Some Pig

No Self-Esteem Issues Here

"India, you're so silly," I told her today, adding a moment later, "and so cute."

"Almost TOO cute," she responded, all matter-of-fact.

Can't really argue with that, now, can I?

Gone Native

It's finally happened.

Despite having the poor fortune to have been born outside the six New England states, I've lived in New England for the past 38'ish of my 41'ish years on this planet.  It's only taken the better part of four decades, but at last I've gone native.

How can I tell?

When I look outside the window at the driveway, here's what I see:  Cars, comma, lots of, including one with a significant ding in the front quarter-panel.  Big, lunky kids' toys made of plastic.  A pile of firewood, covered with tarps and awaiting a sunny day (or even a not-sunny-but-at-least-not-raining day) to be stacked. (And by way of an aside, do you know how lucky we were to find a firewood dealer who would give us the time of day this year?  Jeezum crow, it was like a bad relationship!  I'd practically beg these guys to please sell us some wood and they'd be all, "Sure, I'll deliver to Town With An Elite Private School!  I'll call you."  Um, yeah - because I didn't date for most of the Pleistocene era, I have NO idea that "I'll call you" is code for "when hell freezes over or I damn well feel like it." Jerks.)

Yep, we New Englanders love our lawns and driveways - love putting things in them, that is. I'm not talking about blue-blooded Mayflower-descended Colby-College-graduated house-in-Cape-Something New Englanders here, either.  Show real, honest-to-God, salt-of-the-earth New Englanders an empty driveway and an untrammeled lawn and watch them start to twitch.  There's something downright unnatural about a front yard devoid of large broken objects in their book.  Oh, sure, they may have a garage attached to the house, but the garage is for the higher class of broken stuff (e.g., stuff that may actually work someday, provided you can find that missing part down to the dump store or in Uncle Henry's). Here's a true story:  The realtor's aide who helped us buy our first house came by to drop off a Christmas calendar the year we moved to The State Formerly Known As Home.  Actually, she came by several times.  Why?  Because every time she came by, there seemed to be no one home - at least, there weren't any cars in the driveway.  After awhile, she got nervous.  Had something happened to us?  Was something wrong?  Why wasn't anyone ever home?  So she called to see what was up.  Where were we?  Was everything all right?  

Answers:  We were right there the whole time.  Everything was fine.  Our cars weren't out because we - check this out for freaky behavior - parked them in the garage when we were home.  

Here's how you know the girl was a true local:  That possibility had never occurred to her.  "We're in New England!" she replied, "We put our stuff in our garage and our cars in the driveway!"

"I'm from New Jersey," Warren snapped (and you know it's bad if he's willing to fess up to that), "I put my stuff in my house and my car in my garage."

Lest you think I'm slipping from the pinnacle of class and grace where I usually reside, this situation is temporary (I hope).  The wood will be stacked out of sight (if it ever stops raining).  The toy slide is going back in the garage.  We are attempting to whittle down the number of excess cars we have from four to two (Don't ask - it's a long and very dull story, but we have twice as many cars as licensed drivers in our family for reasons we hope to remediate soon.).  Then I can go back to being the arbiter of gracious living you've come to know and love.  Snort. I'll pretend I didn't choose to spend half an hour of my life watching Pamela Anderson's reality show last night so I can keep a straight face!

Fit To Be Grilled [Now UPDATED With Recipes!]

We had a family party for Warren's mother this past weekend to celebrate her 70th birthday.

I chose the menu.
I researched the recipes.
I picked out the cake.
I bought the presents.
I wrapped the presents.
I cleaned the house.
I bought the food.
I prepped all the side dishes.
I made the BBQ sauce.
I prepped the meat.

BUT, because the meal involved the application of flame to food, I had Warren do that part.  (Do you know what happens when women grill?  See Toasty for results.) 

So what did everyone say at the end of the night?

"Great party, Warren!"

Argh!

**********

In case you were wondering, here's what I did for the BBQ:  I brined the chicken as noted in this recipe (epicurious.com, how I love thee!).  Then I made my own souped-up BBQ sauce as follows:

Mix regular BBQ sauce with hoisin sauce at a ratio of 2:1.
Add brown mustard and honey to taste.
Cut the resultant BBQ mix with white vinegar OR cider apple vinegar to taste until the sauce is runny.

That last step is key.  The problem with most BBQ sauces is that they're waaay too sugary and thick, so they just stick to the meat and burn. The vinegar cuts the sweet and makes the BBQ sauce tangy and yummy.  

Follow the grilling instructions on the recipe noted as far as banking the coals on one side, searing the meat to start, blah blah blah.  Don't put on the BBQ sauce until the chicken is about half done.  We cut whole legs into thighs and drumsticks and cut the breast halves into two pieces each, and it seemed like the smaller, the better as far as tastiness and overall BBQ sauce retention went.  

Potato salad:  Tater salad is ALL about the dressing, and this dressing is E-Z (and also FAT-T):

Mix mayo and sour cream in equal amounts.
Add a healthy dollop of mustard and plenty of pepper.
Cut with white vinegar until it's the texture of a thick salad dressing (1/2 to 1 tblspoon).
I use Creole seasoning on top, or you can use cayenne, paprika, turmeric, or curry on top for a little color.

Pour over cubed boiled potatoes (I use red taters and leave a little skin on) and any/all of the following, diced small:  Hardboiled egg, red pepper, cooked carrot or green beans, green onion, celery, olives (although I hate olives and leave them out of everything short of puttanesca) - anything that can add a little color and/or crunch.  If you can, make and refrigerate the dish for at least a few hours ahead of time or even overnight so the yumminess of the dressing can suffuse the potato mixture.

I suppose if you are fanatically health-conscious, you can substitute low-fat mayo and sour cream, or use nonfat yogurt (excuse me while I gag) instead of sour cream, but if you are going to do that you might as well go take your carrot sticks and sit in the corner and leave the rest of us to our creamy deliciousness, you health freak you.

Submitting My Resignation

"I swore I'd never have one of those in my house," my friend said, indicating the new toy bin in our playroom, "and now I have two of them."

I nodded in recognition, surveying the Princess Barbie dress-ups, Princess Barbie tea set and other hyper-feminine-themed crapola cluttering the room.  It's part and parcel of the parenthood experience.  Before little Throckmorton or Ludmila enters your life, you swear publicly and in your out-loud voice that you will never allow them to watch commercial TV/  leave the house in stripes and plaids/ clutter up the lawn with large, hulking molded plastic playground equipment. That's the gods' way of ensuring that you eat your words.  My friend Margo Paris (that's her nom de email, anyway) relates how her husband vowed their house would NOT become a repository for every Disney movie under the sun and now, of course, you can find whatever special-limited-edition-release of whatever Disney oeuvre you wish in her TV cabinet.  You may recall my blood oath not to permit Barbie's Botoxed visage anywhere in my immediate vicinity, but I've had to relax my position on the peripheral crap or risk alienating well-meaning birthday party guests (because everyone knows, once the kid sees the swag, there's no turning back).  The point is, whatever personal line in the sand you've drawn, time and circumstance generally force you to obliterate it.

This syndrome isn't just limited to parenting, either - aging can do it, too.  Five minutes ago I was twenty-four and considered "flats" to be any shoe with a heel lower than 2-1/2 inches; now I have inch-thick orthotics and a closet full of sensible footwear. 

So tell me, what precepts of personal taste and preference have you violated, thanks to age, parenthood, or both?

From Pillow to Post

As an aside - can I have an aside if I haven't started the body of the post yet?  Damn skippy I can! - As an aside, one of my pet peeves is when people misstate common figures of speech.  I have a dear friend I love like a sister, but she has the most unfortunate tendency of using the phrase "to the tilt" instead of the more correct "to the hilt" or "full tilt".  I know exactly what she means, but I still find myself having to sit on my hands so that I don't leap up to choke the bejesus out of her while yelling, "To the HILT, dammit, the HILT!"  So now that I've titled this "From Pillow to Post" I feel compelled to point out that I'm making a clever play on words, not screwing up, mmkay?  IT'S A PLAY ON WORDS!  GET IT?!?

Being middle-aged, and a late arrival to motherhood, and the possessor of a house and cars and a job and a spouse and a cat it seems rather pointless to note that I am tired.  I'm a little self-conscious even bringing this up lest I seem to be falling into the usual mommyblogger litany of not-terribly-interesting topics (diapers, daddies, and playdates, oh my!), but my current state of exhaustion is notably different from usual thanks to the sheer depth and breadth of my tiredness.  The girls seem to delight in playing tag-team wakeup on nights when Warren is away on business and I counted a total of five wakings between the two girls last night.  Right now I am forcing myself to (mothering.com members, please avert your eyes here) make Celeste cry it out, having allowed us to fall into the bad habit of fetching her in the middle of the night.  Yes, I knew better (hangs head in shame), but in my defense Celeste was an incredibly tenacious cosleeper.  The only reason I still don't have to hit the sack with kid in tow at half-past seven is because I steeled my spine and started putting her in the crib and not caving into her demands for maternal company. I've trained her out of night wakings before and it is always a painful week of midnight sobbing sessions interspersed with pleas for "Muh-MUH ... muh-MUH" that would melt the heart of the most Draconian among us. Unfortunately, it's the only thing that seems to work, Ferber, Pantley et. al. be damned, or at least it does until the next episode of teething/tummy upset/night terrors, etc., and then it is back to square one and a lot of screaming.  I will say that Celeste does seem to be handling it much better than past efforts, when she would spend the daytime hours clinging to me like a curly-headed limpet after sobbing her little heart out for hours the night before.  This time her screams have more of a quality of annoyance rather than abject loneliness about them, so, progress!

I have become something of a martinet about bedtime a la Julia.  I've always believed in strict bedtimes, at least as a rule, but now I am a true radical convert - as if the nice Episcopalian lady down the street suddenly started frequenting the local Pentecostal church to wrastle snakes and speak in tongues.  Seeing the light is particularly necessary since we are coming up hard and fast on the "A" word (that most scarlet of letters in the teacher's alphabet standing for August, not for adultery).  I know none of you Argentinians will be crying for me, what with the enviable summer schedule we teachers enjoy, but you will just have to take my word for it that August always seems to come rushing at one with the speed and single-mindedness of the 5:27 express train. August is the time when every committee, task force and working group suddenly snaps out of its July torpor and gets down to cases, so my month is just about solidly booked already.  Add preschool orientation for India and teacher orientation for me and any number of close family members' birthdays and suddenly the lazy days of summer are looking rather more hectic than may be absolutely desirable.  So short story long, I have to get a handle on this bedtime thing if I don't want to spend my days in a state of mobile sleep deprivation and topping the list is getting and keeping the girls in their beds all night, every night.  I am resorting to the time-honored tactic of bribery with India, having procured all manner of craptastic trinkety stuff at the local dollar store for her to earn (as in, No, India, you cannot take just a little tiny peek at the Jasmine book, you have to earn five smiley faces first.), but my options with Celeste are limited to a) having her cry it out, or b) caving in and being woken up every night when she happens to roll over and wake herself up. I find everything goes much, much easier if we have a smooth bedtime at the beginning of the night, so I have started watching the clock with a gimlet eye and not varying from the routine by as much as a nanosecond.  Where I once gave the girls ten minutes here and five minutes there because they were playing well together, or because dinner was late, now I adamantly refuse to bend.  Of course I am finding that in the end, better to go to bed ten minutes too early than ten minutes too late because, well, kids need their sleep (DUH) and the line between tired and overtired is razor thin for the ankle-biting set (and for me as well). 

Sleep and rest and exhaustion have been heavily weighing on my mind, as I've taken the girls to my parents' house for several extended visits this summer.  I've seen, much to my dismay, that my parents are noticeably less energetic now than they were even four years ago when India was a newborn.  When you are the child of an older mother who then becomes an older mother herself this is something of an inevitability, but it is a bit disheartening all the same.  I can't help but envy families with grandparents who are only in their late 50's/early 60's themselves and who can take the kids for long weekends without a second thought.  My parents love the girls and us to pieces and bits, but they simply do not have the energy or the stamina to do a lot with the kids other than quiet pursuits like reading books or coloring, and certainly not for solo visits.  We also have a number of extended family members who are experiencing the vagaries of ill health that seem to come so much more frequently to older people.  We went to visit a family friend of Warren's who is having sudden and serious health issues and she looked terrible, very drawn and frail and, well, old.  She was facing something of a Hobson's choice in that the only way she and her husband could afford to retire was by taking up residence in a winterized summer camp on land the family owned on a remote hilltop (really more of a small mountain) just outside a small New England town.  Now she is in ill health and has to undergo and recover from a number of medical procedures just in time for the cold weather to set in, and did I mention that their house is heated solely by means of a wood stove?  We're not related to these folks by blood, but even still I find myself lying awake and mulling their situation over and over, wondering just how well they really planned for their older age, living in a situation that demands maintaining a certain threshhold of health and well-being that may be somewhat unrealistic for people who are middle-old and heading toward old-old.  Then I think of my own parents, who are better off than that but who are still one piece of bad luck away from having to change their entire living situation themselves and suddenly that phrase "sandwich generation" seems less like a sociologist's catchphrase and more like my reality.

Perhaps there's a reason why I'm meant to spend most of my time in an ambulatory sleep deficit.  I should consider it training for the future, when my daughters hit their teenage juvenile delinquency phase just as my parents enter their twilight years. Dang. I'm going to bed.

Brain Lint, Late July Edition

Well, It Is a Kind of a Sandwich, Too

Overheard issuing from elder daughter's room:

Weee all live in a yummy submarine ... a yummy submarine ... a yummy submarine.  Weee all live in a yummy submarine ... a yummy submarine ... a yummy submarine.

Fairer Words of Wisdom Were Never Spoke

I had the privilege of watching Toasty's incredibly well-behaved, charming daughter, aka America's Next Top Toddler, while she schlepped the baby to the doctor.  She called to apologize for the delay and to let me know she was going to insist upon speedier service:

"I can't sit around here all day.  I've got chocolate to eat.  [brief pause] And wine to drink."

A Solemn Vow

If I ever should chance to go to BlogHer (no link here - go see any other female blogger's blog if you need one) I promise you - pinky swear promise you - I will not post the BlogHer triumvirate:

Post One:  Omigodomigodomigod!!!  I'm going to BLOGHER!!!!  I'm going to meet all my favorite bloggers and see all these people who aren't my family and maybe [insert name of exceptionally popular and terribly well known blogger here] will become my best friend and I'm soooo excited and of course I'm going to miss my family and my children but omigod!!!  Did I mention I'm going to BLOGHER????

Post Two:  Omigodomigodomigod!!!  Here I am at BlogHer and it's soooo much more fabulous than I even dreamed it would be and I've seen [moderately popular blogger] and [moderately popular blogger] and [obscure blogger] and they are all Just. So. Nice!!!  AND I saw [exceptionally popular blogger here] but [insert anecdote about how blogger was rude/distant/bored/busy/monopolized by organizers] and I was a little disappointed, to be honest, but she's sooooo popular I don't really hold it against her, and I had such a good time!!!  Maybe next year I'll be selected to read one of my posts - a girl can hope, can't she???

Post Three:  Omigodomigodomigod!!!  I can't believe it's been [x number of days] since I got home from BlogHer, and now I have to go back to real life with [husband/partner/spousal equivalent] and [kids] and the situation with my job/messy house/elderly parents/codependent cat didn't get any better, but it was just sooooo good to get away for a little while, I feel totally rejuvenated!  And I LOVE all my bloggy friends, LOVE LOVE LOVE you and hope you all get to go to BlogHer next year!!!  Especially [list of first names of people with no context], just remember, what happens at BlogHer stays at BlogHer!!!!

Having said that, if anyone wants to pay for me to go to BlogHer '09 so I can make good on this promise, I will gladly accept your sponsorship.  Maybe I'll be invited to read one of my posts!!!

Dr. Sears Owes Me 10,472 Hours of Sleep ... And Counting

I had to let the baby (actually, toddler) cry it out last night. She is in the habit of waking around one'ish and being transported to the parental bed, thereupon to pass the remainder of the night monopolizing the greater part of the queen-sized and occasionally smacking me in the eye with a pint-sized fist.  And I think back upon that first reading of Sears' The Baby Book (sorry, no link here - I'm not encouraging any more of that nonsense, thanks) when I came across his statement to the effect that he had no idea why we Westerners don't embrace the idea of the family bed (co-sleeping, whatever you care to call it).  I, too, was puzzled, but no more!  We don't co-sleep because...

...are you ready for this?

...co-sleeping is basically NO-sleeping.  Once your kiddo gets past that first swaddled-bundle phase, it's like cuddling up to Don Quixote's windmill.  So if you have any friends who seem headed down that path to perdition, send them here and tell them DON'T DO IT!!!

Personally I Consider Myself An INActivist

So I went to the mothering.com community board recently (again, no link, for the same reason as above) and found there's a new player in the sanctimommy wars.  They're called "intactilactivists".  For those of you blissfully unencumbered by the kinderfolk, the 'intact' part refers to an anti-circumcision philosophy and the 'lactivist' part means you're prone to whipping out the maternal breast anytime and place that Junior indicates an interest in having a snack (the grocery store, walks in the park, the Court of St. James, papal audiences, kindergarten screening appointments, whatever).

Oh.  Muh.  Gawd.  Does that very title not conjure up the vision of a self-righteous smother-mother getting all up in your grill and demanding to know why you're averting your eyes from her three-year-old having a nosh at the playground?  Or making snide comments in her out-loud voice when your little son is taking a whiz in the public bathroom?  And why - WHY - do these people always cite indigenous cultures when they make their arguments for their uncomfortably public displays of their parenting beliefs???  Gee, the practice of enslaving one's defeated enemies is part of some indigenous cultures, but I don't see any posts advocating for that practice being revived on any of those message boards (although I could use a little help around the house - oh wait, that's why I had kids!).  Tell you what, you activists of all stripes and prefixes, I'll co-sleep, breastfeed til my kids are 22, and promise not to snip any of the male issue I most definitely won't be bearing anytime soon - just as soon as I take up my new life as a nomad living in a yurt. 

Letters From A Broad, Youthful Indiscretion Edition

Dear Couple On The Blanket At The Playground,

I don't know if there's any good way to broach this topic politely so I'm just going to dive right in.  Can I tell you how awkward it is to show up at the local elementary school playground with a toddler in tow and an hour of time to kill and find a pair of young lovers lying out on a blanket nearby?  (And do you see why I couldn't lead into that one with a little small talk and a comment about the weather?)  Look, I realize that true love hath not boundary nor limit, but dude, don't you think it's just ever-so-slightly weird to hang all over your girlfriend right where the kiddos play Red Rover, Red Rover?  And honey, really, the kids are too young to have their questions about the female anatomy answered by a live model, so tie your bikini top and unhike those short-shorts, please.  If you feel like hanging out half-nekkid, there's a lovely public beach in town where your state of undress will be at least publicly justifiable, and if you want to trail your fingers all over one another's teen-acne-riddled backs, well, THAT'S WHY GOD MADE CARS WITH BACKSEATS.  The playground, in case you didn't get the memo, is reserved for those of us who have to find a way to entertain the aftereffects of romance, not a place to be making the romance in the first place.  It's like a demilitarized zone of love, and you're violating the treaty.  So get out of here before I call in the UN.

Run along now, and don't forget the condom! 

Some Pig

******************

Dear Dara Torres,

Have I got a bone to pick with you.

On behalf of women of a certain age everywhere, can I just tell you that you are not doing us any favors with this unexpected midlife Olympic bid???  At a time in my life when I should be reveling in the fact that no one expects me to look like an Olympic athlete anymore, you go and turn yourself into some kind of middle-aged cyborg/human hybrid who swims damn fast (which I don't care about) and looks good in a bathing suit (which I totally do).  As far as I'm concerned, 37 represented the last year in which I was expected to look good in a normal (read: non-skirted) swimsuit.  After that, I was finally free to embrace my inner old lady - or at least I was until you came along. As the woman who puts the "meso" in mesomorph, I revel in the way the cute, flippy little skirt skims over my proturberant tummy and conceals the roundness of my upper thighs (not to mention drawing a veil of secrecy over the question of what one does with her bikini area).  In my little Lycra dress I have renounced the beachwear neuroses of my youth.  At last I can regard the fifteen-year-old hotties trotting by in their string bikinis with equanimity, instead of feeling compelled to measure my (inadequate) feminine charms against their youthfully slim thighs and firm breasts. Then you (and your full-time trainers and masseuses and housekeepers and nannies and sponsors) go and queer the deal for the rest of us (Have you ever even worn a skirted swimsuit, you freak of nature, you??).  Just recently, Warren held up a picture of you showing off your (choose one) ripped jacked cut chiseled sculpted superhuman musculature and asked me, in the tones of a little boy requesting a bike for Christmas, "Can you like this when you're forty-one?"

Let me answer that one for you:  NO.

So let me tell you, Dara, despite the sunshine the media may be blowing up your arse about how you're redefining what the human body is capable of accomplishing, you aren't doing a sista any favors.  And I?  Am not happy about it.  So get with the program already.

Sincerely,

Some Pig

******************

Dear Girl On The Beach Yelling At Her Mom,

When you screamed, "I ain't GOIN' to summer school!" in front of her and all God's creation, my dear, you were merely confirming just how direly lacking you are in any kind of learning, and how desperately you do, in fact, need summer school.

As someone who has spent many a May and June watching desperate seniors attempt to make it through to graduation, I can tell you that your story has several endings, none of them particularly happy.  Aside from the fact that your poor mother (single, from what I could gather) probably can't get a refund for the $200-plus dollars she had to fork over, here are the other future ramifications of your decision:

You can retake whatever class you failed as an upperclassman, and boy, it's fun to be a junior or senior surrounded by idiot freshmen asking you, "Whadja do, fail this class??"

You can double up on required courses, so that you have the lovely experience of taking freshman and sophomore English at the same time.  Whee!

You can go to summer school later on.

You can neglect to make up the credits, continue to fail other courses, and come to realize when you're 17-18 years old that most of your peers are so far beyond you in credits earned that there's no way in hell you'll be able to graduate with your class.  Yay for you!

But don't you worry about that.  I'm sure whatever short-term benefits you gain in looking cool in front of your friends, breaking your mother's heart, and having free time in which to do apparently nothing but hang out aimlessly will reap HUGE rewards down the line!  You just stick to your guns, honey, and don't you give an inch!

Admiringly,

Some Pig

P.S. If you were my daughter, I'd've let you skip out on summer school, too.  And right after that, I'd've sold everything you owned short of your underwear to make up for the money I'd just wasted on you.

******************

Dear Idiot Stoners at the Qwik-E-Mart,

When I first spotted you sitting on the curb outside at 10:30 pm, I thought you might be camp counselors waiting for a ride back out of town.  Then I stepped out of my car.  And was immediately HIT IN THE FACE with the rancid stench of your marryjawanna FROM FIFTY FEET AWAY.  My God, how on earth does anyone manage to ingrain that smell into their personal odor to that degree??  What were you doing, sealing yourselves in garbage bags while you sparked up to make sure every fume permeated some part of your being???  Holy cats, this wasn't just a slight whiff of the herb, guys, this was all-out olfactory assault!  Needless to say, my first impression of you folks as clean-cut young people went by the boards in a hurry, but it was none of my damn beeswax, so whatevs ...

... until I saw the FOUR YEAR OLD BOY playing in your midst.

!!  ?!?!? !!

Excuse me, but did any of you have the two functioning brain cells left to notice that it was TEN. THIRTY. AT. NIGHT???  A time when, by rights, any and every little boy should be tucked lovingly into his Lightning McQueen pjs and happily snoozing away, not, say, running around like a whirling dervish in the parking lot at the Qwik-E-Mart while every adult around him is STONED OUT OF THEIR MINDS?!?!  Did it even occur to any of you Einsteins that maybe the reason why this kid was going screaming yellow bonkers could be attributed to his being overstimulated and overtired and just plain NOT BEING PARENTED??? And then it gets better!  I went inside and overheard the Head Stoner Guy talking to the clerk about directions to a house where apparently you were all going to go party hearty for the rest of the night!  What a GREAT idea!!!

Look, I have a nasty tendency to be judgmental.  I know that, and I try to keep my inner Judge Judy on a tight lead, especially where fellow parents are involved, but this time?  I'm letting her off the leash.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt to the extent that I'll assume you love this little kid, or at least feel some sense of parental connection to him since you didn't just leave him at home tied to the bedpost, but beyond that you get no credit whatsoever.  You are the worst example of parenting I have ever witnessed with my own two eyes.  I can only imagine what this poor kid is going to wake up to in the morning - a place full of adults sleeping it off while he roams unsupervised?  A breakfast consisting of Cool Ranch Doritos, half an italian sandwich, and whatever other provender was left over after the munchies were sated???  Here's a tip for all you stoner parents out there, just because the bottle says it's made "with 10% real fruit juice" doesn't mean soda is a breakfast drink!

Hey, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that little kids shouldn't be going to pot parties, even if your brain is so full of THC you can't remember little things like where you left your keys, or whether or not you have a job.  Is your need to get high so great that you can't (or won't) put your child's needs - his real, serious, physiological and psychological needs for a stable environment, for a bed of his own, for a predictable schedule, for some friggin' sleep - ahead of your own?  Because if so, we have a name for that:  It's called addiction.  And addicts who are actively using, and who aren't providing for their children, should not be allowed to have those children.  Because as far as I'm concerned, whatever your issues are, whatever reasons you have that drive you to subsume your feelings, your thought processes, your ambitions and your conscience in a haze of smoke, they're not an acceptable excuse for doing what you've done to this kid.  The moment you decided to bear that little guy to term, you made an implicit promise to him, to me, and to all of society that you were going to do what was right by him and help him become a well-adjusted, intelligent, humane, responsible, kind and loving human being.  Furthermore, as a teacher I can tell you right now what's going to happen in September of 2018:  Your now-fourteen-year-old boy is going to come into my classroom followed by a foot-thick folder of test results, psychologists' write-ups, neurological reports, and all other kinds of official documents attesting that your son has every kind of "deficit," "disorder" and "disability" going.  He's going to struggle to learn, to read, to retain information, and to focus on what he's doing.  He'll be a frequent flyer to the principal's office, the drug counselor's office, and the police resource officer's office, and he may even be invited to come to a school board expulsion hearing or two before he's done.  And all of this can be traced back to the fact that your son has spent the better part of his formative years under the influence of a contact high, because to you, drugs are more important than your kid.

Congratulations.  I hope this gives you something deep to ponder on your next trip down the rabbit hole.

Some Pig

SOS

I have a question for those of you experienced with the idiosyncrasies of small girls, toddlers, or middle-aged women for that matter.

My daughters are, of a morning, a complete and utter pain in the butt.  One of us always has to get up with them because the toddler can't be trusted by herself, but even when the toddler is still sound asleep, the older one whines and carries on if someone doesn't get up with her.  ("Nooooooo," she says, writhing in agony as if gutshot, "I caaaaaan't get up by myself.  I caaaaaaan't.  Mommy, get uuuuuuup.  Get uuuuuuup, Mommy," et. cetera.)  And then, after I've been rousted from the warm embrace of the queen-sized, I'm expected to be a one-woman entertainment center - reading books, generally, or participating in games, or finding other amusements to dispel the ennui of the jaded preschool set.  Now add to that the fact that I can't do anything up to the exacting standards of the elder daughter, who then complains bitterly (and seemingly endlessly) about being born to a woman of such obvious and disappointing shortcomings, and what you have is a recipe for a blissful morning in the bosom of one's family, wishing said family would take a slow boat to China and not write home along the way.

This is made all the more painful by the fact that I am NOT a morning person.  I can get up early, and in fact have spent most of my life doing so, but generally my functioning is limited to blinking and drinking coffee for a good hour or more until the fog clears and life can resume anew.  When Warren gets up with the girls, he adopts a policy of endless motion:  Eat breakfast!  Clean up!  Go for a walk!  Go to the playground!  Come home!  Have some fruit!  Build a block house!  However, that does not get us any closer to my goals, which are a) to have the girls be able to entertain themselves independently under my semiconscious supervision; and, b) to have the elder daughter stop the infernal complaining.  In fact, I think Warren's approach may even backfire somewhat, as the girls now expect nothing short of the old soft-shoe at an hour when being vertical is a major challenge.

So, do any of you out there have success stories, tips, anecdotes, or even fellow-suffering to share?  P.S. Of course I let them watch TV (thank you, PBS Kids, thank you thank you thank you) but I feel guilty if they watch more than a half hour to an hour, plus it doesn't resolve the underlying issue, which is getting the girls to amuse themselves without insisting on adult facilitation (i.e. playing with me).

Many thanks in advance!

Kickin' It Old School, Emphasis on the "Old"

In order to understand this post, you first need to read Crazylainetrain's most recent, and might I say hilarious and BRILLIANT, Fan Letter Friday blog post.  Pay special attention to the last entry and I'll see you right back here. 

* inspects nails *

Glad to see you came back!  After reading Elaine's incisive and witty commentary on the topic of "old man peen," and not incidentally nearly spraying my computer screen with seltzer water several times from laughing so hard, I found the whole three-girls-and-Hugh-Hefner love ... um, love quadrangle? - stuck in my brain the way a particle from a pulled pork sandwich sticks in your teeth.  (Yeah, that's a lovely image, I know.  I chose it deliberately, since it's not a very appetizing thought, either.)  Somewhere in the back of my mind, where my subconscious mulls over deep thoughts like why I chose to wear my hair in an asymmetrical hair style in 1989 (it has no idea) and whether or not I will ever remember where my car keys are before I tear the house apart (answer: no), I found myself pondering one ineffable question:

What in the name of all that is rational are three young ladies of such obvious physical charm doing with the human Slim Jim that is the current incarnation of Hugh Hefner?  I mean, good Lord, the man's girlfriends are young enough that you could cube their average age and they still wouldn't be as old as he is!  [And give it up for the mad math skillz evidenced by SP!  Whoot whoot!  Apparently 8th grade prealgebra wasn't a total waste of time after all!]  Do you mean to tell me in our appearance-obsessed culture, the best they can do is a soft-porn version of Big Love?  Do you mean to tell me that they seriously don't mind being a package deal and that they ... ew ... actually look forward to physical relations with him??

And that's when the answer hit me. These three shucksteresses are running the long con on ole Hef.

Think about it:  All we have is their word, and Hef's, that they're all happy as bugs in their communal connubial rug. (At least, as far as I know all we have is their word, and Buddha knows I don't want to do any eyewitness research to find out.) I bet those sassy lasses are putting on one Oscar-award-winning act, letting Hugh think he's hittin' it like a rock star (I almost said 'like Mick Jagger' but that would just unleash a whole 'nother round of old-n-wrinkly jokes) while they're secretly slipping a mickey into his Metamucil every night.  I wonder if they take turns on cuddling duty to perpetuate the myth. ("It's your turn tonight, I did last night." "Yeah, but last time he drooled on me all night so I get one rotation off.")  Given the amount and frequency of, uh, servicing that Hef likes to imply he needs, how else would these ladies have enough energy to touch up their roots, fill their nails, cat fight, go to their plastic surgery consults, appear at public functions, gaze adoringly at Hef in public, and film a reality show if they really were that busy getting busy?  The obvious answer is, they're not.  As my good buddy William of Ockham reminds us, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

Who says blondes are dumb?  My hat is off to the three of them. 

Worth Mentioning

Shortly after hitting 'publish' on my recent rant about homeschooling, I took the girls to a PJ story hour at the local library.  While they were listening to a story about bugs in the rugs or some such thing, I went looking for something a little less rhyme-y to entertain myself and found a rack of homeschooling mags.  In the interest of research, I decided to have me a look-see.  There, amidst the screeds denouncing the cold, cruel, callous world of public education and the panegyrics praising how homeschooling allows one to foster every child's special unique specialness, I found page after page after page ...

of ads...

... for packaged curricula!

[NB:  I almost said 'prepackaged,' but that would refer to the point in time when the curricula in question are already printed up, but before they're put in the package, and that wouldn't make any sense, now, would it?  Precision in language, people!  It's a must!]

Now isn't that interesting.  So let's see ... the rap on the local public schools is (among other things) that they are mind-numbing, intellect-destroying, creative-juice-sapping black holes of rote learning.  If that's the case, isn't it just the slightest bit contradictory to pull your kid from the local cesspool of anti-intellectualism so you can then teach your specially unique offspring from a kit???

Let me tell ya, *I* don't need no stinkin' kit. 

Here's something about these kinds of prepared lessons.  I have reviewed many a set of such materials in my day, and I have used some to great effect.  But I have chucked much more of it as far across the room as I could get it, so crappy were they.  Shoot, anyone can throw together some blackline masters (that's 'originals to photocopy' for you layfolks) with a few snazzy color-coded charts and call them a curriculum (and why I don't do the same and make my fortune is beyond me). Then all you need is a catchy title and a downloadable PowerPoint and voila!  Prepared curriculum!

Herein lies the rub: If you don't have at least a modicum of knowledge of the subject area, it's hard to evaluate just how effective or worthwhile these materials are.  This is why I do not choose textbooks for the mathematics department, for example.  And if you don't know the material, it's nearly impossible to know how to adapt or modify it without possibly compromising the content.  For example, you can't just decide to skip subject-object relationships when teaching foreign languages.  At least, I hope you can't just decide to skip that; people never fail to astound me with what they think they don't need to know and there are probably people out there somewhere who have no problem having their kids speak pidgin Spanglish or Franglish in the name of maintaining parental control over their kids' education.  Anyhoo, my point is, a lot of this stuff may look good in the ad or on the website but not be worth the powder needed to blow it to hell, educationally speaking.  If you have no background in a subject (especially something like math or languages), then you have to follow the curriculum you bought to the letter, and since you don't know what you're doing, you can't vary or adjust the lessons to meet the needs of the student, so if the fancy curriculum you just bought for $100 (or $200 or $350 or - yikes! - $400) sucks, well, you're stuck.

Y'know, it's too bad there isn't a place your kids can go where there are people with experience in different subject areas who have the resources and expertise to tailor the material to meet your kids' needs ... oh wait a minute ... I just described a school.