4 Things

An interesting way to learn more about me:

4 jobs I've had:
1. telemarketer for Olan Mills portrait studio
2. housekeeper for the Golden Kent Motel
3. women's advocate at battered women's shelter
4. Kindergarten teacher

4 favorite movies I'd watch over and over:
1. The Goonies
2. Pulp Fiction
3. Better Off Dead
4. Say Anything

4 places I've lived:
1. Great Falls, MT
2. Kent, WA
3. Bellingham, WA
4. Seattle, WA

4 TV shows I watch:
1. Lost
2. American Idol
3. Grey's Anatomy
4. Smallville

4 places I've been:
1. Maynard, Massachusetts
2. New York City, New York
3. Dakar, Senegal
4. Honolulu, Hawaii

4 people who email me often:
1. John
2. King County Library System (with hold and overdue notices)
3. Tina
4. Dictionary.com (with the word of the day)

4 favorite foods:
1. gyro salad
2. strawberry waffles
3. Mongolian beef
4. chicken fajitas

4 places I'd rather be:
1. John's house
2. on the beach
3. in Henderson's used bookstore in Bellingham, WA
4. on summer vacation

4 things I look forward to doing someday:
1. calling "Car Talk"
2. buying my own house
3. getting something published
4. getting married? again?

4 favorite phrases I use all the time:
1. Sww-eet!
2. Right on!
3. What's up, yo?
4. I love you.

4 favorite English words:
1. quintessential
2. ubiquitous
3. serendipity
4. do decagon

4 favorite books of all time:
1. Harry Potter (books 1 - 7)
2. The Kite Runner
3. Summer of the Monkeys
4. The Rainmaker

Sending Valentines

Binta and I got to work last night, filling out those commercially-made valentines with the names of the kids from our classes. She did a wonderful job of using the list provided by her teacher to copy each child's name onto a valentine.

She got to Luke's name, and said, "I know Luke's first, middle, and last name. Lucas Turner."

I said, "That's only Luke's first and last name. What's his middle name?"

Binta looked at me, a little bewildered, and said, "Iss."

Hair!

When did hair start to become such a problem?

Back as a child, it was merely an inconvenience that needed to be combed or washed on occasion.

As a teen, it was a challenge to sculpt and mold. (I know I'm not the only girl who discovered the magical gravity-defying properties of the curling iron and hair spray!)

But now, as an adult, hair is a full-blown problem.

Guys I know worry about losing their hair.

As a woman, my problem is that I have hairs showing up where they're not supposed to. Like my chin.

I remember looking at women who have long or dark hairs (or both!) growing out of their chins, thinking, "How does it get like that? How does a woman get to the point when she looks into the mirror in the morning and thinks, 'Yeah, I've got long hairs sprouting from my chin, and I'm good with that!'"

And then one day, I was driving my car when I happened to glance up at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I nearly ran off the road, when I discovered, to my horror, a hair at least 1.5 centimeters long hanging on to my chin!

The most horrifying fact was not that the hair was there, but that in order to grow to the length it was, it had to have been there for a while! It was a strange combination of the tilt of the mirror and the angle of the sunlight that brought this stray blonde hair to my attention.

And then I started noticing more. I now have a nervous habit of rubbing my chin while I'm here at my desk, searching for more unwelcome hairs through touch.

I must seek and destroy all misplaced hairs on my chin.

If you see a woman who has a long hair hanging off her chin, there's a chance that she just doesn't know it's there yet. Pull her aside, privately, and tell her. She deserves to know.

An Indicator that we Need to Spend More Time with my Family in Montana

We were enjoying a breakfast in Applebee's. Suddenly, a man wearing a cowboy hat walked in.

Binta looked at me with wide eyes, and gasped, "Mama! There's a real cowboy here!"

Fiscal Education

"Mama, what is that guy doing?"

"He's working."

"How?"

"He stands there on the corner, holding a sign that tells drivers about a store that's having a big sale."

"Is 'sale' when you get to go to the store and take anything you want without paying?"

"Uh, no. A sale is when a store is selling their things for less money."

"That's great! 'Cause you have less money!"

Christmas 2007

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?

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?

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.

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...

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

OK, So No More Important Talk!

I'm really really sorry for my absence. New postings to be coming soon...

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."

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.

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.

(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:

• 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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Booger, anyone?