Days of Winter Vacation Used: 7
Remaining Days: 6
In the Attic: The Santa Lie
Remember last year? Remember the frickin' kitchen that I toiled over, assembling piece by piece for hours? I was so thrilled that this year, I wouldn't have any major assembly to complete prior to Christmas Morning.
I put Binta to bed with the same scare as last year: "Better get to bed, or Santa can't come leave your presents." I love that line! I wish I could use it more than just once every 365 days! It makes bedtime SO easy!
I allowed ample time for her to fall asleep, then proceeded to set up "Santa's workshop" at the dining room table. I had paper, bows, ribbons, and tags. And about 10 more packages to wrap. I put The Santaland Diaries, on the stereo, so I'd have some holiday cheer while I worked away.
David Sedaris had just finished recounting his experience as a Macy's Christmas Elf around 11:30, when I heard a little person's shocking gasp and inhalation of breath. I looked up, with ribbon and scissors in hand, to see Binta standing in the hallway, rubbing her eyes, and gaping at the Christmas tree, now surrounded by colorful packages.
"Binta! Santa said you're supposed to be asleep!"
"You talked to him?" she asked, with awe.
Thinking quickly back to the Troubleshooting section of the Parenting Manual, I had to make the split-second decision as to if I had had a conversation with Santa or not. I decided I wasn't prepared to back up a fictional conversation with a guy I hadn't met.
"Well, no, I didn't talk to him. I just know that's what he says. "
I tucked her back into bed, telling her not to get up until Christmas Morning. I finished my wrapping, put all of my materials away, and remembered to take care of the milk, cookies, and celery that Binta had left as an offering. I ate one cookie and disposed of the rest, because I was concerned that she might be observant enough to notice if they were returned to the kitchen. Yes, you may think that's overdoing it a bit, but she is a pretty sharp cookie.
Christmas Day came and went without a mention of the scene. I confided in my mom with a hushed voice about how I had been busted the evening earlier. She, of course, found it hilarious, and had to share the story with Larry.
Just when I think I'm in the clear, Binta brings up the subject before going to bed last night:
"Mama, do you remember when I got up and you said Santa said to go back to bed?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Did you see him?"
"Uh, no. I was working there, at the table, wrapping presents for Nana and Papa, like you saw me. I know I went into the den to take a break and do some computer work, and when I came back out, I saw that he had already been here."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Well, no. I mean, I just went into the den for like a second, and he was already gone. But I guess that makes sense, right? Cause he's got a lot of houses to get to. He has to be pretty quick with his visits."
"But how did he eat the cookies and milk so fast?"
"Well, maybe he doesn't eat them at the houses. Maybe he takes some of them back home for Mrs. Claus, or the elves."
"But I only gave him 3 cookies. There's too many elves."
"Well, he gets lots of cookies, remember? He's not going to be able to eat all of them himself. He probably eats a couple at the first house, and then saves the others to take back to the North Pole."
"But how does he get them there?"
"Well, as Santa's dropping off all of the toys, his sleigh is emptying out. Maybe he has a special sack that he uses to put the cookies in, so he can take them back to share with everyone, cause by then, he'll have more room."
Finally, no more questions came. I think she's satisfied. For now.
I think my kid just may have a future as a detective interrogator.
Anyone else slightly disturbed at the ease in which I was able to lie on the spot like that?
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
It's Tough Being the Parent of a Brilliant Child
....'cause they ask questions like this:
"Mama, if we could taste a taste bud, what would it taste like?"
Any suggestions for the answer to this one, folks?
"Mama, if we could taste a taste bud, what would it taste like?"
Any suggestions for the answer to this one, folks?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Hooked on Phonics
Binta's spelling is really coming along! The other day, she told me that "ou" makes the "ow" sound. She then went on to label the cloud in her picture "c-l-o-u-d."
This morning, between bites of Frosted Flakes, she had her red Expo marker in her hand, and would write another word on her whiteboard easel.
She asked me for a suggestion, and I said, "It." She said she didn't know how to spell "it," and I encouraged her to listen to the sounds and write those. She wrote "i-t." I clapped enthusiastically, and said, "Now you know all of the "-it" words!"
We then took turns listing "-it" words.
Me: bit
Binta: lit
Me: spit
Binta: shit
Me: ... (moment of panic, before I decided to make it into a "no big deal" learning experience.) Me: Oh, that's not a nice word. (then I move us on, quickly, to avoid giving too much attention to the word that I desperately hope doesn't come out sometime in her Kindergarten class.)
Me: hit
Binta: Oh, that's not a nice word, either.
This morning, between bites of Frosted Flakes, she had her red Expo marker in her hand, and would write another word on her whiteboard easel.
She asked me for a suggestion, and I said, "It." She said she didn't know how to spell "it," and I encouraged her to listen to the sounds and write those. She wrote "i-t." I clapped enthusiastically, and said, "Now you know all of the "-it" words!"
We then took turns listing "-it" words.
Me: bit
Binta: lit
Me: spit
Binta: shit
Me: ... (moment of panic, before I decided to make it into a "no big deal" learning experience.) Me: Oh, that's not a nice word. (then I move us on, quickly, to avoid giving too much attention to the word that I desperately hope doesn't come out sometime in her Kindergarten class.)
Me: hit
Binta: Oh, that's not a nice word, either.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I Love Scooby Doo
Number of days since my last post: 74
Number of days before that one: 95
Number of people who have made me feel guilty about that: 8
...OK, I am re-establishing the "One Post a Week" goal. Starting now...
Binta has discovered Scooby Doo. I love it, 'cause here is a cartoon that I would actually choose to watch during my free time. I love the colors, the music, and I even love the creepy bad guys. We have been borrowing the library's copy of seasons one and two of Scooby Doo.
But now, they even have Scooby Doo books! These mini-chapter books come with the same vivid colors and ridiculously predictable plotlines. The only thing missing is the spooky music. We've been reading the Scooby Doo books during the past week.
When we got to the end of "Scooby Doo and the Witch Doctor," (warning: spoiler alert!) we were stunned to find that the creepy witch doctor was not a real witch doctor at all, but the beautiful Eudora Truffle, the woman who intended to use the coveted mineral-rich soil to make Eudora's Magic Mud Spa the biggest thing in Hawaii.
Binta wrinkled her eyebrows and took another look back at the cover of the book, bearing a picture of "Eudora" while dressed in her deceitful witch doctor disguise.
"Why does she have brown skin here," Binta asks, as the tribal-looking character, grass cuffs around the ankles, threatens Shaggy and Scooby with the large staff with the skull on top.
Binta then flips back to page 55, where Eurora is shaking her caucasian fist at those meddling kids, with her blonde ponytail now wispy and clinging to her face, due to just having had the mask ripped off her head. "and here, she has peach skin?" Binta points.
I'm thrilled with this observation, because it demonstrates yet again that we are related. I love the show, but there are just so darn many inconsistencies. It makes me wonder about the writers of that show.
You're probably wondering about a 33-year-old woman who still watches Scooby Doo...
Number of days before that one: 95
Number of people who have made me feel guilty about that: 8
...OK, I am re-establishing the "One Post a Week" goal. Starting now...
Binta has discovered Scooby Doo. I love it, 'cause here is a cartoon that I would actually choose to watch during my free time. I love the colors, the music, and I even love the creepy bad guys. We have been borrowing the library's copy of seasons one and two of Scooby Doo.
But now, they even have Scooby Doo books! These mini-chapter books come with the same vivid colors and ridiculously predictable plotlines. The only thing missing is the spooky music. We've been reading the Scooby Doo books during the past week.
When we got to the end of "Scooby Doo and the Witch Doctor," (warning: spoiler alert!) we were stunned to find that the creepy witch doctor was not a real witch doctor at all, but the beautiful Eudora Truffle, the woman who intended to use the coveted mineral-rich soil to make Eudora's Magic Mud Spa the biggest thing in Hawaii.
Binta wrinkled her eyebrows and took another look back at the cover of the book, bearing a picture of "Eudora" while dressed in her deceitful witch doctor disguise.
"Why does she have brown skin here," Binta asks, as the tribal-looking character, grass cuffs around the ankles, threatens Shaggy and Scooby with the large staff with the skull on top.
Binta then flips back to page 55, where Eurora is shaking her caucasian fist at those meddling kids, with her blonde ponytail now wispy and clinging to her face, due to just having had the mask ripped off her head. "and here, she has peach skin?" Binta points.
I'm thrilled with this observation, because it demonstrates yet again that we are related. I love the show, but there are just so darn many inconsistencies. It makes me wonder about the writers of that show.
You're probably wondering about a 33-year-old woman who still watches Scooby Doo...
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
While You Were Out
Dear Larry,
Several months ago, we were having a conversation about why J.K. Rowling had changed the title of her first book from "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" to "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone." I think we decided that her decision had something to do with the American audience that would be targeted with the revision. Whatever her reasoning, or whatever the title was, we both decided that it was the start of a fantastic series.
You mentioned that you had a headache, and said that you'd like to take something for the pain.
Possibly four minutes later, you were lying on your back and told us to call 911.
You described your symptoms to me while Mom dialed. I wrote everything down. She went to the front of the building to meet the paramedics when they arrived.
"We need emergency response here, now!" you said urgently to me.
So I dialed a second time, and while I spoke with the 911 operator, you twisted in agony. You continued to speak a steady stream of what you were experiencing, and when the operator asked me how old you were, I drew a complete blank. Fifty-seven? Sixty something?
"Forty," you mumbled in answer.
This was the first time the fear hit me - you were losing it. You continued to mumble and slur your words while reaching for your head. By the time my call was over, you were nearly silent. I stood by you and held your hand and rubbed it. I assured you that you'd be fine, they'd be here soon. I noticed a clear goopy-ness in your left eye when the first paramedic entered the room.
Nearly an hour later, I had navigated streets I didn't know, in a car that I had never driven. I arrived at the hospital that the aid car had sped to, with lights flashing and siren blaring.
I was greeted with the information that you needed emergency brain surgery, and that you likely would have a 50/50 chance of surviving.
They gave us our own waiting room, Mom and me. I was taken to see you, lying on the stretcher in the emergency room while they prepped you for OR. I saw your jaw make a movement against the tube that was in it, and felt the thrill of hope pulse through me. "Oh! He moved! That's good, right?" The chaplain told me those movements were probably reflexes. I stood there for a moment longer, wondering what to say, but knowing full well that it would come out in sobs. I didn't think that you'd be able to hear me, but I didn't want you to hear me cry. I didn't want my emotion to reveal how bad it was.
That's how I found myself sitting in a waiting room holding a "Patient's Belongings" bag containing your pants, while bowing my head in prayer to a god I had just cursed at earlier that evening. The same god that I don't believe in.
The surgery took an hour, I think, although it felt like 7. We sat and sipped seven-up and alternated trips to the bathroom as our bodies, reeling from shock, continued to shiver and shake. Shock had become a familiar enemy to me, returning to remind me of the last time it had visited.
When the doctor finally emerged, he sat across from us, and we searched his smooth face for any hints of hope, though it was in vain. He told us that the surgery had gone as best as could be expected, and that we now needed to wait 5 - 7 days for you to wake up to find out what level of recovery you might have. If, after seven days, you hadn't woken up, we would be having conversation about letting you go.
I retreated to the bathroom and watched snot and tears drop onto the mauve tile under my feet. I felt nauseous, and wrapped my own arms around my body, trying to be warm. My mind continued to imagine how different my life would be without you here. The impacts it would have on my mother to lose her husband, my daughter to lose her grandfather, and for me, to lose a dad I was just getting to know. I considered how impossible it would be for me to enjoy the release of the final Harry Potter book, if you couldn't be there with me.
We made it through a miserable night, alternating between crying, dozing, and lying still, mind racing. Every time I felt myself get upset about what might happen, I would get angry, forcing positive thinking into the place where the fear multiplied.
Imagine our surprise when we called the hospital to find out that you had woken up, after only seven hours. We raced to your room in ICU to find you in a bed with what seemed like hundreds of tubes and cords attached to your body, hooked up to refrigerator-sized machines with blinking lights and numbers, and making steady, rhythmic sounds.
Each day, you continued to make progress, and only two weeks later, you got on a plane and flew home.
And today, one would never know that you came a milimeter away from dying on May 11th. The scar that runs from your forehead to your left ear is hardly visible.
I understand why you don't remember any of this.
I'm so glad, however, that I can tell you the story today.
love,
Tiffany Jane
Several months ago, we were having a conversation about why J.K. Rowling had changed the title of her first book from "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" to "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone." I think we decided that her decision had something to do with the American audience that would be targeted with the revision. Whatever her reasoning, or whatever the title was, we both decided that it was the start of a fantastic series.
You mentioned that you had a headache, and said that you'd like to take something for the pain.
Possibly four minutes later, you were lying on your back and told us to call 911.
You described your symptoms to me while Mom dialed. I wrote everything down. She went to the front of the building to meet the paramedics when they arrived.
"We need emergency response here, now!" you said urgently to me.
So I dialed a second time, and while I spoke with the 911 operator, you twisted in agony. You continued to speak a steady stream of what you were experiencing, and when the operator asked me how old you were, I drew a complete blank. Fifty-seven? Sixty something?
"Forty," you mumbled in answer.
This was the first time the fear hit me - you were losing it. You continued to mumble and slur your words while reaching for your head. By the time my call was over, you were nearly silent. I stood by you and held your hand and rubbed it. I assured you that you'd be fine, they'd be here soon. I noticed a clear goopy-ness in your left eye when the first paramedic entered the room.
Nearly an hour later, I had navigated streets I didn't know, in a car that I had never driven. I arrived at the hospital that the aid car had sped to, with lights flashing and siren blaring.
I was greeted with the information that you needed emergency brain surgery, and that you likely would have a 50/50 chance of surviving.
They gave us our own waiting room, Mom and me. I was taken to see you, lying on the stretcher in the emergency room while they prepped you for OR. I saw your jaw make a movement against the tube that was in it, and felt the thrill of hope pulse through me. "Oh! He moved! That's good, right?" The chaplain told me those movements were probably reflexes. I stood there for a moment longer, wondering what to say, but knowing full well that it would come out in sobs. I didn't think that you'd be able to hear me, but I didn't want you to hear me cry. I didn't want my emotion to reveal how bad it was.
That's how I found myself sitting in a waiting room holding a "Patient's Belongings" bag containing your pants, while bowing my head in prayer to a god I had just cursed at earlier that evening. The same god that I don't believe in.
The surgery took an hour, I think, although it felt like 7. We sat and sipped seven-up and alternated trips to the bathroom as our bodies, reeling from shock, continued to shiver and shake. Shock had become a familiar enemy to me, returning to remind me of the last time it had visited.
When the doctor finally emerged, he sat across from us, and we searched his smooth face for any hints of hope, though it was in vain. He told us that the surgery had gone as best as could be expected, and that we now needed to wait 5 - 7 days for you to wake up to find out what level of recovery you might have. If, after seven days, you hadn't woken up, we would be having conversation about letting you go.
I retreated to the bathroom and watched snot and tears drop onto the mauve tile under my feet. I felt nauseous, and wrapped my own arms around my body, trying to be warm. My mind continued to imagine how different my life would be without you here. The impacts it would have on my mother to lose her husband, my daughter to lose her grandfather, and for me, to lose a dad I was just getting to know. I considered how impossible it would be for me to enjoy the release of the final Harry Potter book, if you couldn't be there with me.
We made it through a miserable night, alternating between crying, dozing, and lying still, mind racing. Every time I felt myself get upset about what might happen, I would get angry, forcing positive thinking into the place where the fear multiplied.
Imagine our surprise when we called the hospital to find out that you had woken up, after only seven hours. We raced to your room in ICU to find you in a bed with what seemed like hundreds of tubes and cords attached to your body, hooked up to refrigerator-sized machines with blinking lights and numbers, and making steady, rhythmic sounds.
Each day, you continued to make progress, and only two weeks later, you got on a plane and flew home.
And today, one would never know that you came a milimeter away from dying on May 11th. The scar that runs from your forehead to your left ear is hardly visible.
I understand why you don't remember any of this.
I'm so glad, however, that I can tell you the story today.
love,
Tiffany Jane
Monday, August 13, 2007
OK, So No More Important Talk!
I'm really really sorry for my absence. New postings to be coming soon...
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Important Talk
I had some morning time available, so I got to sit with Binta as she watched Mr. Rogers. She put her head in my lap and I rubbed her back as the program's topic dealt with the death of a pet. Mr. Rogers and his friends did a wonderful job, of course, talking about it factually, without being scary, and without any mention of heaven or religion.
I looked down at Binta and watched her beautiful profile as she took in the information. I rubbed her back and her hair and planted a few kisses on her head. Soon, she looked up at me and said, "Mom?"
I knew what was coming. She'd be asking about Derek or Grandma. Why they died, and where they are now. Or she'd ask about if I'm going to die, and who's going to take care of her when that happens. I prepared responses, thinking, "What Would Mr. Rogers Do?"
She points up to my face and states, "Mom, this one has no boogers, and this one has lots of boogers."
I looked down at Binta and watched her beautiful profile as she took in the information. I rubbed her back and her hair and planted a few kisses on her head. Soon, she looked up at me and said, "Mom?"
I knew what was coming. She'd be asking about Derek or Grandma. Why they died, and where they are now. Or she'd ask about if I'm going to die, and who's going to take care of her when that happens. I prepared responses, thinking, "What Would Mr. Rogers Do?"
She points up to my face and states, "Mom, this one has no boogers, and this one has lots of boogers."
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Back to School Shopping Begins
Back-to-School Shopping starts well before September. It includes much more than a new box of crayons, pristine in their packages, or Pink Pearl erasers, fresh and optomistic, having not yet had to fix any errors. For a growing number of parents, Back-to-School shopping begins in April, when they begin shopping for their child's future teacher.
This crime is committed mostly by moms. They do their research, by talking with other moms while watching their kids chase a ball around a soccer field. Some are even bold enough to have these conversations in the staff work room, while volunteering for their child's teacher. Who is the nicest? Who is the most nurturing? Who gives the least (or the most) homework? Which teacher has the highest test scores? Which teacher does the cutest Mother's Day projects?
And suddenly, as the teacher, you feel like you're back in high school, caught up in a sick popularity contest, not unlike nominations for Prom Queen.
These moms believe they're doing their child a favor in selecting the perfect teacher for their child. Soon, the children are talking amongst themselves about who they'll be getting for a teacher next year.
Our school has a policy that does not honor parent requests for specific teachers. Does that mean it doesn't happen? Of course not. Parent strategies simply move underground to covertly apply pressure to get their way. Some teachers continue to allow parents to push and pursuade them to get their way. There are parents who are very clever, like one who approached me this week.
Her son is going to be starting third grade at our school next year. She and her son came by for a tour, and visited my classroom to get a feel for what third grade will be like. We visited briefly, and I answered some of her questions about curriculum. I was polite and friendly, like any teacher would be.
The next morning, in my Inbox, I find an email from her. She tells me that she's in the process of writing a placement letter for her son, and would like to know more about my specific instructional style so that she can mention that in her letter. She would never mention specific teacher names, she writes, but she has successfully mentioned qualities of teachers in past letters to get her son in the classroom that would be best for him.
The most horrifying part of this story is that during her tour of our school, my classroom was the only one she visited! She has no idea of what other teachers she's automatically ruling out, simply because she felt a connection to me.
Let's suppose that a child ends up in a classroom that was not specifically selected by his loving mother. Could he wind up with a teacher who has a different style than he's used to? Sure. There's even a chance that the child could find a better connection with a different style. And yes, there's a chance that the teacher would be a bad match for the child. But would that be a bad thing? The child is going to have to begin to develop some strategies to work with someone who he doesn't get along with. Are those skills that will come in handy later in life?
I sure think so!
The mom who is silly enough to believe that she can foretell the future is interefering with real-life experiences that could potentially have been even more positive had she kept out of it. By running around ahead of her child, setting everything artifically in place for him, she's denying him of every opportunity to experience struggle, and to learn persistence and life-long skills that will make him a well-adjusted adult.
But maybe I'm just bitter because I wasn't Prom Queen.
This crime is committed mostly by moms. They do their research, by talking with other moms while watching their kids chase a ball around a soccer field. Some are even bold enough to have these conversations in the staff work room, while volunteering for their child's teacher. Who is the nicest? Who is the most nurturing? Who gives the least (or the most) homework? Which teacher has the highest test scores? Which teacher does the cutest Mother's Day projects?
And suddenly, as the teacher, you feel like you're back in high school, caught up in a sick popularity contest, not unlike nominations for Prom Queen.
These moms believe they're doing their child a favor in selecting the perfect teacher for their child. Soon, the children are talking amongst themselves about who they'll be getting for a teacher next year.
Our school has a policy that does not honor parent requests for specific teachers. Does that mean it doesn't happen? Of course not. Parent strategies simply move underground to covertly apply pressure to get their way. Some teachers continue to allow parents to push and pursuade them to get their way. There are parents who are very clever, like one who approached me this week.
Her son is going to be starting third grade at our school next year. She and her son came by for a tour, and visited my classroom to get a feel for what third grade will be like. We visited briefly, and I answered some of her questions about curriculum. I was polite and friendly, like any teacher would be.
The next morning, in my Inbox, I find an email from her. She tells me that she's in the process of writing a placement letter for her son, and would like to know more about my specific instructional style so that she can mention that in her letter. She would never mention specific teacher names, she writes, but she has successfully mentioned qualities of teachers in past letters to get her son in the classroom that would be best for him.
The most horrifying part of this story is that during her tour of our school, my classroom was the only one she visited! She has no idea of what other teachers she's automatically ruling out, simply because she felt a connection to me.
Let's suppose that a child ends up in a classroom that was not specifically selected by his loving mother. Could he wind up with a teacher who has a different style than he's used to? Sure. There's even a chance that the child could find a better connection with a different style. And yes, there's a chance that the teacher would be a bad match for the child. But would that be a bad thing? The child is going to have to begin to develop some strategies to work with someone who he doesn't get along with. Are those skills that will come in handy later in life?
I sure think so!
The mom who is silly enough to believe that she can foretell the future is interefering with real-life experiences that could potentially have been even more positive had she kept out of it. By running around ahead of her child, setting everything artifically in place for him, she's denying him of every opportunity to experience struggle, and to learn persistence and life-long skills that will make him a well-adjusted adult.
But maybe I'm just bitter because I wasn't Prom Queen.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
A Conversation in the Car
Me: Nana's going to pick you up tonight and take you to storytime at the library, because I have to do some late teaching tonight.
Binta: Does Nana know how to get things from the library?
Me: Yeah, she does.
Binta: How do you know?
Me: Well, when I was a little girl, Nana took me to the library and taught me how to check things out. And now that I'm the Mama, I get to take you to the library and teach you how to check things out. And someday, when you're the Mama...
Binta: ...I'll take my little girl to the library!
(Pauses)
Binta: When I have a little baby, will we all live in the same house together?
Me: Well, probably not. When you have a baby, you'll want to live in your own house with your own family.
(Pauses)
Binta: How will I know how to get a house?
(Another pause)
Binta: I know! I'll ask Chris to help me!
Me: The "Chris and Jennifer" Chris?
Binta: No! The Chris who helped us find our house! (Clearly disappointed in my clueless-ness).
Me: Oh, that Chris! Yes, he's a relator - his job is to help people find houses.
Binta: But how will I find Chris?
Me: Well, Nana and Papa have his phone number. When you're ready to start shopping for a house, I suppose you could give him a call.
Binta: Does Nana know how to get things from the library?
Me: Yeah, she does.
Binta: How do you know?
Me: Well, when I was a little girl, Nana took me to the library and taught me how to check things out. And now that I'm the Mama, I get to take you to the library and teach you how to check things out. And someday, when you're the Mama...
Binta: ...I'll take my little girl to the library!
(Pauses)
Binta: When I have a little baby, will we all live in the same house together?
Me: Well, probably not. When you have a baby, you'll want to live in your own house with your own family.
(Pauses)
Binta: How will I know how to get a house?
(Another pause)
Binta: I know! I'll ask Chris to help me!
Me: The "Chris and Jennifer" Chris?
Binta: No! The Chris who helped us find our house! (Clearly disappointed in my clueless-ness).
Me: Oh, that Chris! Yes, he's a relator - his job is to help people find houses.
Binta: But how will I find Chris?
Me: Well, Nana and Papa have his phone number. When you're ready to start shopping for a house, I suppose you could give him a call.
Monday, April 02, 2007
(Check One)
I'm filling out the registration forms to put my daughter in Kindergarten! I am brimming with excitement and pride about my big girl finally entering school.
My enthusiasm came to a pause, however, when I faced the "Ethnic Code" question, along with 6 simplistic choices:
My enthusiasm came to a pause, however, when I faced the "Ethnic Code" question, along with 6 simplistic choices:
- Asian or Pacific Islander
- Black, not of Hispanic origin
- American Indian or Alaska Native
- White, not of Hispanic origin
- Hispanic
- Other
The directions say "Check One."
Seriously? I have to sum up my daughter with only one ethnic identity? Looking at her, she appears Black. (She'll tell you that she has brown skin like her daddy). But she's being raised almost entirely by her white mother. I desperately want to check both boxes - her two cultures are a critical part of who she is. Choosing one feels like a denial of the other.
I'm sure this is just a simple formality for schools to report as a part of funding and statistics, but it feels like a really big deal to me.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Like Yesterday
It was three years ago today. Parts of it, I can remember better than yesterday. I remember the shirt I wore, the CD that was playing in the car, and the smell of the air outside.
I remember turning on the TV in the morning. Just before changing the channel to a kid's show for Binta to look at, I glimpsed an aerial shot of a highway accident involving a semi-truck. The banner at the bottom of the screen identified the location near the area I work in. I wondered if anyone I knew was involved.
I never would have guessed that it was my brother.
Later on that day, I heard staff members complain about the horrific back-up that resulted in re-routing traffic due to the accident from that morning. It made some people late for work.
My brother was already dead, and I didn't know it.
As my students were filing in from their last recess, a staff member came into my classroom. She told me that she needed to see me in the office. I walked outside, into the crisp air, following her. Her face was critically serious, and I considered making a joke about being in trouble, but her uncharacteristic silence scared me into keeping quiet. I walked down the long hallway with my mind whirling, wondering what could have possibly happened to have me called out of my classroom with only 45 minutes remaining in the school day.
Walking into the office, somebody's hand passed me a note with my dad's name and phone number scribbled on it. I knew then that something had happened in my family. I entered a private office to call my dad. When he answered, I was relieved to let go of worry that something had happened to him. It was easy to hear he was upset, however.
I used my calm voice, and said, "What's going on, Dad?"
He sobbed, and said, "Oh, Tiffany, you don't know yet."
"Know what?" I asked, thinking he was being a little dramatic. My innocence shows here, back when I was actually unable to think of anything that could be as horrific as what I was about to hear.
And this is the point I can't exactly remember. What his words were. All I know is my response: confusion and outrage. How would he know, all the way in Montana, if Derek were in a car accident involving a tractor-trailer here on the highway? It was a textbook example of the Grief Cycle, beginning, of course, with Disbelief.
I remember screaming.
I said, "Oh god," a lot.
I began to notice that I couldn't feel my fingers and toes. There was a frightening tightness in my chest making it hard for me to breathe. The school nurse was called for, while I sat hunched over, sobbing. I felt nauseous and cold. Soon, I became aware of someone rubbing my back, telling me that I was ok, that my body was just in shock. I was taken to the health room to lie down, and when school was dismissed, I was driven to my mom's house, where I spent the next several hours on the couch, in physical and emotional pain that cannot be described.
I never imagined that I would be looking back at it three years later. I didn't see how I would make it through that night, much less the first year. But here I am, already entering the third. I would have told you it must take a really strong person to recover from losing a brother, but now, I think differently. I don't think super-human strength has anything to do with it. I've reached this point because I went to bed each night, and each morning, I woke up, with another day ahead of me.
I've been working through it, literally, one day at a time.
I remember turning on the TV in the morning. Just before changing the channel to a kid's show for Binta to look at, I glimpsed an aerial shot of a highway accident involving a semi-truck. The banner at the bottom of the screen identified the location near the area I work in. I wondered if anyone I knew was involved.
I never would have guessed that it was my brother.
Later on that day, I heard staff members complain about the horrific back-up that resulted in re-routing traffic due to the accident from that morning. It made some people late for work.
My brother was already dead, and I didn't know it.
As my students were filing in from their last recess, a staff member came into my classroom. She told me that she needed to see me in the office. I walked outside, into the crisp air, following her. Her face was critically serious, and I considered making a joke about being in trouble, but her uncharacteristic silence scared me into keeping quiet. I walked down the long hallway with my mind whirling, wondering what could have possibly happened to have me called out of my classroom with only 45 minutes remaining in the school day.
Walking into the office, somebody's hand passed me a note with my dad's name and phone number scribbled on it. I knew then that something had happened in my family. I entered a private office to call my dad. When he answered, I was relieved to let go of worry that something had happened to him. It was easy to hear he was upset, however.
I used my calm voice, and said, "What's going on, Dad?"
He sobbed, and said, "Oh, Tiffany, you don't know yet."
"Know what?" I asked, thinking he was being a little dramatic. My innocence shows here, back when I was actually unable to think of anything that could be as horrific as what I was about to hear.
And this is the point I can't exactly remember. What his words were. All I know is my response: confusion and outrage. How would he know, all the way in Montana, if Derek were in a car accident involving a tractor-trailer here on the highway? It was a textbook example of the Grief Cycle, beginning, of course, with Disbelief.
I remember screaming.
I said, "Oh god," a lot.
I began to notice that I couldn't feel my fingers and toes. There was a frightening tightness in my chest making it hard for me to breathe. The school nurse was called for, while I sat hunched over, sobbing. I felt nauseous and cold. Soon, I became aware of someone rubbing my back, telling me that I was ok, that my body was just in shock. I was taken to the health room to lie down, and when school was dismissed, I was driven to my mom's house, where I spent the next several hours on the couch, in physical and emotional pain that cannot be described.
I never imagined that I would be looking back at it three years later. I didn't see how I would make it through that night, much less the first year. But here I am, already entering the third. I would have told you it must take a really strong person to recover from losing a brother, but now, I think differently. I don't think super-human strength has anything to do with it. I've reached this point because I went to bed each night, and each morning, I woke up, with another day ahead of me.
I've been working through it, literally, one day at a time.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Today Was a Better Day
I'm pleased to announce that
- My report cards are done (again)
- My crappy free haircut has been improved with a $50 cut
I had to play hooky today to accomplish this, but feel no guilt at all, 'cause if you'd seen the state I was in last night, when I was gloomily pinning up a ridiculous chunk of hair that didn't get cut correctly from the 19-year-old beauty school student, and discovered that a full day-and-a-half worth of report card work had never been saved, you would have agreed that I was in no shape to be around small, impressionable children.
So I'm better now.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
The Worst Writing Teacher in the Whole School
While working at the copy machine this week, I ended up having a spontaneous discussion with a former parent. Her daughter was a third grader in my class last year. She mentioned that her other daughter, a second grader, will be entering third grade next year.
Here's what she asks me:
"So who's a really good writing teacher? You know, someone who will really whip her into shape?"
I try not to let my mouth hang open as I digest the implied message here.
I considered going into detail about the differences between third and fourth grade, hitting on some of the likely changes she's noticed in her fourth grader's writing. I thought about pointing out some of the differences in the teaching approaches of her daughter's fourth grade teacher and myself. Things that have nothing to do with me being a crappy writing teacher.
I gave some serious consideration into telling her off.
Instead, I gave her some tidy, politically correct response, which included mentioning that we have been given new writing programs, and that, as far as third grade teachers go, we're all in about the same position, in learning to work with the new materials.
I don't want her kid in my class, anyway.
Here's what she asks me:
"So who's a really good writing teacher? You know, someone who will really whip her into shape?"
I try not to let my mouth hang open as I digest the implied message here.
I considered going into detail about the differences between third and fourth grade, hitting on some of the likely changes she's noticed in her fourth grader's writing. I thought about pointing out some of the differences in the teaching approaches of her daughter's fourth grade teacher and myself. Things that have nothing to do with me being a crappy writing teacher.
I gave some serious consideration into telling her off.
Instead, I gave her some tidy, politically correct response, which included mentioning that we have been given new writing programs, and that, as far as third grade teachers go, we're all in about the same position, in learning to work with the new materials.
I don't want her kid in my class, anyway.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Potter Update
After one week of Potter Boot Camp:*
Book 2, page 254. Only 2769 pages to go!
I'm really enjoying the Chamber of Secrets. Previously, I would have told you that this is my least favorite of the series, however, now re-reading this book with all of the background information from books 3 - 6, I am finding many interesting clues and insights that I overlooked on the first reading. To be able to plant subtle, critical details in a second novel that would come in to play again three novels later is clever. To be able to do it in such a way that the second book just flows smoothly, without making the reader feel that the content is forced, is amazing!
Let me state again: Rowling is such a genius!
*5 house points awarded to Amy, who has cleverly named my project a "Masters in Potterology."
Thursday, February 22, 2007
It's All in How You Say It
"Mom, do we have $4.00?"
"Yeah, we have $4.00."
"Oh, good! We can buy a booger for $4.00!"
"Um, a what?"
"A booger! No, not that kind of booger," she says, when she sees the look of disgust on my face.
"What kind of booger do you think I think you're talking about?"
Binta mimes sticking her finger up her nose.
"And what kind of booger are you talking about?"
Binta mimes eating a big, juicy burger.
"Yeah, we have $4.00."
"Oh, good! We can buy a booger for $4.00!"
"Um, a what?"
"A booger! No, not that kind of booger," she says, when she sees the look of disgust on my face.
"What kind of booger do you think I think you're talking about?"
Binta mimes sticking her finger up her nose.
"And what kind of booger are you talking about?"
Binta mimes eating a big, juicy burger.
Booger, anyone?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The Brotherhood Survey
And here are my answers to Hank's Brotherhood 2.0 Survey. What? You're not watching Brotherhood?
1. Your name:
Tiffany
2. Your Web page:
well, you found it!
3 What have you been up to this past year
(please be as detailed as possible, because we actually want to know)?
I been educating 20 lucky young 8- and 9-year-olds, raising my brilliant daughter all by myself, and unpacking 104 boxes after moving to my new house. I've also been using my crock pot quite a bit.
4 How much longer do you think you'll be doing what you're doing?
I'll be teaching until I'm very old. I'll be raising my daughter until she tells me to stop. I hope to be done with boxes in the next week. I'll likely retire the crock pot in the spring.
5 Why are you doing it?
I'm doing it because it's what I'm supposed to do. Oh yeah, I've also been watching quite a bit of Lost.
6 What do you want to be doing?
I want to get something published. And I want to be worrying about money a lot less than I currently am.
7 What's next in your life?
More reflections around what I need to take care of myself.
8 How You Doin'?
I'm doing really well.
9 What's the best book you read this year?
This year (2007): Peter and the Starcatchers
The past 12 months: The Kite Runner
10 Describe a perfect day?
It would have a perfect balance of time playing with Binta, getting lost in a used bookstore by myself, and playing board games with friends.
11 Assuming that all things come to an end...how do you think humans will go extinct?
It's going to be bad.
12 How are you feeling about kids these days?
I love mine. She's absolutely awesome.
13 (- In this space, compose your own question, and answer it -)
"When's the last time you got your hair cut?"
Sadly, August 2006.
14 Ambrozzo tastes better than anything else, what does ambrozzo taste like?
Slightly warmed chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
15 If you were a cliché, what cliché would you be?
A watched pot never boils.
16 What is your least favorite part of any given day?
Trying to chase my 4-year-old out of the house each morning, only to arrive to work late.
17 Do you enjoy science fiction?
No, that's definitely not my thing.
18 Cheese or Chocolate?
Oh, chocolate. Forever chocolate.
19 Where would you live if you could live anywhere?
Within walking distance of friends, family, shopping, work, and the beach.
20 What was your first concert?
I'm afraid it may have been 38 Special. There's a horrible first kiss along with that story.
21 If you could start a business that would be instantly successful, what kind of business would it be?
Curriculum development.
22 Invisibility or Time Travel?
Time travel - to see my brother.
23 What's wrong with the world?
That any idiot gets to take home a new baby from the hospital and raise it without any qualifications or training whatsoever.
1. Your name:
Tiffany
2. Your Web page:
well, you found it!
3 What have you been up to this past year
(please be as detailed as possible, because we actually want to know)?
I been educating 20 lucky young 8- and 9-year-olds, raising my brilliant daughter all by myself, and unpacking 104 boxes after moving to my new house. I've also been using my crock pot quite a bit.
4 How much longer do you think you'll be doing what you're doing?
I'll be teaching until I'm very old. I'll be raising my daughter until she tells me to stop. I hope to be done with boxes in the next week. I'll likely retire the crock pot in the spring.
5 Why are you doing it?
I'm doing it because it's what I'm supposed to do. Oh yeah, I've also been watching quite a bit of Lost.
6 What do you want to be doing?
I want to get something published. And I want to be worrying about money a lot less than I currently am.
7 What's next in your life?
More reflections around what I need to take care of myself.
8 How You Doin'?
I'm doing really well.
9 What's the best book you read this year?
This year (2007): Peter and the Starcatchers
The past 12 months: The Kite Runner
10 Describe a perfect day?
It would have a perfect balance of time playing with Binta, getting lost in a used bookstore by myself, and playing board games with friends.
11 Assuming that all things come to an end...how do you think humans will go extinct?
It's going to be bad.
12 How are you feeling about kids these days?
I love mine. She's absolutely awesome.
13 (- In this space, compose your own question, and answer it -)
"When's the last time you got your hair cut?"
Sadly, August 2006.
14 Ambrozzo tastes better than anything else, what does ambrozzo taste like?
Slightly warmed chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
15 If you were a cliché, what cliché would you be?
A watched pot never boils.
16 What is your least favorite part of any given day?
Trying to chase my 4-year-old out of the house each morning, only to arrive to work late.
17 Do you enjoy science fiction?
No, that's definitely not my thing.
18 Cheese or Chocolate?
Oh, chocolate. Forever chocolate.
19 Where would you live if you could live anywhere?
Within walking distance of friends, family, shopping, work, and the beach.
20 What was your first concert?
I'm afraid it may have been 38 Special. There's a horrible first kiss along with that story.
21 If you could start a business that would be instantly successful, what kind of business would it be?
Curriculum development.
22 Invisibility or Time Travel?
Time travel - to see my brother.
23 What's wrong with the world?
That any idiot gets to take home a new baby from the hospital and raise it without any qualifications or training whatsoever.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Potter Boot Camp
In preparations for the final installment of the Harry Potter series, I have decided to review all six of Rowling's previous novels to get "in shape" for the big finale. Her novels tend to be so cleverly crafted, with subtle details dropped in places that go unnoticed until a later reference causes the reader to understand them. For this reason, and many other strengths to her writing, I do believe she is an absolute genius. I don't want to miss a thing when I devour Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
I am pouring through each of her books once again, reading along while listening to Jim Dale on the audio versions. I've got a stack of sticky notes and a pen on my lap, and I'm using them freely to record significant findings. Oh yeah, I'm serious about it.
I am currently on page 131 of Book 1. I've got 3201 more pages to complete the series, and I've got 154 more days in which to do it.
I am pouring through each of her books once again, reading along while listening to Jim Dale on the audio versions. I've got a stack of sticky notes and a pen on my lap, and I'm using them freely to record significant findings. Oh yeah, I'm serious about it.
I am currently on page 131 of Book 1. I've got 3201 more pages to complete the series, and I've got 154 more days in which to do it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Valentine Day Tears
It's not so much that I need a valentine.
I just need someone who can be in charge of cutting the onion.
Binta, concerned about seeing her mommy crying in the kitchen so frequently, mentioned a "Food Cutter" that she saw on TV that she thinks I need. And I like her idea. The Food Cutter probably spends a lot less time watching football and is willing to help out whenever I need it.
But it would require additional washing and clean up efforts. But then, so does a man.
I just need someone who can be in charge of cutting the onion.
Binta, concerned about seeing her mommy crying in the kitchen so frequently, mentioned a "Food Cutter" that she saw on TV that she thinks I need. And I like her idea. The Food Cutter probably spends a lot less time watching football and is willing to help out whenever I need it.
But it would require additional washing and clean up efforts. But then, so does a man.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Because You Never Know Who Might be Watching
I was hard at work in my classroom, when Mari poked her head in the door, and indicated that she needed to speak with me in the hall. This only means that one of my kids is in trouble for something.
Fortunately, I was wrong!
Shocker #1: Mari's friend is too sick to attend the Daughtry concert that night, so she's invited me to go in her place!
Our group (which included myself, Mari, Lisa, Lisa's husband, and their two daughters; one of the girls a former student of mine, now a sophomore in high school) went to the doors to wait in line at about 6:15. The venue featured a "general admission" seating, so we knew we needed to get there early. While in line, Lisa suddenly recognizes a student from our school.
Shocker #2: It's a student of mine from last year. Remember crutch girl #2? Looks like her parents are taking her and her little friend out to the same concert we're going to.
Isn't that nice.
They're walking to the end of the line (which is now quite long) so they pass without noticing us. We're all quite relieved, because each of us have experience with this girl, and none of us care to call attention to ourselves. We each share stories, recalling things that the sneaky girl tried to get away with, and that the mom defended to the end, occasionally resulting in calling staff members names. Can you blame us for not wanting to socialize with her outside of our contractual hours?
The concert was great. We were right up at the front, just about 10 feet away from the nearest performer on the stage at any given time. Our early arrival really paid off. I was comforted to know that Crutch Girl and her family would be nowhere near us, based on how long the line was when they arrived.
During the last song of the encore, I suddenly become aware that someone has pushed herself between me and Lisa's husband, who I was standing next to. She's yelling something to Lisa's husband about "her daughter." It doesn't take me long to register who it is.
Shocker #3: And a quick look in front of us, clinging to the rail by the stage, reveals none other than Crutch Girl #2.
Crutch Girl's Mom is facing Lisa's husband, screaming at him to let her through, and he's holding tight to his hard-earned real estate on the floor. She gets her elbows working, and finally pushes Lisa's husband a little too hard, to which she receives a huge push from him, sending her...
...right into me! I fall back into the crowd behind me, who is sympathetic, and also angry about this little hot-headed lady thinking she can push up to the front. She's claiming that she's just trying to get up to her daughter, who has gone off without her. But my year of experience with her tells me that the truth is that she suggested that Crutch Girl go to the front, and she planned to ride that ticket up to the front, herself.
The pushing dies down, and Crutch Girl's Mom settles into a spot right in front of me. Fortunately, she's quite a bit shorter than me. And fortunately, I had just enough professional strength in my reserves to refrain from backhanding her. Because get this: she still has not noticed either me, Mari, or Lisa, all around her. She's completely oblivious that she's surrounded by staff members from her kids' school.
The next day, at school, I was working in my classroom while my class was at recess. Guess who walks through my door?
Shocker #4: Yeah.
She's got an envelope in her hands, and she says, "Do you have a second to look at something?"
"Sure," I say, standing up from my computer with a professional smile.
"We went to the Daughtry concert last night," she says, as she fans out a one-inch stack of photos on a nearby desk.
Immediately, my mind begins calculating my next move. She's not acting like she saw me, but what if she did, and this is a test? Do I admit I was there, or pretend I wasn't? Quickly, my mouth makes my decision.
"Really? I was there, too!"
"You were?" she's really astounded.
"Yeah! That's so weird!" I lie.
"Where were you?" she asks.
"Oh, we were pretty close to the front, way too close to the speaker," I laugh.
"We were right up at the front!" she tells me.
"Oh, really?" I feel my stomach twisting at hearing her lie to me. I want to out her, but don't want to risk getting into something unfriendly at work.
"I knew you'd like to see these pictures, since you were such a big fan of his last year," she goes on to say.
"Yeah, I didn't get any pictures, because I only went at the last minute, and didn't have a camera," I say, looking at the photos spread in front of me; many of them duplicates, and several enlarged to 8 x 10s. I figured that would provide a nice opportunity for her to offer one of the many pictures of Chris leaning out over the audience, screaming into his microphone with his eyes closed.
But of course she didn't.
"(Crutch Girl #2) will be so excited to hear you were there, too! She's going to be disappointed she didn't see you." She scoops up all of her pictures and tucked them back into her envelope, astounded that we were at the same show and she didn't see me.
"Thank you for showing me your pictures. I'm glad you had such a wonderful time last night," I say, opening up her opportunity to vent about "the jerk who pushed her," and mention seeing someone who looked very much like me there.
But she didn't. And I finally rested, knowing that she definately did not see us there. That her whole reason for this spontaneous Wednesday morning visit really was to show off her pictures and brag about being "in the front row" of the concert.
I should seriously consider taking up acting. Don't you think?
Fortunately, I was wrong!
Shocker #1: Mari's friend is too sick to attend the Daughtry concert that night, so she's invited me to go in her place!
Our group (which included myself, Mari, Lisa, Lisa's husband, and their two daughters; one of the girls a former student of mine, now a sophomore in high school) went to the doors to wait in line at about 6:15. The venue featured a "general admission" seating, so we knew we needed to get there early. While in line, Lisa suddenly recognizes a student from our school.
Shocker #2: It's a student of mine from last year. Remember crutch girl #2? Looks like her parents are taking her and her little friend out to the same concert we're going to.
Isn't that nice.
They're walking to the end of the line (which is now quite long) so they pass without noticing us. We're all quite relieved, because each of us have experience with this girl, and none of us care to call attention to ourselves. We each share stories, recalling things that the sneaky girl tried to get away with, and that the mom defended to the end, occasionally resulting in calling staff members names. Can you blame us for not wanting to socialize with her outside of our contractual hours?
The concert was great. We were right up at the front, just about 10 feet away from the nearest performer on the stage at any given time. Our early arrival really paid off. I was comforted to know that Crutch Girl and her family would be nowhere near us, based on how long the line was when they arrived.
During the last song of the encore, I suddenly become aware that someone has pushed herself between me and Lisa's husband, who I was standing next to. She's yelling something to Lisa's husband about "her daughter." It doesn't take me long to register who it is.
Shocker #3: And a quick look in front of us, clinging to the rail by the stage, reveals none other than Crutch Girl #2.
Crutch Girl's Mom is facing Lisa's husband, screaming at him to let her through, and he's holding tight to his hard-earned real estate on the floor. She gets her elbows working, and finally pushes Lisa's husband a little too hard, to which she receives a huge push from him, sending her...
...right into me! I fall back into the crowd behind me, who is sympathetic, and also angry about this little hot-headed lady thinking she can push up to the front. She's claiming that she's just trying to get up to her daughter, who has gone off without her. But my year of experience with her tells me that the truth is that she suggested that Crutch Girl go to the front, and she planned to ride that ticket up to the front, herself.
The pushing dies down, and Crutch Girl's Mom settles into a spot right in front of me. Fortunately, she's quite a bit shorter than me. And fortunately, I had just enough professional strength in my reserves to refrain from backhanding her. Because get this: she still has not noticed either me, Mari, or Lisa, all around her. She's completely oblivious that she's surrounded by staff members from her kids' school.
The next day, at school, I was working in my classroom while my class was at recess. Guess who walks through my door?
Shocker #4: Yeah.
She's got an envelope in her hands, and she says, "Do you have a second to look at something?"
"Sure," I say, standing up from my computer with a professional smile.
"We went to the Daughtry concert last night," she says, as she fans out a one-inch stack of photos on a nearby desk.
Immediately, my mind begins calculating my next move. She's not acting like she saw me, but what if she did, and this is a test? Do I admit I was there, or pretend I wasn't? Quickly, my mouth makes my decision.
"Really? I was there, too!"
"You were?" she's really astounded.
"Yeah! That's so weird!" I lie.
"Where were you?" she asks.
"Oh, we were pretty close to the front, way too close to the speaker," I laugh.
"We were right up at the front!" she tells me.
"Oh, really?" I feel my stomach twisting at hearing her lie to me. I want to out her, but don't want to risk getting into something unfriendly at work.
"I knew you'd like to see these pictures, since you were such a big fan of his last year," she goes on to say.
"Yeah, I didn't get any pictures, because I only went at the last minute, and didn't have a camera," I say, looking at the photos spread in front of me; many of them duplicates, and several enlarged to 8 x 10s. I figured that would provide a nice opportunity for her to offer one of the many pictures of Chris leaning out over the audience, screaming into his microphone with his eyes closed.
But of course she didn't.
"(Crutch Girl #2) will be so excited to hear you were there, too! She's going to be disappointed she didn't see you." She scoops up all of her pictures and tucked them back into her envelope, astounded that we were at the same show and she didn't see me.
"Thank you for showing me your pictures. I'm glad you had such a wonderful time last night," I say, opening up her opportunity to vent about "the jerk who pushed her," and mention seeing someone who looked very much like me there.
But she didn't. And I finally rested, knowing that she definately did not see us there. That her whole reason for this spontaneous Wednesday morning visit really was to show off her pictures and brag about being "in the front row" of the concert.
I should seriously consider taking up acting. Don't you think?
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Laundry Day
I want to assure all of my readers out there that the world is a cleaner place, thanks to my daughter. She's the kid-sized super hero who brings it all home on the knees and rear end of her pants.
Yes, I am quite proud of her, thank you.
Yes, I am quite proud of her, thank you.
Helpline for Harry
Now, I think I'm as big of a Harry Potter fan out there as any, but is a helpline for grieving readers really neccessary?
Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind on July 21, after I get that book in my hot little hands...
Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind on July 21, after I get that book in my hot little hands...
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Deflowered
A rough day in the world of Tiffany, dear readers.
I not only experienced being pulled over for the first time, I received my first speeding ticket.
This morning, on the way to daycare, I became suddenly aware of police lights behind me. I pulled over, as I have hundreds of times, to allow the fuzz to speed past me, while I took a relieved breath that it wasn't me.
But this time, in the pit of my stomach, I knew. I knew he wouldn't be passing me.
It was just like I imagined it. Like I've seen depicted hundreds of times in movies:
"License, registration, and proof of insurance, please."
I fumbled with my glove box, CDs and suckers embarrassingly spilling out onto the floor. I identified the requested items, and handed them over, saying, "You're not going to believe this, but I've never been pulled over before."
And then came the wait. Sitting in the car, while others drove and walked past my public display of naughtiness. Binta repeatedly asking questions about what was taking place. By the time her stuffed monkey started asking me questions, I snapped, saying, "Can we just leave it alone, please?"
Binta, slightly taken aback, responded, "That was my monkey, not me."
"Well, Monkey, Binta knows all about what is going on, so just ask her."
But the worst part. The worst part...
No, not the fact that I had been caught speeding through a School Zone. (God! A school zone, of all places!)
No, not the fact that my unblemished driving record was now tarnished with the ridiculous shame of driving carelessly.
The worst part was when the officer's wrist moved to reveal the sum of the ticket. What I thought must have been a portion of my insurance policy number actually revealed the $239.00 that I now owe "City/Town of Black Diamond."
Today, while walking around underneath a greenish-brownish cloud of misery, I shared my devastation with my family, friends, and colleagues (who offered a satisfying balance of both empathy and interest with the fact that my infraction could be regarded as "reckless driving").
I'm taking donations, readers.
I not only experienced being pulled over for the first time, I received my first speeding ticket.
This morning, on the way to daycare, I became suddenly aware of police lights behind me. I pulled over, as I have hundreds of times, to allow the fuzz to speed past me, while I took a relieved breath that it wasn't me.
But this time, in the pit of my stomach, I knew. I knew he wouldn't be passing me.
It was just like I imagined it. Like I've seen depicted hundreds of times in movies:
"License, registration, and proof of insurance, please."
I fumbled with my glove box, CDs and suckers embarrassingly spilling out onto the floor. I identified the requested items, and handed them over, saying, "You're not going to believe this, but I've never been pulled over before."
And then came the wait. Sitting in the car, while others drove and walked past my public display of naughtiness. Binta repeatedly asking questions about what was taking place. By the time her stuffed monkey started asking me questions, I snapped, saying, "Can we just leave it alone, please?"
Binta, slightly taken aback, responded, "That was my monkey, not me."
"Well, Monkey, Binta knows all about what is going on, so just ask her."
But the worst part. The worst part...
No, not the fact that I had been caught speeding through a School Zone. (God! A school zone, of all places!)
No, not the fact that my unblemished driving record was now tarnished with the ridiculous shame of driving carelessly.
The worst part was when the officer's wrist moved to reveal the sum of the ticket. What I thought must have been a portion of my insurance policy number actually revealed the $239.00 that I now owe "City/Town of Black Diamond."
Today, while walking around underneath a greenish-brownish cloud of misery, I shared my devastation with my family, friends, and colleagues (who offered a satisfying balance of both empathy and interest with the fact that my infraction could be regarded as "reckless driving").
I'm taking donations, readers.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
A Reason to Look Forward to Mondays
I've got a new addiction: Brotherhood 2.o.
These two brothers are working on a very unique video-blog project this year in which they alternate communicating with each other via 3-minute video segments submitted to their blog, "Brotherhood 2.o." They started on January 1, and intend to continue during the entire year.
They are absolutely hilarious. I mean, these guys are so funny!
I spent an evening catching up on the segments I missed, and now fully intend to continue checking their site on a daily basis. The only downside is that they take the weekends off, so now I'm finding myself looking forward to Monday with an enthusiasm that I had not known before.
Please check out the "In Your Pants" segment. After watching, you, too, will have trouble looking at book titles without snickering. I turned around and found these titles from my own shelves to be side-splitting.
These two brothers are working on a very unique video-blog project this year in which they alternate communicating with each other via 3-minute video segments submitted to their blog, "Brotherhood 2.o." They started on January 1, and intend to continue during the entire year.
They are absolutely hilarious. I mean, these guys are so funny!
I spent an evening catching up on the segments I missed, and now fully intend to continue checking their site on a daily basis. The only downside is that they take the weekends off, so now I'm finding myself looking forward to Monday with an enthusiasm that I had not known before.
Please check out the "In Your Pants" segment. After watching, you, too, will have trouble looking at book titles without snickering. I turned around and found these titles from my own shelves to be side-splitting.
- Stupid White Men (in your pants)
- Second Helpings (in your pants)
- Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase (in your pants)
- The Client (in your pants)
See? Even now, I am laughing uncontrollably.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Because Every Good Funeral Needs a Little Family Dysfunction
The dysfunctional members of our family had the idea, following Mom's (my grandma) death: "Let's just wait until Dad (my grandpa) dies, and then we can have a memorial service for both of them."
Um, no.
We decided to press on and hold a quiet, family service that Dad could attend, right there at the nursing home. My mother's older brother goes ballistic, under the impression that we're holding some sort of religious ceremony, and pulling Dad in unwillingly. We persisted, and had ten family members (including Dad) sit around a table and pass photos around, and share some select stories, while a reverend friend provided a little structure and words of hope.
Four family members were not present.
The most difficult parts of our memorial were when Dad would interrupt the reverend, asking, "Did we lose Jane?" "When did she die?" or "Was she sick?" During the fifteen minute gathering, he asked us a variation of these questions three times.
Even though it was difficult, it still feels critically necessary to hold some sort of memorial service after someone dies. I mean, even the dog of some families gets as much recogntion that he existed, that he was loved, and that he'll be missed. We owe our grandmother at least as much respect.
This part of the family that was not present did invite the nine of us (minus Dad, who cannot easily be transported) over to their home for appetizers and drinks following our nursing-home-service. We would then pile into cars to drive to the cemetery to see where Mom would be resting.
It took us by surprise, then, when we pulled up to their home, to find them already in their car, with the engine running, waiting for us to arrive so that they could pull away for us to follow them straight to the cemetery.
Dysfunctional observation #1: We thought we were being invited inside.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that we would actually be inside their home, surrounded by all of the items of value that formerly belonged to Mom, they decided that rather than scoop up all of the loot and shove it into the closets, it would be better to skip the indoor festivities and head straight for the cemetery.
Dysfunctional observation #2: Most families greet each other in person, especially when a death has occurred, or a great amount of time has lapsed since the last visit.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that greeting each other in person would likely result in the inevitable show of affection such as hugs or handshakes, they decided to stay safely locked in their vehicle.
Dysfunctional observation #3: The two grown grandchildren were not present during the visit to the cemetary.
Hypothesis: Who knows? Had a headache? Washing their hair?
After visiting the cemetary, we were on to the restaurant, where we would have a big dinner, just like a normal family. Except when we got there, we were surprised to find that we were alone, and that our hosts had not yet arrived. When their daughter (one of the missing grandkids from the cemetery) walked in to see all nine of us, sitting there, she said, "Where are my parents?" We answered that we didn't know, so she turned around and walked back out the door.
Dysfunctional observation #4: Most people greet their family with a minimum of: "Hello."
Hypothesis: Hates us.
About fifteen minutes later, in she walks with her parents. The remainder of the night was blissfully uneventful, although by then I had consumed one very strong Bloody Mary, so who knows what I might have missed.
Maybe they're right, maybe we should have saved ourselves the pain and misery and waited until Dad died so that we wouldn't have to endure each other again.
Um, no.
We decided to press on and hold a quiet, family service that Dad could attend, right there at the nursing home. My mother's older brother goes ballistic, under the impression that we're holding some sort of religious ceremony, and pulling Dad in unwillingly. We persisted, and had ten family members (including Dad) sit around a table and pass photos around, and share some select stories, while a reverend friend provided a little structure and words of hope.
Four family members were not present.
The most difficult parts of our memorial were when Dad would interrupt the reverend, asking, "Did we lose Jane?" "When did she die?" or "Was she sick?" During the fifteen minute gathering, he asked us a variation of these questions three times.
Even though it was difficult, it still feels critically necessary to hold some sort of memorial service after someone dies. I mean, even the dog of some families gets as much recogntion that he existed, that he was loved, and that he'll be missed. We owe our grandmother at least as much respect.
This part of the family that was not present did invite the nine of us (minus Dad, who cannot easily be transported) over to their home for appetizers and drinks following our nursing-home-service. We would then pile into cars to drive to the cemetery to see where Mom would be resting.
It took us by surprise, then, when we pulled up to their home, to find them already in their car, with the engine running, waiting for us to arrive so that they could pull away for us to follow them straight to the cemetery.
Dysfunctional observation #1: We thought we were being invited inside.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that we would actually be inside their home, surrounded by all of the items of value that formerly belonged to Mom, they decided that rather than scoop up all of the loot and shove it into the closets, it would be better to skip the indoor festivities and head straight for the cemetery.
Dysfunctional observation #2: Most families greet each other in person, especially when a death has occurred, or a great amount of time has lapsed since the last visit.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that greeting each other in person would likely result in the inevitable show of affection such as hugs or handshakes, they decided to stay safely locked in their vehicle.
Dysfunctional observation #3: The two grown grandchildren were not present during the visit to the cemetary.
Hypothesis: Who knows? Had a headache? Washing their hair?
After visiting the cemetary, we were on to the restaurant, where we would have a big dinner, just like a normal family. Except when we got there, we were surprised to find that we were alone, and that our hosts had not yet arrived. When their daughter (one of the missing grandkids from the cemetery) walked in to see all nine of us, sitting there, she said, "Where are my parents?" We answered that we didn't know, so she turned around and walked back out the door.
Dysfunctional observation #4: Most people greet their family with a minimum of: "Hello."
Hypothesis: Hates us.
About fifteen minutes later, in she walks with her parents. The remainder of the night was blissfully uneventful, although by then I had consumed one very strong Bloody Mary, so who knows what I might have missed.
Maybe they're right, maybe we should have saved ourselves the pain and misery and waited until Dad died so that we wouldn't have to endure each other again.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Messy, Complicated, and Emotional
I lay on the bed, pressing my fingertips to my eyes, but feeling some tears slipping through, anyway. Binta comes in.
"Why are you crying?"
"I feel sad."
"Why?" (always why!)
"I miss somebody."
"Who? Uncle Derek?"
No.
Yes.
I don't know.
How can you explain any of this to a 4-year-old? Finding out that my tiny, fragile, 90-year-old grandma (Mom) died peacefully in her sleep was sad news. It was also a relief. She will no longer be in pain or feeling miserable. We were all expecting this. This was supposed to happen.
However, this loss triggers my emotions, and I suddenly find myself re-living parts of my initial grief after losing Derek. These two losses couldn't be more unlike. Grandmas are supposed to die. Twenty-six-year-old brothers aren't. Experiencing death again causes the two to be related. And when I find myself grieving, I find I can't distinguish one from the other. Yes, I'm crying because I miss my grandma. But I've been missing her for several years, since her health and her mind started to deteriorate. And now I finally have the closure and the permission to publicly miss her. But I find that I'm thinking of Derek, and reminding myself that at some point, I'll be by myself.
We visited Dad (grandpa) yesterday, and when my mom asked him how he's doing, he answered:
"Oh, not too good."
"Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Bring Jane back."
Again, the messy mix of emotions. It hurt to see Dad so sad, aching for his wife of 68 years. But it was also relief to know that his mind was lucid enough to be able to understand this news from several days ago, as well as retain it.
Dad asked how old he was, and we told him that he was 91. He looked at me and asked who I was. I told him, and he told me that I looked old, not like a little girl. I laughed and told him I just celebrated my 33rd birthday on Monday. I'm not the little girl he remembers.
That evening, while buying a bottle of wine at the store, the clerk looked at me and asked if I was over 21. I know I should be flattered for being mistaken for being so young, but in light of what the day had been like, all I could do was to force a smile, and assure him I was.
"Why are you crying?"
"I feel sad."
"Why?" (always why!)
"I miss somebody."
"Who? Uncle Derek?"
No.
Yes.
I don't know.
How can you explain any of this to a 4-year-old? Finding out that my tiny, fragile, 90-year-old grandma (Mom) died peacefully in her sleep was sad news. It was also a relief. She will no longer be in pain or feeling miserable. We were all expecting this. This was supposed to happen.
However, this loss triggers my emotions, and I suddenly find myself re-living parts of my initial grief after losing Derek. These two losses couldn't be more unlike. Grandmas are supposed to die. Twenty-six-year-old brothers aren't. Experiencing death again causes the two to be related. And when I find myself grieving, I find I can't distinguish one from the other. Yes, I'm crying because I miss my grandma. But I've been missing her for several years, since her health and her mind started to deteriorate. And now I finally have the closure and the permission to publicly miss her. But I find that I'm thinking of Derek, and reminding myself that at some point, I'll be by myself.
We visited Dad (grandpa) yesterday, and when my mom asked him how he's doing, he answered:
"Oh, not too good."
"Is there anything I can do to help you?"
"Bring Jane back."
Again, the messy mix of emotions. It hurt to see Dad so sad, aching for his wife of 68 years. But it was also relief to know that his mind was lucid enough to be able to understand this news from several days ago, as well as retain it.
Dad asked how old he was, and we told him that he was 91. He looked at me and asked who I was. I told him, and he told me that I looked old, not like a little girl. I laughed and told him I just celebrated my 33rd birthday on Monday. I'm not the little girl he remembers.
That evening, while buying a bottle of wine at the store, the clerk looked at me and asked if I was over 21. I know I should be flattered for being mistaken for being so young, but in light of what the day had been like, all I could do was to force a smile, and assure him I was.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Some Assembly Required
alternate title: Two O'Clock AM on Christmas Morning
My first great idea was to get the substitute Little Mermaid Kitchen. My second great idea was to have it all assembled for her by Christmas morning. That idea was brilliant.
When it was sometime in the afternoon on December 24, that is.
By the time it was 2:10 AM on December 25, it was just plain moronic.
When I got Binta to bed at around 9:30, after firing off all of the "Santa will pass you by if you're not asleep" threats, I had only to wait until about 9:45 to hear her deep, regular breathing drifting out into the hallway. My cue to get crackin' on the kitchen.
The box, deceptively large, contained approximately 1,000,000 pieces inside it. That is, of course, an angry exaggeration. What it contained were ten "sheets" of plastic pieces, all connected with the plastic "webbing" that must be twisted to detach the 7 - 10 plastic parts per sheet. There were about 10 larger pieces that I added to my stack of materials. That gave me just over 100 pieces of plastic, all labeled with clever names, such as piece AA or PR.
By 10:40, I was ready to start constructing the play kitchen. I scanned the family room, now entirely covered in plastic parts. I had the first realization that my brilliant idea was going to be costly. Well, this was actually my second realization. To be honest, I knew I was in trouble the minute I opened the box.
The directions, of course, were challenging to work with. In an attempt to reach all parents, both English-speaking and non-English speaking, the toy company had printed the directions with minimal words, using drawings and sketches only. In effect, getting through to none of the parents at all. I kept reminding myself: "I have a masters degree. I can do this."
I kept working at a serious pace, ignoring the raw, tender spots on my palms from using the screw driver too many times. I took a break only to consume Santa's cookies and milk. I kept focused on my objective, jumping at every little sound that could be Binta, rising from her sleep and catching me red-handed. But she didn't.
As the project neared completition, I was directed to place two AA batteries into the range. Immediately after doing so, I bumped the button, triggering loud sizzling and boiling noises to erupt. Attempts to silence the toy by re-pressing the button were not satisfied. The noise continued and cycled through again, for each desperate, panicked push. Even swearing at it didn't help. In the still, quiet evening, the noises ricocheted off the walls of the family room like the roar of a jet airliner. I glanced down the hallway, certain that I would see Binta walking towards me. I would have preferred having her walk in on me having sex than being caught with the disassembled kitchen sprawled out in front of me, wearing a milk moustache and having cookies on my breath.
She didn't wake. I continued on, finally finishing at around 1:30. The problem now facing me was to complete the wrapping, which I accomplished in record time.
At 2:05, I began the clean up process - disposing of all the plastic "twigs" from the webbing, unused scraps of wrapping paper, and the store bags and receipts. I stepped out into the backyard to dump the large cardboard box, and when I turned around, I saw Binta rounding the corner.
She was completely groggy, and hadn't seen a thing, although I had already prepared my lie: "Santa already stopped by, and he was just so busy with all of the other toys he had to deliver, that he asked me to finish putting your kitchen together for him." I carried her to the bed, and she instantly fell asleep again.
I collapsed in my bed, trying calm my racing heartbeat from too many shots of adrenaline in the past 4 hours. I discouragingly counted on my fingers the five more Christmases I'd be put through this tribulation.
Just a few hours later, she was opening her present. She was thrilled with the kitchen. She tried out all the sound effects (which strangely sounded so much softer during the day), opened all of the cupboards, and prepared "snacks" for us to eat between opening other presents. She reflected on what a great job Santa's elves had done, building her kitchen.
I thought back to those five Christmases I was dreading last night, and already regretted that there wouldn't be a hundred more to enjoy.
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