Superstition

Guess who thinks she's Stevie Wonder's "Best Fan?"

See, Scott Montminy? THIS is Why You Proofread!

I got a Mother's Day card yesterday. It was one of those precious child-made cards. The one where you fold a piece of construction paper in half and write your own message inside, complete with the scratchy handwriting of a child. The card said:

"To Mom: Thac you foc! I love you. love Binta."

Ok. Pause a second here. I know it's early (Seven freakin' o'clock in the morning, to be exact!) but my brain registers the message as saying:

"To Mom: Thank you fuck! I love you. love Binta."

I asked her to read it to me, and she quickly discovered the error that she had made. Apparently, it was supposed to say:

"To Mom: Thank you. You rock! I love you. love, Binta."

She had accidentally printed an "f" instead of an "r" and left out an additional "you."

I feel the need to bring up the Scott Montminy debate again.

Losing a Tooth, Binta-Style

What other child do you know who will provide a play-by-play narration as she pulls out her second tooth?

Awesome!

Thanks for writing Tiffany... I had fun trying to correct your grammar by suggesting that your use of a hyphen after the 8 ("eight- and nine-year-old children...") was incorrect... Boy, did our viewers let me have it. I had to eat a plate of crow on the air, as viewer after viewer emailed to explain the virtues of the "suspended hyphen". That's what I get for trying to teach a teacher! I should have known better, as my wife is a 1st and 2nd grade teacher (though she's currently at home raising our four kids). I'll think twice before correcting a grammarian in the future. Thanks again for the email, and please share my thanks with your friend from Maynard for watching!

Sincerely,
Scott

p.s. Please don't correct this email for grammar, spelling or punctuation!!! ;-)

Setting the Record Straight

Dear Mr. Montminy,

I am writing to you regarding a recent news segment in which a park sign, missing an apostrophe, was discussed. My understanding is that the apostrophe will be inserted into the sign, now that the error has been discovered.

I am told that you felt this was no big deal, that it was just a "small grammatical error."

I am a third grade teacher in Washington State. I work very hard at teaching my students when it is appropriate and inappropriate to use apostrophes in their writing. Eight- and nine-year-old children typically make two kinds of errors when working with this punctuation mark.

The most common mistake seems to involve misplacing apostrophes. Once the apostrophe is discovered as a new punctuation mark, my students tend to carelessly throw it around all over the place, most commonly using the apostrophe to pluralize words. For example, a third grader might write, "My cat's are fun to play with."

To help my students appreciate the apostrophe, and to develop more restraint when using it, I "charge" my students $1,000,000 for each apostrophe used in their writing. I tell them that I have two offers that they can use an apostrophe for free (to show ownership or to write a contraction), but all other apostrophes will require payment. This playful "threat" causes them to become much more deliberate when deciding to use an apostrophe.

The other challenge that I have is teaching my students where to place the apostrophe when writing a contraction. For example, a third grader might write "does'nt."

To help my students understand where the apostrophe is placed in contractions, we "act out" the merging of the two root words. (In this case, "does" and "not.") When the two words are joined together, they meet with such force that the letter "o" is jolted from position, and replaced with an apostrophe. This visual activity makes the concept both fun and easy for my students to remember apostrophe placement in contractions.

As you can see, I spend a fair amount of time working on making sure my students know how to handle apostrophes appropriately. When my friend, a resident of Maynard, MA, heard your statement on the air, he felt that I might like to share my thinking with you and alerted me to this story.

I believe that public signs should display correct grammar. Every effort should be made to avoid errors on public signs, and if ever an error is discovered on a public sign, it should be corrected immediately.

It is my hope that my thoughts have influenced your thinking, and that you no longer see the missing apostrophe as "no big deal." I'm certain that your third grade teacher would agree with me.

Sincerely,
Tiffany ******
Third Grade Teacher

Subliminal Messages?

I was happily driving down the road, when I did a classic "double take" upon hearing the singer say, "I think I'll go to Boston." No, I thought to myself. I did not just hear that.

Turns out that's exactly what I heard!
I told John it's a "sign."

April Fools Day - Not Just a Day to Play Harmless Pranks

I called to Binta, "Dinner's ready - come eat!"

Binta comes into the room and says, "Finally! Well what took you so long?"

I display a seriously irritated expression on my face.

Binta relizes she has crossed a line and attempts to save face, " Uh, April Fools..."

Yeah, nice try.

Pretty Much the Worst

I would like to suggest that I have just experienced the worst day ever.

So it started off with my doctor's appointment. Now ask any woman, and she'll tell you that the annual pap smear is not something she looks forward to. It's something we tolerate because we know we have to do it. But it is very unpleasant and awkward and uncomfortable, from start to finish. Beginning with the urine sample that you try to get into the tiny cup and end up peeing all over yourself in the process.

And finishing up with discovering an unexpected message from the doctor's office, asking you to please call back regarding your appointment from that morning.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Picture me lying there, on the little table, scooched down to the very end to the point where you think you're going to fall off the table if you go any further. The doctor is doing the breast exam, so I'm pretty much as exposed as I could possibly be. Suddenly, there's this banging from outside of the window. The blinds are closed, of course, but from where I'm lying, I can see (through the slats) a guy rappelling from a rope with a squeegie in his hand.

Turns out it's window washing day at the Multicare Health Center.

My doctor was very unhappy, and covered me up. She went out to see why the window washers would be outside a gynecologist's office on a business day. She suggested we wait a few minutes for them to move on before getting back to my exam.

And that would explain why I was late for work.

I flew into my classroom 3 minutes late as the kids were coming in, and had just enough time to remove my coat and drop off my bag by my desk, when a parent comes over to me.

It's the parent who emailed my principal yesterday, asking to meet with her about her son's progress in third grade without inviting me. This parent has now just asked me if it would be ok for her to "just sit in a chair in the back of the room today to watch how he does during class."

This took me totally by surprise. The thought of this parent sitting there, staring at me all morning did not sound like a good time to me, so I explained that parents usually set that kind of thing up through the office. She told me that the psychologist said that it's ok for her to do that, if it's ok with the teacher. I re-iterated that I'd feel more comfortable having her go through the school policy of clearing it with the office first.

She left, and that's when I started panicking. I could only imagine the results of her son's sudden perfect behavior, and the conclusion that she'd draw, that I'm just making stories up about how he's not paying attention during class. Anyone think that having Mom sitting in the room would have an impact on the kid's behavior? Looks to me like the kid's got perfect behavior! What is this teacher talking about?

Now I get to look like a liar. Lovely.

Fortunately, she was turned away by the office. The secretary explained that observations need to be set up in advance. I'm so incredibly relieved, because I don't think I could have handled that stress today.

My principal came by to talk to me a little later, and explained that the mom spoke with her this morning. Apparently, she's concerned about how far behind he is, and thinks that maybe she would be better off pulling him out of class to homeschool him. In her eyes, she could do a better job than me (teaching her son + 25 other kids). I asked my principal why the mom is being so secretive, and why she isn't including me in any of this.

Apparently, her son says that he's uncomfortable in class, because I yell.

I was completely dumbfounded with that accusation. As my mouth was hanging open, my principal said that she told the mom, "Of all of the staff at this school, this teacher is the last teacher who I could ever believe would do that." The mom admitted that her son is "sensitive to re-direction," and the principal responded with, "Well, if your son is that sensitive, then I can guarantee that we will have problems finding a fourth or fifth grade teacher for him."

This is the same mom who told me all about the "bad second grade teacher who didn't like her kid" at the beginning of the year. Well, I guess that teacher's been replaced. Now I get to be the "bad third grade teacher who didn't like her kid." And next year, I'll get to hand over my torch to the "bad fourth grade teacher who didn't like her kid." And so on, and so on.

See, I can write all this out, illustrating how absurd all of it is. But emotionally, I cannot help but feel completely devastated and heartbroken.

I made it through the day. On my way home, I noticed I had a voicemail message. It was the nurse from the doctor's office, asking me to please call back when I get the message, she needs to share a bit of information with me.

I went from panicking that I was pregnant, to fearing that I was going to die in about 5 seconds. With shaking fingers, I dialed the number, and didn't have to wait too long on hold before I was connected. I'm sure it wasn't too long, but it FELT long. The nurse explained that in the confusion and chaos of having to interrupt my exam, thanks to the window washers, the doctor had neglected to do one of the routine tests.

That was it. I started breathing again, once my heart re-started.

And then, the finale. I dropped Binta off at my mom's, so I could go to Tina's "Thank God Report Cards are DONE" party. First, I stopped off at the grocery store to pick up some ice and plastic forks. Unfortunately, I went to the store in my district, and got spotted by a former parent. She started some small talk with me, and when I was just about to head out, she said, "So, are you having a baby?"

I'm sure I don't have to tell you how incredibly humiliating and embarrassing this was. This moment pretty much was the clincher.

The worst day. Ever.

But tomorrow. Tomorrow HAS to be better. I have to believe that.

I am a Horrible Person

For some time now, I have been getting cheap thrills by watching this clip.

I laugh until my stomach hurts and I have tears running down my face.

I'm not sure what sends me over the edge each time. It could be any number of things:

• the fact that the lively music continues to play in the background
• the fact that it takes several seconds for the other girl to offer any assistance
• the sight of grapes flying off the girls feet as she tumbles
• the fantastic sound effects of hearing her cries in slow motion

Perhaps it's the fact that in her attempts to cheat (by telling the other girl to stop so that she could demonstrated her quick stomp technique) she has, in fact lost.

Cheaters never win.

Really, none of it is funny. Yet I can't stop watching it and making my cheeks hurt.

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...