Flipping Out

For the most part, I have “normal” little girls.  They like to color, draw, play with paper dolls, play school, do cartwheels and flips, sing and dance, and a whole variety of “Mommy, LOOK!” maneuvers.  They are sweet girls, and while I will admit to them succumbing to normal girly stereotypes in some ways, I should in no way be misunderstood to be stating that they are average.  Just as any parent will tell you, my kids are well above average.  Of course, they must be, since they are MY children and, by definition, *MY children* are amazing. (Spoken like a true twenty-first century parent, huh?)

So to get back to the point:  my little girls, Kolbie and Micah, love to flip and cartwheel and practice their walking bridges.  I get a kick out of it.  I’m partial to the notion that couches are not just for sitting on, contrary to my husband’s exasperated claims.  And I also strongly believe in the invincibility of my children:  other children may break their necks while doing spinning backflips over a dog/ couch/ sibling, but not MY children.  My daughters will thrive and survive and be happier and somehow “better people” from having experienced the danger and the thrill of physically daring activities.  Or so I believe.

Need I tell you that my husband and I differ strongly on this point?  

The point on which we agree is that our younger daughters have a talent for gymnastics—in the very least, are highly flexible-- and, therefore, should be signed up for gymnastics class, if they so wished.  And so wished they did.  So, like the good parents we are, we signed them up for a beginner gymnastics course.  And they LOVED it… the first day.  The second day, not so much.  By day three they were begging not to go.  Day four we allowed them to skip for shear ease of parenting.  We enforced their attendance on day five—“daggone it, we PAID for this!”—and day six they agreed to go to without fuss, only because it was the last day.

That was last year.  We resigned ourselves to the fact that they didn’t really enjoy gymnastics, and secretly gave each other pats on the back that we’d avoided that time and money vacuum into which we’ve seen other parents fall.  But as the year progressed, our girls’ flips became more spectacular (for the indoor couch version), splits were dropped at a moment’s notice, bridges were higher, and backwards falls were more terrifying to watch (for the record, yes, I know I’m making up a lot of names for gym-y things… as you are  probably discovering, gymnastics isn’t my thing).  

And then, after a year of “Wow!” from me and “You’re going to break your neck! Not again!” from their father, the posed question at dinner from the one with the super sweet, get anything from Daddy smile:  “Daddy, Riley and Olivia and Katie and like six other girls in my class are all doing gymnastics… can I do it too?… please, Daddy?”  This question was immediately followed by a very excited “Me, too!  Me, Too!  Addy and Julia are doing gymnastics!  Look at this!  I can do a split!” from the little sister.  And Daddy, powerless to argue against such sweetness and excitement gave in with a “well, it’s been a year, maybe they’ll enjoy it this time.”  So, I signed them up.

Now, in no way do I want this post to reflect on the gymnastics program we joined.  It was actually very well done and my girls loved the instructors.  But yet again…. Day one was love; day two was eehhh; day three suffering; day four agony; and day five skipped because I just couldn’t deal with the drama and the what-seemed-like-genuine agony-filled tears that miraculously disappeared within moments of the “all right, we’ll skip”.  Day six (after I spent an hour bribing them to go because it was the last day and I’d NEVER make them go again) was great because it was the last day, they got candy and certificates, and were told they were so good they were being promoted to the next level.

On the way home, as they chattered excitedly about the class, in an attempt to prove myself to be the astute mother I am, I asked them “well, aren’t you glad I made you go?”.  But, of course, I was patting myself on the back too quickly.  NO, was the adamant response from the backseat.  What?  But you had fun!  “Not that much fun, Mommy” stated the pragmatic Kolbie.  All right then, I gave in like a champ.  “Then we will never do gymnastics again.”  

There was a moment of silence from the back seat.  In my rear view mirror I watched them look at each other, I think to read what the other was going to do or say.  Then, in a mutual burst that would have made a barbershop quartet envious, they harmonized loudly “NO!! Sign us up again!!!!”  What?  You HATE the class, I tried to remind them, but like the pain of giving birth, it had already been forgotten and they were already convinced that now and forever, they would love gymnastics class.  Or, as Micah put it, “We don’t hate the class, we just hate going to the class and the other kids in the class and being told what to do… but we like gymnastics class”.   

I am not going to even pretend to understand this one. We’ll see how good my memory is a year from now.

Conditionally titled "Buying a Home in Heaven can be Hell"

Pretty much since the day I had my husband snagged, stapled down with a few babies, and completely and utterly under my thumb, I began to whine and beg to move out of the state of Maryland into the beautiful, utopic state of Anywhere But Maryland.   Now, before Marylanders get all bent out of shape, it's not that I hate Maryland-- I did manage to live there quite happily for 12 years-- it's just that there wasn't really anything that Maryland had that other states didn't have for cheaper and better.  And while I was raised in the Virgina mountains and my husband was raised in Maryland suburbs, one thing we agreed on was that if we did move, we'd want a small, idyllic town, straight out of the Andy Griffith Show, but with the added benefit of diversity, culture, and a good education system.  Sure, we knew it was a long shot, but we also knew that town existed somewhere within the US, it just was going to be a challenge to find a good job in that town.  But my husband is nothing if not excellent in his career, and he also manages to get what he wants (let's be honest, I was the one snagged and bagged).  And this time around, he found the mother lode-- Virginia Tech, based in Blacksburg, Virginia-- that town of which we had always dreamed.

A job being acquired, next step on the list was to find a home.  So with our pre-approval letter in hand, we embarked on three days of seeing dozens of homes with four children tired of the start and stop and "don't touch that!" that accompanies house-hunting.  And, almost too easily to be true, we fell in love with a beautiful house on the outskirts of the city:  great school, great location, great price.  Commence preparation!

We packed up our home in Maryland, waved goodbye to our friends, and moved to Virginia.  (I did not look back once.)  But first, my husband moved into a hotel, since he started work before we closed on our home, and the children and I moved in with my parents, to await settlement.  A week before settlement we got the "All Good!" from our broker.  We cheered, packed up the few belongings scattered around Grandma and Grandpa's house, drove to Blacksburg, and prepared to spend the night (all six of us) in Daddy's hotel room.

The next morning school started for the kids.  From breakfast at the hotel, I got each of them off to their respective schools, waving from my MD registered vehicle with the roof top carrier straining, "We're only drop off today!  Tomorrow the bus will bring them!"

Then we got a  request for another document.  No big deal. So settlement is delayed a day.
Microwave dinners, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made for lunch on the tv table, and another "Just car riders for the day!".

Then another request.  Soup in a bag.  Lunch money to celebrate Last day in the hotel!  Another day of rain on the car carrier, but not worth it to unpack all of *that* into the hotel room for just one more day.

Then...
-- Well, you see, the lender is a little nervous about the new job.
-Uh.... what?

-- And the contract position he had temporarily?  That shows job hopping.
-No... that shows that in between leaving one job and moving to start the next, he did a few weeks of contract work to pick up extra money for the move.  It's called financial responsibility and work ethic.
--Well, ten years with one company, then a new job in the middle of the loan process-- it just seems, well, questionable.
-Uhmmm... when we started the approval process we sent you an offer letter.  We are only moving BECAUSE of the new job.  You KNEW this.  What is the problem?

--Well, the lender.....
And it was One more day.

And we waited.... one more day.  Car rider for "today only!"; microwave dinners; four kids in a bed, the same five pairs of clothes for each of us.  (It's amazing how little you need to live.)

I had to fill out Parent Information sheets with "no address yet".
Kolbie had a school project to "draw a picture of your home".  She drew a seven story tall hotel.  She also told people repeatedly that we had "not one, but TWO swimming pools-- one indoor, one outdoor."  A lot of her new friends asked to come spend the night.
Micah asked if we would have to live in the hotel for ever.
The first question anyone asked me upon seeing me each day was "In yet?".  I answered this with a "no, not yet.... " at least forty times a day.
The cleaning staff knew us by name.
The hotel manager new us by name.
The front desk staff would see us coming and automatically extend our checkout by three days.
I habitually asked for my change in quarters for the laundromat.
We celebrated Kayton's 12th birthday by putting up streamers and balloons and eating at Olive Garden, but at night, after the kids fell asleep, I cried over the first birthday EVER for any of my kids that didn't involve a four layer birthday cake and a home made meal.
My son missed his dog, in exodus at Grandma and Grandpa's house.  He claimed he couldn't sleep without him.
The kids began to refer to the hotel as "home".
Each morning and afternoon in the car pool line I got pitying looks at my sopping wet, mold leaking, supposedly-water proof- but- not roof top carrier packed full of all the earthly belongings we had in our possession.
JMahl and I began to refer to the hotel as "home".
People stopped believing we were getting a home and offered to drive us to the nearest homeless shelter should we get kicked out of the hotel.
We DID get kicked out of the hotel and had to move into a different hotel. (over-booked!!!!  No, our kids are not that bad!)
Occasionally I drove past the house, looking longingly, in case a mistake had somehow been made and there was a big sign on the door "Welcome, Stewarts, to your NEW HOME!!!!"
I stopped driving past the house-- terrified I was building dreams that would be deflated.
The moving company holding our truck full of ALL our earthly belongings told me, as nicely as he could, to please stop rescheduling and not to call back until we were literally IN our new home.

Sometimes my husband and I would look at each other and laugh, but mostly we just reaffirmed to each other, with a confidence bordering on insanity, "it's just a delay!"

It felt like forever.  It was, in all honesty, only sixteen days, but each of those days we heard moans of "she's kicking me!" and "why aren't my clothes clean?"  and "when can we go to our new home?' from our children and we listened to their daydreams of "when we get our new house...!"  and "aren't you excited for when we are in our new house...?".  They spent their evenings designing furniture arrangements for their new rooms and determining the best spots for a tree house in the woods behind the house based on their memory of the home. They adapted to their new environment, with little fighting, despite (or maybe because of) the lack of toys and technology to argue over, but the eagerness to be HOME finally was bordering on desperation.  JMahl and I watched a lot of HDTV.

And finally, finally, we were handed the keys.  All the dots crossed, and we came rushing into our home, and the kids claimed their bedrooms and we ooh-ed and aah'ed over the yard and the space and the trees!!!.  And we decorated and lived and were happy and... wow....

And at night, my husband and I sit on our huge wrap-around sofa and watch the fire in our fireplace and the trees out the window and we say "do you remember when?"  and "all that was worth it".

And my kids come running down the stairs, screaming over boundaries crossed and possessions stolen, and then one quiet sweet child sits in my lap and says "Mommy, when can we go back to our *other* house?".  Which one?  I ask, "The one in Maryland?"
No!  She replies, with what may have been horror, "The one we lived in when we first moved to Virginia Tech.  The one with two swimming pools."

No Winning or Losing, Mommy

My three year old daughter Micah got pick-up-sticks for Christmas this past year.  She wasn't overly thrilled-- to her, it was just some sticks in a box, and they did not seem exciting when surrounded by mountains of unopened gifts.  Over the last few weeks, however, this has become her game of choice-- and while we started playing the traditional way- if a stick moves, you loose your turn-- she began to initiate games by saying "let's play pick-up-sticks-- but no winning or losing, Mommy".  At first, I humored her without a second thought.  If a stick moved slightly (she is only 3), we'd laugh and say "it moved!" and let her try again.  I tried to maintain professionalism in the game and would only take a stick if nothing moved, but it turns out that my "losing" broke the "no winning or losing" rule, so I gave in to "a slight move is okay and a major move is just a sign to try again" rule changes as well.

And soon I realized that I was falling into that often debated realm of "trophies for participation".  No winning or losing.  You get the points for playing the game.  The best are equal to the worst.  And I wasn't sure I liked it.  My competitive nature sprang up and my "kids have to learn to work hard to achieve and not everyone is equal in their intelligence and skillsl" beliefs started to rear their heads, and I began to question if acquiescing to "no winning or losing" in pick-up-sticks was heading my 3 year old down a path of complacency and lowered expectations.

But then the mommy side of my mentality jumped into the argument.  That phrase, often stated loudly in exasperation when a quarrel starts in my home, "does everything ALWAYS have to be a competition between you two/ three/ four?" started to scream itself inside my head.  DOES everything always have to be a competition?  Is it really hurting my young daughter if I agree to just playing for playing's sake?

I get why she doesn't want to compete at this game.  For one, as the youngest of four, she is used to comparing herself to her older siblings.  And she's got a lot of pride.  There's nothing that upsets her more than losing-- even if losing is in a race against her 11 year old sister who possesses legs four times the length of her own.  Her favorite games are those she is best at-- hide and seek, in which she is capable of climbing into a tiny hole and remaining completely silent, ignoring even our calls of "game over- come out now!" until her father and I find ourselves running frantically around the house, screaming plaintively for a response, with 9-1-1 set to dial with the push of a button.  She wins that game.  She also wins the "jump off the arm of the couch and land on a pillow thrown four feet away without hurting yourself" game and other in-house parkour challenges (lack of fear being a huge factor in this).  And the "climb into mommy and daddy's bed at 4:30 am and still get a snuggle" game?  My husband is the loser in that one.  Pick-up-sticks?  Not so much.  The memory game?  Kolbie, her 6 year old sister, has that in the bag, although public challenges to her memory scare her to death.  Soccer?  Holds her own until 10 year old Mason forgets he's playing a three year old and kicks the ball hard into the goal, which happens to coincide with where her face is at the moment.  Egg nog at 9:30 at night?  Nope.  Doesn't win that one either, despite an hour of screaming in protest.  So when it comes to pick-up-sticks, well, it  makes sense to her to take out the age-discriminatory skill set of immobility and make it a literal "let's pick up the sticks, in a row, then make a color pattern with them-- no winning or losing" game.  She wins.

And is this so wrong? Does there always have to be a loser or a winner? One of the hardest things to do as a parent is to acknowledge to yourself that your children are not champions at everything.  We want our kids to be the best and always win-- thus, this push for "trophies for all" and Gifted/ Talented and Above Grade Level courses-- when statistically, if an average of 70% of students are falling into the "Advanced" categories (as is true in our school system), your child is just average, despite exciting labels that make you feel otherwise.  It's a game of perception-- and we would rather perceive our children as gifted, spectacular, more special than other children, instead of look at the reality:  most of our kids are "just" normal.

But acknowledging this in our own minds is very different from stating this to your child.  Very few good parents are going to feel comfortable looking their child in the eye after a sweaty, heart-wrenching, full-effort-given soccer loss and say "well, you know-- you're just not that good at soccer.  Maybe you should try basketball or, if that doesn't work out any better, maybe you should stick to legos?"  No!  We hug our kids and say "You were awesome-- you did great!  You are so good out there!  I guess that other team just played better this time, but you'll get them next time!"  And when a kid struggles in a subject, we don't say "maybe school just isn't your thing.  You might not be smart, but hey, but you've got a great personality!".  And we never voice what in our minds we may be thinking:  "It's a good thing you're so pretty.  Models don't have to be smart as long as they have a good agent."  Stating these things-- in one's own mind or, heaven forbid, out loud to a partner or friend-- immediately transports you into a category of bad parent-- not quite as bad as the ones who forget their kids at the grocery store, but close.  Definitely someone to keep an eye on in case this turns into a dire therapist-needed scenario.  But it's impossible for all of us to have spectacular children.  Some of our kids have to be average, and some have to be below average.  And we all know this, we just have a tendency to end this statement with "but not mine!"

Even that borderline attempt at acknowledging a lack of success--"well, all that matters is that you did your best"-- isn't doing our kids any favors.  'Cause get what?  Doing your best doesn't get you anywhere if you are losing soccer games, failing math class, or not getting the job that is going to allow you to pay your own mortgage and move out of your parents' house.  "You did your best" is just a shortened, kinder version of "Your best is not good enough.  ie.  You are not good at this."  And nice parents don't say this to their kids- or do they?  Perhaps honesty is the best approach.  We play win/lose, and if you lose, oh well.  I win.

People will jump in with opinions:  steer them towards something they CAN excel in;  provide them with the resources they need to achieve their goals; all that matters is that you love and support them in whatever they do.... but......the answer to all of these is "that's not always possible".  So what are we to do as parents?  I honestly don't know.  If there is anything I consistently am as a parent, it is inconsistent.  Each day, each child, each program or sport or class or challenge gets a different response.  It's all trial and error with me.  And when someone asks "is that working for you?" my response will probably be "check back in 25 years, and I'll let you know if it did".  But as we all know, 25 years from now may be too late.  Especially if our under-performing, lazy, incapable children are still sleeping in the bedroom next to us.

So for now, I'll tell my son to study harder, my oldest daughter to keep smiling, my middle girl to not be afraid to fail at something, and my youngest child "okay, pick-up-sticks.  No winning or losing."  And if I ever find myself in a situation in which my children are not spectacular, gifted and talented, the cream of the crop-- then I'll vaguely avoid the truth by saying "you don't have to be good at everything, and someday you'll find something at which you will shine"-- but until that day comes, I'll just relish the fact that my children are exceptional.

Something to say

I haven't written a blog post in a long while.  To be honest, I thought I'd run out of things to say (unbelievable to some, I know, but true).  But it seems I haven't.  As of 8:30 this morning, I have something very very important to say.

At 8:30 this morning, my 10 year old daughter sat down on the couch next to me, where I was sipping my coffee, trying to figure out my schedule for the day and simultaneously keep my dog from stealing the two year old's yogurt while screaming at my son to PUT YOUR COAT ON!  IT'S STILL WINTER!  So I'm somewhat distracted when she whispers to me, "Mom... I was afraid to tell you... but on Tuesday, at the bus stop..."  (Internally at this point I'd already started the dialogue of "come on, now, seriously?  Was it that big a deal that you are tattling on your brother for something that happened two days ago?") "Someone wrote "Kill Niggers" on the bus stop wall."  

What?  

I couldn't speak.  I looked at her.  My mouth dropped, my throat choked... Her eyes widened as she saw my shock.

"Mom... what does that word mean?  My friend said it means black people... is that true?"

I started to cry.   I hugged her.  She stared at me.  "No, that's not true.  No.. wait... it is true... but not like that... wait... no, it does NOT mean YOU.  That is NOT what it means."  I stopped talking.  I didn't know what to say anymore.  

I know racism exists, but I didn't believe it.  My husband assures me that racism is alive and well-- but that Howard County is a safe zone.  I argued that most places were safe zones now.  I said "even people who feel that way are smart enough not to ever say it or act on it".  I said "our children won't ever have to deal with racism.  Kids their age aren't like that anymore."  I said "Racism isn't going to be relevant to our kids".

I didn't know what I was saying.  

I still don't know what to say. 

I had the kids get dressed quickly.  I put my phone in my pocket- a camera (why would I want to document this?).  I grabbed a thick black sharpie, my hands shaking as I tore through the kitchen junk drawer searching for one thick enough and dark enough.  I found what I thought would block the words... the words on the wall.  Can't block the words in her head now. 

I threw the kids in the car and drove to the bus stop... sure this was going to be some over-dramatized-- this can't be real?-- situation.  We're in Howard County.  Known for its diversity. Known for its cultural awareness.  No one is really RACIST anymore.  Come on.  And sure, I know that there aren't a lot of black families in my specific neighborhood.  Maybe three?  But there are Asian families and Hispanic families and Indian families....  and the next neighborhood over has lots of black families... so this has to be a mistake.

White Power

Kill Niggers

KKK

Kill Bitch Niggers Bang Bang

I Hate Nigs

and a few swastikas thrown in for good measure.

It wasn't a mistake.    

I was wrong.  I still have something left to say.  

Parents-- shame on you.  Shame on you for allowing this in your home.  Shame on you for allowing your home to bring this into my home.  One of you is teaching your kids this.  One of you says this at home and your son (or daughter) is copying you at school.  One of you thinks this is okay.  One of you knows your kid is saying this, writing this, scribbling this on their notebooks, and you haven't done anything about it.  One of you has a kid who thinks this is cool.  It's not cool.  Racism is not cool-- and you know it.

Or maybe you don't know-- so find out. Find out if this is your kid. I know parents can't be all knowing;  but you can't be all UN knowing either.  

One of you is mad at me for blaming you when "it's not the parents fault" and "you shouldn't blame the parents".  Well, who do you want me to blame?  How else does a kid learn this?

One of you is saying "How dare you write those words in a public blog post! How offensive!"  Maybe you're right-- I hesitate to push the "Publish" button and make These words MY words--but they became mine the moment I had to explain them to my child; although they'll never be mine (a white woman) the way someone has now forced them to belong to my child.  

Tuesday at 4:09 my 10 year old bi-racial daughter had no idea that the word NIGGER existed.

At 4:10 she knew the word, knew what it meant, and knew someone wanted to kill people like her ("Do they mean us?" she asked me).  

This is not okay.

I called the police.  I made an official report.  I wish that solved the problem.

I'm going up to the bus stop to paint over it. I wish I could paint over that thought in my daughter's head just as easily. 

I wish this had never happened.  I wish I really had run out of things to say.  

I wish YOU or your child had run out of things to say before you thought that, said that, wrote THAT. 

Here we go again...

Ah... back to school..  This is one of those times, like Christmas, that is both exciting and wonderful, but so much work-- and often anti-climactic.  The excitement of new backpacks, teachers, and a fresh box of colored pencils is gone by the end of the second day, and then it's just complaints about teachers, homework, and why can't I stay up til 9:00 like I did last week?  And it seems that each year my response of "because I said no" is harder for the kids to swallow.  As they get older and smarter, they seem to want to manipulate everything and, much to my chagrin, I've discovered that they often do.  Even when I don't think they have.
I have to admit I've often ridiculed those mothers who let their children win every battle.  Standing on the sidelines, it is easy to see how those mothers could be better parents and what they should or should not be doing with their children.  And I'm not talking about basic eating, tv, play habits.   I'm not even talking about homework policies and extra-curricular activities.  I'm talking about basic "send your son to school and let the teachers make all the rules into he comes home" policies.  Things that, as a child, I pretty much took for granted.  I didn't WANT my mother interacting with my teachers, since I knew that would only hurt me in the long run (and by "hurt me", I mean literally, on my bum, pain).  But somehow, someway, I have morphed into that mother that I swore I'd never be.  That "helicopter" mom that hovers over the school system waiting for the opportunity to swoop down and add my own two cents to the extensive education that our teachers and principals undergo before being hired.  Because, of course, how are they going to make the right decisions for our children if WE non-professionals don't intercede?
The real irony in this is that for the last four years I've been teaching at the college level on a part time basis, and for a long while my husband, in a futile attempt to help (and increase our level of income), would suggest that maybe I should get a job teaching at the high school full-time.  My over-emphasized reaction to that suggestion would always be "Heck, no!  I do NOT want to deal with parents.  EVER."  I would typically continue (while he nodded off in sleep or turned his attention back to the iPad) about how parents now days won't let teachers do their jobs and how children are being taught that their rights and privileges are more important than their education, etc, etc., and just how detrimental to society this trend was.  He was smart enough to agree with me, even if he didn't hear a word I was saying after "No"-- which is the only part of the conversation that mattered to him anyhow.  
And now I, however unintentionally it may be, have become one of those parents.
It happened gradually.  Last year my son had a problem with a teacher. It seemed serious, from his perspective, so I called a Parent-Teacher meeting.  I interceded.  Things got better.  I patted myself on the back.  I refused to believe that my son may have felt he had pulled something over on me or "won", and when that sneaky thought wiggled its way into my brain, I managed to convince myself that, well, it's okay if he wins sometimes.  It's for his own good.  I wasn't one of "those" moms.
Then, stage open, second day of third grade.  First day of math.  My son enters the house, scowl in place on his face.  I, ever the good mother attentive to his moods and needs, ask "What's wrong?" and get the angry "My math teacher is horrible!  Math is SO easy this year!  I don't WANT to be in this class!"  I try to reason with him.
Give it some time.  It's only the first day of math, I'm sure it will get harder.
NO, she said we would be doing this for weeks.  She said this was what this class did.  She said...
Okay, what do you want me to do?  (Parent mistake number 2 is asking)
Put me in a different class.
I can't do that.
You did it last year.
Uhmmm... well, that was different.  (Parent mistake number 3 is even considering this line of conversation)
YOU said I would be in a hard class this year, Mom.
(Parent mistake number 1 was actually having said this a few weeks earlier-- I was, to my credit, trying to motivate him, but with this child I should know by now to NEVER say ANYTHING that can be used in ANY way in his favor down the road... which, according to my husband, means never say anything.  Period.  My husband is often much better at parenting than I give him credit for.)
And the angry, upset Mason set in.  The "I'm going to act like this until I get my way" Mason.  The "I will make your life so miserable from this moment on and make you feel like the worst parent ever" routine.
And I started to fold. (Parent mistake number 4)  In justification, I had lectured for 7 hours the day before, had 4 office hours, and hadn't got home until after 10:30.  I was exhausted.
Okay, how about I email your teacher, asking her to please make the class harder and to move you to a different class if it turns out this class is too easy for you?
This worked.  Somewhat.  He wasn't thrilled, but he was smart enough to realize this was the best he could get.  Thanks, Mom.  You're the best.  Let me know what she says. (Parent mistake number 5 is letting yourself feel validated by things like this in situations like this)
And I did it.  I emailed the teacher:  "Mason says math is too easy this year; and because he is pretty good at math, I want to make sure he is in a challenging class.  Is this the best class for him?"  (Man, I'm a sucker.)
Within an hour I had a response back from the teacher starting with the very accurate:  "I have to laugh.  This was the first day of math class.  All we did was get to know each other.  It will- obviously- get harder as the year progresses.  If Mason proves to be advanced for this class, I will happily move him.  After progress reports.  Call me THEN."

God bless teachers who know how to deal with parents like me.

Feeling properly chastised, ashamed, embarrassed, and, well, fooled, I go up to Mason's room where he has already been put to bed for the night, curled up next to him, and said "I got an email from your teacher.  You'll be happy to know that she is going to make this class much harder for you AND if it's still too easy, she'll move you to an even harder class. All you have to do is get straight A's on everything for the next eight weeks."
Without missing a beat, Mason pops up in bed, scowls at me, and says angrily, "WHY would you DO that? I don't want to do anything harder.  I HATE hard work!"

I can't win.
Lesson learned.  God bless the Elkridge Elementary School teachers.  I'm just going to let you do your job from now on.

Dear Green Valley Market

Dear Green Valley Market,
I'm sorry.  I'm a shoplifter.  I think... maybe...  I'm not sure, which is why I'm writing this letter.  You see, well, it's this whole "Kids Month Club" thing you've got going on.  The rules say ONE slice of cheese, ONE cookie, ONE apple per month.  But who's keeping count?  I'm not.  Sure, it's a great marketing idea-- free cookies and apples are one of the primary reasons I shop at Green Valley versus Walmart (well, that and the fact that I don't have to worry about losing my children forever), but there's really no way for me to keep track of how many times per month I've gone into the store and whether or not I've hit my monthly allotment of cookies, cheese, and apples.  Well, no easy way that doesn't involve me remembering one more thing.

Let me break this down for you.  Simply put, the moment my children (I have four, I must admit) set foot through those sliding doors they ask "Can we go get a cookie?"   And pretty much every time I say yes.  The "get a cookie from the bakery" thing was standard with your predecessor, so that's seven years of habit, ever since we moved here, that's hard to kill.  And I know the cookies probably don't cost you a lot and they do keep kids happy and well-behaved-- and since happy, well-behaved kids mean content, relaxed mothers who can spend more time shopping, resulting in more money in your wallet- I see why you've kept this policy around.  Good move, GV.  Keep the free cookies coming.

And the cheese thing-- well, it's sort of a pain, so I seldom do that.  I don't feel like standing there at the cheese counter
- waiting for the deli person to not be busy
- trying not to feel like a starving moocher who can't feed her children and, therefore, must get free cheese from the deli counter
- trying to convince the children that "Yes, that IS cheese, even if it doesn't come in plastic wrap"
- trying to convince the children that continued begging will not get me to buy them a slice of meat also
- reminding the children that it's only ONE piece of cheese and NO, just because you thought green and red spots on the cheese looked pretty and now you find out it's disgusting, you may not have a different piece.
So, I seldom get cheese.

It's the apples.  Those delicious apples that make me feel like I'm stealing.  Sure, I know that you mark-up prices and that in the grand scheme of things you probably don't even notice the loss; but I can't help but feel guilty-- like all eyes are on me-- each time I let the kids grab an apple (most often a Golden Delicious or a rosy Pink Lady- they are so good!) and start munching as we walk through the store.  By the time we hit check-out they are usually down to the core, and I'm herding them through the line to wait for me on the bench, hoping the cashier doesn't call me an apple-picking thief or worse as she starts counting up apple cores in little hands.  (Cashiers intimidate me: I'm still a little traumatized from the time a cashier asked for my foodstamp card.  When I informed her I wasn't on foodstamps her response was "but you have four kids!".  On another note, I may have discovered what's wrong with our economic system.)

For a while, in order to not feel guilty about all the apples I was literally walking out of the store with I would buy a bag of apples to go along with the "once a month free" apples, but I've since discovered that my children only enjoy apples when they are fresh off the produce shelf.  Once home, they have little or no interest in doing anything with them other than dropping them to see how quickly they bruise, planting them to see if trees grow in laundry baskets, or watching them slowly rot in the fruit bowl on my kitchen table.

And please don't misunderstand my apple-stealing as grossly and intentionally irresponsible.  I do try to be responsible in my "free apple" abuse.  If I'm only running in for milk I don't let the kids get apples.  If I'm spending very little money in general, I don't let the kids get apples, calling it a "quick trip".  However, there was that time that I had a day full of errands, kids complaining of hunger, no time to go home for lunch and no money to eat lunch out-- so I stopped in at GV, bought a gallon of milk and told the kids they had three minutes to get from the produce to the deli to the bakery and back into the car.  Lunch served-- and a healthy lunch, at that.  That may be considered irresponsible, if you choose to look at it like that.

So, to sum it up.  By my count we probably take about 12 free apples out of your store each month when, by the rules of the Kids Free Month club we should only take 4.  Since we've probably only known about free apples for, oh what, six months?  --that's 48 apples, which probably equals to about $15 to $20.  Is my math right?  So I want to publicly apologize for that and also let you know, well, chances are good that by the end of the year I'll owe you another $10.

Sincerely,
A loyal shopper

PS.  Thank you for moving some milk to the front of the store.  That's not such a great marketing idea, since you probably lose at least thirty bucks each time I run in for milk and actually JUST get milk, but it is kinder to my wallet and doesn't involve a walk past the produce stand.  So thank you.

Don't Poo in the River

A few years ago one of my good friends introduced me to the Gunpowder Falls State Park, just north of Baltimore.  As State Parks go, it's not my favorite, but it does have a beautiful River Beach-- soft sand, warm water, green shady trees-- and it has become a solid favorite for me and my children for a cheap beach experience.  So last week, the kids and I packed a picnic lunch, put on our swim suits, paid our three dollar admission fee, and spent the day in the River.  It was a gorgeous day, and the kids were having the time of their lives.  Even Micah and Kolbie were swimming around in their Puddle Jumpers, having the time of their young lives.

And then, of course, the expected happened.  As Micah and I doggy-paddled happily around each other, she looked at me with something akin to terror in her eyes, and said "I have to use the potty, Mommy".   Oh, geeze.  I knew it was bound to happen.  You can't go all day without going, but as I looked at my other three children scattered around the water, I realized it would take at least five minutes, possibly ten, to get all children out of the water, pack up my bag, and run to the bathhouse that I could see a few hundred yards away.  It was very likely to take longer than that, given the expected arguments such as "why can't I stay in the water while you take her?" and "If she gets to stay, why can't I?", Followed by sulky, plodding children who didn't want to be forced to come with me and will make me regret it as much as they can without getting in enough trouble to have me lose it and take them all home.

On the other hand, this was a river.  It had fish, algae, a hundred other people (most of whom had already peed in it at least once), and what was a little more?  So I did what many, if not most, other mothers would do in my situation.  I told her "go ahead.  You can go to the potty in the River."

To give her credit, she looked at me like I was crazy.  This is my two year old who has had drilled into her as long as she can remember that you "ONLY PEE IN THE POTTY".  So for me to be telling her to "go ahead and pee in the river" was a contradiction of her entire body of knowledge- other than "don't let the dog eat your sandwich" and "don't hit your sister".  But, as testament to the power of matter over mind, she decided to trust me and let go.  However, just when I expected a look of relief to cross her face, it was instead taken over by a look of strain, a tense gritting of the teeth, and --before I had a chance to react-- she looked at me and whispered "I pooped."

Not what I expected.

My mind froze.  We were in a river.  What was I to do?  Tell the lifeguard?  Would he clear the river until certain ph balances had been restored?  Not likely, considering I don't believe rivers have such chemical balances in place.  Telling the other parents "uhm... my daughter just pooped in the water, so.... you may want to swim upstream" would get me a lot of dirty looks and nasty comments and *may* get me and mine kicked out of the State Park.  So I nixed those ideas, and went into damage-control mode.  As disgusting as it may be (if you've been here, you already know. If you've not, I pray you never are.), I did what I had to do.  I pulled at her bathing suit, using my fingers to rinse it out, then grabbed desperately for the, well, poo, before it floated to the surface and acquired witnesses.  Why poo floats, I'll never know.  But it does.  Quite well.  Being in a river, I quite cleverly, I thought, decided to bury the poo under the sandy bottom.  Suffice it to say, it is impossible to bury anything under the sandy bottom of the river. I learned this the hard way as I struggled desperately to subtly dig holes with my toes, push the poo down, and recover it with sand.  Nope. Not going to work.  So, I decided to get rid of the evidence entirely and, with a smile plastered to my face and a steady stream of happy chatter to Micah-- "do you like the water?  ohhhh... isn't this fun?  Where's Kolbie??? happy happy happy!!!!"-- I went about disintegrating the poo between my fingers until it was no more.

Until I was painfully reminded of what we'd had for dinner the night before.  Yes.  Yes.  Corn.  Anyone who has ever changed a diaper after a corn dinner knows corn does NOT digest.  And there, floating around me and my daughter, were whole pieces of corn.  And they kept coming.  And they didn't sink, they didn't disintegrate;  they just floated around us like confetti at a parade.  *sigh*  So we did the only thing we could do at this point.  We swam away.

Okay, okay.  While some of you reading this may think this is the most disgusting story you've ever heard and judge me completely for my actions as a mother, others of you will grimace and say "ah, well, what could you do?".  But this story, while it IS completely disgusting, gave me some insight.  It became to me an allegory, if you will.  You see... we all have some corn in our poo.  We may think we can hide it, disguise it, let it disintegrate with the other dirt in the River.  But some things just won't go away.  Those disgusting, nasty parts of us that we think we can bury so deep that no one will see will be seen eventually.  If we have corn in our system, it's going to come out.  If the bitterness, the anger, the hate, the ignorance and disregard for others is there-- it won't stay hidden.  That prejudice that you think no one recognizes?  That lack of ethics that you think is justification for a bigger paycheck?  That's your corn, and those little pieces of corn will float to the surface eventually.

So let me say it this way:  If we eat corn, it is going to come out.  So don't eat corn.  Or, at the very least, don't poo in the River.