour of step aerobics and a half hour of yoga. Man, that new size 6 sweat suit I bought from “Not made in a sweat shop by 10 year old South American children, and not made with materials or dyes from any endangered plants and animals or that compromise the habitat of any endangered plants and animals, and not involved in anyway with global corporations who are responsible for mass murders and wars in the Congo or Somalia or any other African country over some random mineral necessary to make electronics, and not shipped using any fossil fuels which are ruining the planet for all humankind, especially your daughter” is certainly comfortable. After my workout, I came home and fixed a lovely organic breakfast and Soph, E, and I all sat down together over our whole grains and lean proteins. After breakfast, Sophie dressed herself, brushed her own teeth, and thanked me for getting rid of the TV because she much prefers interactive activities that are good for her cognitive and motor development to 90 minutes of Playhouse Disney each morning. When I arrived at work, looking very smart, slender, and professional, I might add, I arranged the differentiated learning activities, and prepared to be a facilitator who inspires and guides her students toward learning.
Why not? Soph seems to be able to live in her own little fantasy world with no particular trouble. Lately, she talks not only about her imaginary friend, but her imaginary friend’s immediate and extended family. We went to see the hot air balloons of the Sky Festival early one morning over the weekend, and she informed all assembled, in much seriousness, that her imaginary friend’s grandfather has a hot air balloon and that he takes her for rides in it all the time. I’m charged with strapping the imaginary baby sister into her imaginary car seat each time we go anywhere in the car, and also am expected to carry the imaginary baby seat into the store, and secure the imaginary baby sister in the shopping cart. Every now and then, Soph shrieks that her baby has fallen out of the cart, and I then rescue IBS (Imaginary Baby Sister, not Irritable Bowel Syndrome) from the floor, and strap her back in.
Her imaginary world extends to school as well. Apparently, the teacher had to sit Soph and 2 of her cronies down and ask them to stop playing their imaginary games (based, I think, on The Nightmare Before Christmas, Soph’s current fave) in the classroom, because they were getting way too rowdy and interrupting the work of the other students. As reported to me by the teacher, Soph sat, nodding, listening, seeming to get the idea. At the close of the little chat, the teacher asked, “Do you understand girls? Do you have any questions?” Soph’s little arm popped into the air, and when called on, she asked, “Um. Mrs. Esplin? Could you be the witch?”
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
It forces you to get out of bed in the morning.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
It forces you to get out of bed in the morning.
I don’t want to. But on the other-hand, I don’t want to let the blog go completely. It’s been part of my life for more than a year now, quite considerably more, actually. That’s an investment. I still want SOMETHING to be there when I wake up some day. Maybe I’ll just blog about what I wish I was doing and feeling instead of what I’m actually doing and feeling.
Woke up at 5:00 this morning and went to the gym. Did an hour of step aerobics and a half hour of yoga. Man, that new size 6 sweat suit I bought from “Not made in a sweat shop by 10 year old South American children, and not made with materials or dyes from any endangered plants and animals or that compromise the habitat of any endangered plants and animals, and not involved in anyway with global corporations who are responsible for mass murders and wars in the Congo or Somalia or any other African country over some random mineral necessary to make electronics, and not shipped using any fossil fuels which are ruining the planet for all humankind, especially your daughter” is certainly comfortable. After my workout, I came home and fixed a lovely organic breakfast and Soph, E, and I all sat down together over our whole grains and lean proteins. After breakfast, Sophie dressed herself, brushed her own teeth, and thanked me for getting rid of the TV because she much prefers interactive activities that are good for her cognitive and motor development to 90 minutes of Playhouse Disney each morning. When I arrived at work, looking very smart, slender, and professional, I might add, I arranged the differentiated learning activities, and prepared to be a facilitator who inspires and guides her students toward learning.
Why not? Soph seems to be able to live in her own little fantasy world with no particular trouble. Lately, she talks not only about her imaginary friend, but her imaginary friend’s immediate and extended family. We went to see the hot air balloons of the Sky Festival early one morning over the weekend, and she informed all assembled, in much seriousness, that her imaginary friend’s grandfather has a hot air balloon and that he takes her for rides in it all the time. I’m charged with strapping the imaginary baby sister into her imaginary car seat each time we go anywhere in the car, and also am expected to carry the imaginary baby seat into the store, and secure the imaginary baby sister in the shopping cart. Every now and then, Soph shrieks that her baby has fallen out of the cart, and I then rescue IBS (Imaginary Baby Sister, not Irritable Bowel Syndrome) from the floor, and strap her back in.
Her imaginary world extends to school as well. Apparently, the teacher had to sit Soph and 2 of her cronies down and ask them to stop playing their imaginary games (based, I think, on The Nightmare Before Christmas, Soph’s current fave) in the classroom, because they were getting way too rowdy and interrupting the work of the other students. As reported to me by the teacher, Soph sat, nodding, listening, seeming to get the idea. At the close of the little chat, the teacher asked, “Do you understand girls? Do you have any questions?” Soph’s little arm popped into the air, and when called on, she asked, “Um. Mrs. Esplin? Could you be the witch?”
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
It forces you to get out of bed in the morning.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
It forces you to get out of bed in the morning.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Been a long night
The good: Sophie and I watched The Sound of Music—kind of.
The bad: She LOVES, with a burning, burning passion the puppet/yodeling scene, and refused to watch the movie past that point. Yodel, rewind, yodel, rewind, yodel, rewind, “Lay-ee-yodle-lee-ee-yodle-ay—Whew!”
The ugly: I’ve had terrible insomnia the last 3 nights. As I lay in bed, unsleeping, for hours, that fucking song runs through my head over, and over, and over again. If I ever chance to meet that one little girl in a pale pink coat or that son-of-a-bitching goatherd, I will strike down upon them with furious vengeance. With a baseball bat. With nails in it.
Now then. The Soph update:
She’s back in school and loving it. The morning of her first day back, she was slightly nervous. She kept telling me all the things we do and don’t do at school—kind of reminding herself of the rules. When I kissed her good morning: “Mommy, we don’t kiss at school. Only hug.” When she lay down on the couch to watch her morning show: “Mommy, we don’t lay down under the table at school.” When she was helping pack her lunch, and I put in some (bad Mommy) chocolate frosting for her to dip her graham cracker sticks: “Mommy, we don’t bring candy to school. But frosting is ok. Is it Mommy? Is frosting ok?” When I called her a silly-pants for sneaking the frosting out of the fridge and eating it with her fingers while I had a shower: “Mommy, we don’t call names at school. Rennin called me a pee-pee noney. Will Rennin call me a pee-pee noney today Mommy?” When I asked her to put her toys away: “Mommy, we don’t play at school. There are no toys. We do WORK Mommy. But the work is fun Mommy. It’s LEARNING fun Mommy. But we can play OUTSIDE Mommy.”
This weekend it seemed to be her goal to have as much of the surface area of her body on my body as possible. She didn’t want to just be BY me, she wanted to be ON me.
Her vocabulary continues to be hilariously astounding. Last week she jumped in my mom’s hot tub and announced, “Wow! I’m pretty buoyant!” Later the same day, she came to me with a toothache (Damn. Still need to make that appointment with the pediadontist) and reported, “I have such an affliction.”
Me update:
Well, I don’t want to talk about that, do I? Thus, the not blogging for several days. I’m fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
This morning at 5:30 (She woke up at 5:15! I don’t want to talk about that either.) we waltzed together to her “Kid Songs” DVD.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
This morning at 5:30 (She woke up at 5:15! I still don’t want to talk about it.) we waltzed together to her “Kid Songs” DVD.
The bad: She LOVES, with a burning, burning passion the puppet/yodeling scene, and refused to watch the movie past that point. Yodel, rewind, yodel, rewind, yodel, rewind, “Lay-ee-yodle-lee-ee-yodle-ay—Whew!”
The ugly: I’ve had terrible insomnia the last 3 nights. As I lay in bed, unsleeping, for hours, that fucking song runs through my head over, and over, and over again. If I ever chance to meet that one little girl in a pale pink coat or that son-of-a-bitching goatherd, I will strike down upon them with furious vengeance. With a baseball bat. With nails in it.
Now then. The Soph update:
She’s back in school and loving it. The morning of her first day back, she was slightly nervous. She kept telling me all the things we do and don’t do at school—kind of reminding herself of the rules. When I kissed her good morning: “Mommy, we don’t kiss at school. Only hug.” When she lay down on the couch to watch her morning show: “Mommy, we don’t lay down under the table at school.” When she was helping pack her lunch, and I put in some (bad Mommy) chocolate frosting for her to dip her graham cracker sticks: “Mommy, we don’t bring candy to school. But frosting is ok. Is it Mommy? Is frosting ok?” When I called her a silly-pants for sneaking the frosting out of the fridge and eating it with her fingers while I had a shower: “Mommy, we don’t call names at school. Rennin called me a pee-pee noney. Will Rennin call me a pee-pee noney today Mommy?” When I asked her to put her toys away: “Mommy, we don’t play at school. There are no toys. We do WORK Mommy. But the work is fun Mommy. It’s LEARNING fun Mommy. But we can play OUTSIDE Mommy.”
This weekend it seemed to be her goal to have as much of the surface area of her body on my body as possible. She didn’t want to just be BY me, she wanted to be ON me.
Her vocabulary continues to be hilariously astounding. Last week she jumped in my mom’s hot tub and announced, “Wow! I’m pretty buoyant!” Later the same day, she came to me with a toothache (Damn. Still need to make that appointment with the pediadontist) and reported, “I have such an affliction.”
Me update:
Well, I don’t want to talk about that, do I? Thus, the not blogging for several days. I’m fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
This morning at 5:30 (She woke up at 5:15! I don’t want to talk about that either.) we waltzed together to her “Kid Songs” DVD.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
This morning at 5:30 (She woke up at 5:15! I still don’t want to talk about it.) we waltzed together to her “Kid Songs” DVD.
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