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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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...