So long partner...

"I don't go to daycare, I just go to my friend Nicole's house."

The Fuss - Post Toy Story 3 watching, sometime in 2012

 

 

Look at Woody saying goodbye to his most trusted and loyal friend.  Look at him closing a chapter of his life...The best chapter he's known until then.  And he's about to open a new one and that one is sure to be wonderful and happy and filled.  But, it won't be with Andy.  The memory of Andy will always be there.

 

Tomorrow the Fuss starts daycare.  For the first time, you see, because he has always just gone to his friend's house.  Certainly, I have been working since he was a baby and, certainly, he was cared for through those years, but he didn't know it. 

 

It is really hard saying goodbye - To people, to places, to times...It's just hard. 

 

Tomorrow the Fuss starts daycare and we officially close the chapter of the first four years of his life and open the new chapter.  A chapter where he is a big boy always - A bigger boy going forward.  And the going forward will move at speeds that defy logic.   He will start school in addition to daycare and he will have friends and interact with people, and he will experience things that I will know very little about.  Sometimes, I won't know about them at all.  And that is good and right and normal.  I am happy for him.  Happy to be at this point - He is smart and funny and healthy and confident.  I am glad.  I am blessed. 

 

I am also an endless supply of tears tonight.

Four years ago, I was preparing to bring him to what would become his "friend Nicole's house" for the very first time.  I was sad to leave him...Sad to be apart from him...But I wasn't nervous.  I knew his friend before he did.  Saw her in action with kids for years while teaching at the school her kids attended.  She seemed to have a kid strapped to her back, a few riding in a stroller, and at least two hanging obediently onto the stroller at all times.  And she never seemed flustered. 

 

When I was pregnant with the Fuss I had a few options for daycare - All good and wonderful.  I spent a lot of time weighing pros and cons of each situation.  But, a quiet whisper nagged at me and led to me to Nicole.  So many reasons and they all felt right.  I have learned to believe in listening to that quiet whisper and trusting it.  It rarely disappoints.  And in this case, I am ever so glad I did.

 

I am struggling here with what to say - How to say it.  Thank you?  Nope.  Not enough.  Good bye?  Nope.  Not enough. 

 

How about this  - A direct message to the Fuss' friend.  You will never know.

 

You will never know the comfort I took in dropping him at your house every day (even when you had a RAT as a pet).  I knew he was safe (but, seriously, a rat??) and loved and cared for.  Even when he was the ever difficult Captain.   Even when my insecurities flared.  No matter what, he was safe and loved and cared for. 

 

You will never know how much I appreciated that you did with him all the things I wished I could have been doing.  Going to parks, the grocery store, museums, pumpkins farms, etc.  All the things I wanted him to do his first four years - To be at home, essentially.  You will never know the comfort I took, and still take, in that normalcy he was given.

 

You will never know what it means to leave your child with someone and learn they have no idea they were left.  No idea.  "I don't go to daycare, I just go to my friend Nicole's house."  Thank you.  You will never know.

 

You have calmed him and me countless times.   You have taught him and me countless things.  You have given him and me love and support and laughter.  You will never know.

So...I get it.  I get Woody's expression.  Sadness.  Worry.  Longing.   Nostalgia.  What lies ahead for Woody is good too.  Beautiful even.  Full of possibility and experiences.  Full of hope.  Full of fun.  But what is driving away, on his way to college,  was really wonderful too.  And, I get it.  Woody will often think of Andy and miss that time.  It might feel like a simpler time  in memory, but only because when it existed there was nothing before it.  Nothing to look back on and measure life against.   Or, in our case...To measure care against. 

 

You set the bar high Nicole.  And you will never know.

 

Thanks for letting him hang out with you for four years.

Thanks for being his friend.

 

Oops

Since summer has started I have been just a tad bit more lax about screen time.  He likes Mario and he likes Netflix.  And while I'm readying for the day, I've given him a more generous amount of time to enjoy those things than I might otherwise.  I tell myself when it interferes with his love of outside or parks or running or whatnot...THEN I'll tighten the ropes.

Only, it might be time to now.  Or, at the very least to more carefully monitor what he's got on via Netflix.  I mean, I assumed if it was on Netflix Just For Kids it would be okay.

Until this morning.

With great happiness and all the charm in the world, he told me, "Mom, sometimes you're an ignorant idiot."

Not an ounce of sass or anger in him on that one.  Just happy as can be to let me in on this. 

Oops.

Limits on screen time begins - NOW.  Well, tomorrow, maybe. 

For the record - I am sometimes ignorant.  And sometimes I'm an idiot (have you read the umbrella post?), but I am not, ever an ignorant idiot.  I am sure of that.
I think.

This Child...

I really love my son.  I think he is one of the funniest people I know.  I really do.

However...

When we're at the store and he's riding in the cart and I have a pack of underwear in the cart that I plan to buy for myself because I NEED them and he's holding them up and he's saying in his loud and self-proclaimed hilarious voice, "You're buying uuuuunderweaaaaar!"...Well, then he's just a tad less funny than usual.

And when I get the underwear that nearly everyone in the Metro-Milwaukee area knows I was buying home and I take them out of the package and he stares at them with awe and declares....

"Wow...Those are E-MORE-MOUS!" 

Well, then...He's really not that funny at all, now is he?

“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it's true I'm here, and I'm just as strange as you.”
― Frida Kahlo

Only, I think I already know that person.  I think I've known her my entire life.  I think I'm related to her.

She's my sister.

A few days ago my sister sent me a text that read:

I was talking to a friend at work today and she was telling me a funny story about her sister.  I said, "Aren't you glad you have a sister?"  As weird and quirky as we can be, only a sister can understand (and top it)!

Thems words done be true!

Several years ago my sister was painting her living room for the thousandth time.  Maybe it was her kitchen.  Or a bathroom.  Or a bedroom.  Doesn't matter.  The seasons had changed so she was painting something or the other.  My sister paints rooms in her house more than the average bear.  More than the average budding artist even.  My point here is she is a seasoned vet.  Yet, she (like me) is not known for being a tidy painter.  She generally advertises the new color of her wall on her clothes and skin.  Generally there is a mess to clean up.  I'm not judging, you see...I'm just the same.  I'm just setting you all up for the story here...

My sister was painting and got paint all over her favorite shoes.  

Pause while you think about that....

Are you thinking, "Why was she wearing her favorite shoes while painting?"

Most people did think that.  And when my sister told people of her mishap that's what they said.  Time and time again.

"Why were you wearing you favorite shoes while painting?"

It's a fair question if you think about it. Even my sister and I agree on that. It's a fair question. 

But, I didn't wonder that...In fact,  it never crossed my mind to ask that.

Here's what I said:

"I HATE when that happens!"

I do.  I do hate when that happens.  And I've ruined many a favorite clothing or shoe item while painting in it.

Why? 

I don't know.  And my sister doesn't know either.  It doesn't make sense to be wearing your favorite anything whilst painting.  But, my sister gets it.  And I get her.   Like I said - True words she texted.

I also understood (and laughed heartily) when she bought her son a new mattress and tied it to the roof  of her car to bring home.  Only, she had the doors closed and windows opened when she did it.  So...She tied her car doors shut.  I get it.  I GET it. 

And she gets me. 

When I moved in my house I had a full sized bed with a full sized box spring.  My bedroom is a converted attic - The house is considered 1.5 stories, I think,  and the stairs are steep, steep, steep.  Our brother tried carrying the box spring up the stairs and declared it impossible.  Too steep.  Didn't fit.

The SECOND he left to return the rental truck, my sister and I tried carrying it up.  Sure he was wrong.  We declared ourselves "Stella and Stella Movers" and we were going to get the job done.  Stella I grabbed one end...Stella II grabbed the other and we set up the stairs.  A second later the box spring was stuck in the door jam.

He was right, evidently.  It didn't fit.

t would never fit.  But, we had to try.  We GOT each other.  Sister thing.

So yesterday it was raining here.  Pouring even.  After school I rushed to the library for my tutoring gig and it was pouring rain.  By some miracle I had an umbrella in my car.  I never have an umbrella in my car.  But I did, so I opened it.  In my car.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  It was POURING outside and if I opened it OUTSIDE then I'd be the pouring rain while I opened it.  If I opened it IN the car I could put it outside the door and slip myself under it whilst gathering my tutoring things from the car.  Dry.  A winning solution.

You probably know what happened.  It probably would be perfectly obvious to you.  But, it wasn't to me.  And it wouldn't have been to my sister as well.

I will say this - Lucille Ball would have been proud.

Naturally things didn't go as planned.  As so carefully and wisely planned.

Cue the "I Love Lucy" music.  Call in Ethel. 

The sequence of events is clouded by my pride, but suffice it to say that I was a little bit Lucille Ball. Suffice it to say there was a flailing of black nylon and shiny metal as I tried (without success) to swing that thing from the passenger side of the car, across the dashboard, and out the driver side door.  Suffice it to say that I put on a show for the man sitting in his car across from me waiting out the downpour.  Suffice it to say, I did not succeed.  Picture it -  Umbrella flying around hitting things and getting stuck in the door jam.  Me pulling umbrella back in and trying it again.    The umbrella spokes poked me in the head. Pull umbrella again.  Spokes of umbrella get  all tangled up in my hair.  I let umbrella dangle from my hair as I set my pulled back hair free and untangle myself.

Finally I'm free and I gracefully collapse the offending umbrella.  Smile large in an efort to convince the person who was waiting out the downpour that I MEANT for that to happen.  You know - In case he was watching.   Then I step into the rain and open the umbrella. 

Worked like a charm.

And all the while I'm thinking..."My sister will so get this."

And guess what?

She does. 

Goodness I love having a sister.

More than "One Word Wednesday"

So many words. Too many words, I fear. Too many for a One Word Wednesday, for sure.  Maybe too many simply because it causes too big of a risk for me.   But I'm going to let them go. Because I can. Because I'm brave tonight. Because I need to.

I love being a teacher. I honestly and truly do. And there was a time I felt exceptionally good at it. I felt connected to kids and families and administration. I felt happy - There were mornings I didn't want to wake up and get out of bed, but there were not mornings that I didn't want to go to school.

And now...

The times are different. And maybe they're for the better. Maybe for the worse. Time will answer that question - Not me. I have my opinions, but I don't profess to know for sure. I don't know how this all shakes out.

I still love being a teacher because it's all I ever wanted to do, really, and because I can't think of anything else in the world that I want to do. I love being a teacher because I think that being a teacher matters because children matter above all that we do in society. I'll spare you the "Children are our future..." song. The truth is - Like them or not - The children will lead us.

Which is why I don't love education right now. I may be wrong - I hope I'm wrong. Or I hope that if I'm right we'll figure out way to balance it all before it's too late. I simply don't know that we're walking in the right direction right now.

I woke on Tuesday with a knot in my stomach. Testing. Testing. Testing. It's all I could think. We're testing today. I teach Kindergarten and we're testing today.

Like standardized testing. And my students are five and six.

And they've taken this test twice this year thus far. And they have growth targets that we "need" them to make. Normed growth targets, albeit. Which means that we can (or should) expect about half of our students not to make that target. But, we expect them all to. Or want them all to. Or, worse...Need them to.

We need them to because we're broken, people say.

Broken.

Not accountable.

Failing.

Lazy.

But, we're not. I know we're not lazy or not accountable because every day I work with this amazing group of teachers that gently and not so gently holds children in their hands and molds them. Loves them. Protects them. Pushes them to learn. Loves them. I wish everyone could see these people that beat themselves to the ground when a child doesn't make a "growth target" or doesn't read to a certain level. And fairly - We all want out students to learn and we all want to do right by them. The teachers I work with don't need to be told by policy makers that they aren't accountable. They hold themselves to a higher standard than anyone in power ever could. The teachers I know don't sleep easily at night when they know a child in their room isn't learning like they hope.

Are they unusual in this regard? I don't know. I doubt it. I've worked in three different school districts in two different states. I've worked at four different schools. I've worked with a lot of teachers and the teacher that doesn't care is the exception. The very rare exception. The teacher that hasn't shed tears or been wracked with guilt or sat at a computer researching, researching, researching how to meet a child's needs....Well - That teacher is ever so rare in my experience.

I can say we're not broken or failing or lazy or unaccountable because I live it. And I love it. And I love the people I do this job with every single day.

I love being a teacher. Thankfully, every day I have a reason to remember that. I've taken to letting my sister know them from time to time. Just to help me remember. This is what I love. This is why I do this.

But, I don't always feel good at it anymore. Certainly not often enough.

That pit was there on Tuesday and I try, try...Try to shake it away.

But, here's what I wish the world knew - I wish they'd step into my classroom and know the children the way I once did. The way I sometimes think I still do.

I wish the world knew these children as people and humans. I wish they loved them like I do. Because, I have to believe if they did, they'd see what I see when I take a group of five and six year olds to a computer to judge what they'd learned this year. To judge how I've taught this year. I wish the world knew they were so much more than a score taken on one day, in one forty five minute block...

I wish the world knew that a super bright and super amazing girl froze and cried because she is so bright that she was presented with division problems and she didn't know what do. She cried out of fear and self-doubt. She is five. Five.

I wish the world knew that one child may or may not have had breakfast that morning. I wish they knew that one child was walked to school by his brother and his brother probably picked on him the entire way.

I wish they knew of the sweet and sensitive girl who cried for the loss of her aunt's cat the entire way up the stairs to the test. Or the girl who developed a tooth ache - The same tooth ache she developed when we last took this test - and cried. Or the child who was sick that day and has to take the make up portion with someone on staff that he barely knows.

Or the fact that one boy is so upset if he's not first at something that it pains him. Literally pains him. Or that one girl is so startled by loud noises that if the headphones are too loud she freezes. .

I wish the world knew the boys that were born in August and will eventually be as mature as their peers, but aren't now. And because they aren't they don't get what it means to "try your best" or to "think before you answer". They just think they know and they answer. I wish they knew that there was no level of "teacher accountability" that would make them mature before they can. No teacher that could put in enough hours or work hard enough to make them age faster. And do we want them to?  What would be the advantage?  Would they be that much more ahead?

I wish they knew that every day one of them tells me at least five times what he's having for snack because it's just that fascinating to him that he thinks the world shares that enthusiasm. I wish I could have video taped when I was coughing and sputtering so badly that the office staff came from across the hall with water because they could hear and were concerned, but standing at my desk telling me about his morning was one of my students. Oblivious to the fact that I was red and coughing and gasping for oxygen.

I wish they knew. Oh how I wish they knew. And I wish they loved them too.

Because I know. And I love them. But, sometimes the pile of curriculum and learning targets buries me to the point I forget. And that's when my stomach hurts. And I think I'm not good at my job. A job that is far more than a job - A job that is a passion and way of life. Before the Fuss, I first defined myself as a teacher. It was who I was.  Now I'm a mother.  And a teacher.  Just like that.  Still a teacher defines me. 

Do I do enough? Do my students learn enough? Do they love school? Not like they used to. I know that's true and every day that weighs on me and I promise to find the way back to that. In the days I felt really good at my job I know my students loved school. I know they felt loved and safe and happy. I felt that way too. I enjoyed them and celebrated them and met them exactly where they were and took them exactly where they could go.

I had a parent today tell me I was the "BEST". In caps, like that. "BEST."

Do you know why?

Not because her child met her growth target. She has. Not because she's learned a lot this year. She has. My word she has. Her child is independent and amazing and complicated. She has things she's really good at it and things she has left to learn. Her child is a human and full of the humanities that make her beautiful. She is both like and unlike every other child in that room.

But, today, her mom was thankful and happy because I know her child. And I let her know that I know her child. And I love her child. So very much.

It was a picture I sent of this sweet and silly and complicated little girl. Dressed in an outfit like no other. Wearing her hair like no other. And feeling like a million bucks because she was so fully and wonderfully like nobody else that morning. I love that little girl so much for that. And for who she is. Which is so much more than a score.

I am accountable to that child. And to the 19 others that come to me every day. I have failed them at times. And at times I haven't. I am human too. Full of humanities.

I have forgotten that they are more than a writing sample. More than a test score. More. Just more. Sometimes when this pressure is coming from somewhere (and honestly, I don't know where) I panic. Like a flawed human.

The thing I need to remind myself is - I can't. I don't get to fail these little humans. Not often, anyhow. I need to figure out what is right. Where their truth and success is. How can I do it? How can I do what's asked but still be worthy of being called the "BEST?"

I start their lives in school. I am accountable for that. As much as I'm accountable for their learning. They are every bit as human as I am. Imperfect. And perfect all the same.

So perfectly imperfect.

One Word Wednesday

Remember

 

Moon Crap

 

 

Three year olds aren't always the easiest people in the world.  I admit - I was fairly warned.  Friends.  Family.  Even Fuss' pediatrician said at his two year appointment, "Enjoy two.  Three is worse.  Two year olds are impulsive.  Three year olds push your buttons.  On purpose."

 

She was right.  Evidently, caring for hundreds (probably thousands) of young children has taught her a thing or two. 

 

Three year olds do a thousand little annoying things.  At least, my three year old does.

 

He doesn't pick up his toys.

He is a horrible sport.  This Saturday he started soccer.  He loved it.  Except for the goalie.  The goalie stops you from scoring a goal.  That is hardly fair.  Ask him - He'd be happy to tell you why he doesn't like the goalie.  He even insinuated that they cheat. 

 

He's eardrum shatteringly loud. 

 

He loves to wrestle.  And box.  And fence.  And hold things over my face.  He is a boy. 

 

Sometimes I want space and he wants to sit on me.  Like, on me.  On my head.  Over my shoulders at the table.  Hanging on my arm.  Sometimes I just want space.

 

He is stubborn.  Bribery only works sometimes.  Rarely.  Not nearly enough.

 

He is finicky about his clothes getting wet.

 

He's a trifle on the active side.  Sometimes, I think it is impossible for him to walk.  And he throws nearly everything,  "Sorry Mom..." is heard often.

 

He asked for food and when I ask him what he wants, he says, "You tell me."  Then he refuses every suggestion.

 

He won't let me show him anything schoolish.  God help me if he needs remediation.  I teach and I tutor, but my child already knows anything I try to show him.  Incidentally, he will take instruction willingly from his 9 year old cousin.

 

He rarely comes to get dressed, or get his shoes on, or get in his car seat the first time I ask.  Usually not even the second or third.  Often, he does when I'm about to start screaming like a banshee. 

 

He can be S.A.S.S.Y.  I heard today, "You said that a hundred times Mom.  I KNOW!"   For the record - I had only told him about 10 times that we were looking, but not buying a toy.  And, also for the record, he didn't KNOW because he gave serious thought to not leaving the store at all when I told him he couldn't have Super Mario Bros. 

 

Which leads me to the last...

 

He has a ridiculous memory of vocabulary and uses it against me. Shortly after he woke on Sunday he told me he didn't think it would be a good day because (and I quote), "You're probably just going to give me consequences all day." He was right, by the way, for many of the reasons I am listing right here. And today he told me, "I don't want to have a conversation about that. I just want Super Mario Bros." He didn't get it. Again, for many of the reasons I am listing here.

 

But, it's true - The quote on the picture.  It's just true.  All of these little things that annoy me will be the things I miss so much.  I know it's true.  It already is.

 

Some days or some moments I just think, "That was hard.  I'm glad it's over."  Or, "This phase is hard, I'll be glad when it's over."

 

Only, the thing is - I won't be fully glad it's over. I'm never fully glad anything is over. 

 

When he outgrew his car seat carrier I thought, "Oh good...That was a hassle."  Only it wasn't.   Because having a mobile child is another challenge and I missed that sweet little person in his car seat.  All buckled in and cozy and safe.  And, oh so sweet. 

 

See, that's how I remember it now.  Maybe it's just how I wish I had appreciated it.  Because, it was true - He was all sweet and cozy and safe.  But, he never loved his carrier when we weren't in the car.  He screamed like hyena while he was in it at a store, so I'd carry him and push the cart and my arms would be sore and I'd be all frustrated and wish that the phase would end.  And it did.  And now I am glad the hard is over, but I wish I hadn't wished it away.   I wish I could have it back for just a day.  That little baby who didn't love stores and longed for the safety and comfort of my arms.  Oh how I miss that. 

 

I miss nursing him in the middle of the night - But, once I was looking forward to sleeping through the night. 

I miss diapers.  I miss first words. I miss wobbly steps and hours of holding his hands while he learned to walk.  I miss childproofing.   I miss the frustration he once felt when I couldn't understand what he wanted.  I miss chasing him as he ran up every single houses' walkway.  I miss wrangling him into a car seat.  I miss how he clung to me when I tried to leave him.  I miss packing a bag of snacks and drinks and changes of clothes.  I miss rushing on errands between feedings and naps.  I miss cutting razor sharp and flailing fingernails.   I miss carrying him.  I miss standing behind him as he climbed at a park and sitting closely while he bathed. 

 

I miss nap time - But, once...No, never mind, I always loved nap time. 

 

I know that the things that make me lock myself in my bathroom practicing Lamaze breaths so I don't lose my shit, will be the very things I'll laugh at some day.  And sometimes I may think, "I'm glad that's over..." I won't be really glad. though.  Not fully.

 

I will laugh very hard at how ridiculous and stubborn and sassy and funny he was when he really, honestly, truly didn't know better than to insist upon the impossible.  That the world belong to him - Revolve around him.  Someday, I'll laugh that all he was really trying to do was get some control in a world where, he was slowly realizing, he has very little. 

 

The day will come when Fuss knows he isn't the center of the world even while he is the center of mine. 

 

He's learning it slowly.  Today he told me he was going to let his buddy's little sister catch him a few times when they played after swimming lessons so she wouldn't feel bad.  "I'll just stop and let her catch me Mom."  We talked about a few weeks ago, but hadn't seen them since.  But, he remembered she might feel bad if she could never catch him.  So, he planned to stop and let her catch him.  And I was so proud.  So happy to see a little bit of his self-centeredness crumble.  But, sad too because it meant a part of his childhood was beginning to pass.

It's good.  I'm glad.   But, not entirely.

 

So, today, I resolve to remember something every single day and to remember it without a condition.  Without a, "That was hard...I'm glad that's over."  Just something that speaks about the day and just is.  Something I want to cherish. 

 

Like Moon Crap. 

 

We were driving home and he said to me, "Mom, I know you don't 'fink' I can, but I know how to play Moon Crap.  Ian taught me."

 

Moon Crap?  He was right.  I didn't "fink" he could play that.  Mostly, because I had no idea what he was talking about.  Investigation ensued.

Minecraft.  A game his cousin showed him on his Kindle.

Moon Crap. 

 

I like that. 

Two in a Day - To What Do We Owe This Honor?

This will be my first "One Word Wednesday" post.  Only, it's my second post of the day so I've already blown that.  Plus, I have written more than one word here so it's really blown...

But, here's the idea - A picture and one word on Wednesdays.  It's all good.  Or it will be when I only use one word...Next time.  Which, hopefully will be next Wednesday, but could very well be sometime in July at this rate.

 

Heaven

And So Then I Came Back Again...

Those who know me best know I'm inclined to forget things.

Also, to lose them.  Often misplace them. 

The Fuss has been known to declare more than once, "Ugggghhhh..Where is that?!  I just had it!" 

That is learned. 

So, I've sort of "lost" the blog. The blog and the password, anyhow.  I couldn't remember the password and it was linked to my gmail, which I never use for anything or anyone but here.  And I didn't have that password either.  Or, completely even the name of the account.  Or the name of the blog - Or rather, how to get to the blog.  I forgot the blogspot part.  And then the more I forgot how to get here, the more I forgot about it all together.

Then, the Fuss told me to "Preach it Homie!" when I suggested the coolest of all wooden train track designs.  And then my friend Michelle mentioned wanting that to be the name of my triumphant return to blogging and then I remembered it.

But, I still couldn't get to it.

And somehow or the other I stumbled upon it today.  And with some work, I recovered my password (no small task, I might add).  And, here I am.

And, I'm sure you're thinking I surely wrote the information down.

But, surely, you'd be wrong. And those that know me best aren't shocked at all by that. 

It's really not easy being me.

Remember Me?

And here I am...

Again.

Under a pile of things.  Under life, really.  But surrounded by it all the same.

I won't carry on about schedules and business and such.  Really?  Who cares?  What I will do is record for my own memory some funny things I wish to remember.

We went to the museum on a field trip.  Never a dull moment on one of those.  What with the fact that you're going to encounter some mannequin nakedness and all.  A couple years ago we went and the group I was shuffling around encountered a group that was being shuffled around with a dad.  Daughter of said dad declares to me, "I just saw a penis around the corner."  The dad looked at me and shrugged.  A "What the hell do I say to the fact that my daughter just told her teacher she saw a penis right in front of me because she did so what the hell can I say" sort of hug.  True 'dat.  She'd seen a penis.

Fast forward two years.  Penis is still there.  Still on the small Native American child with parent at a trading post.  It was there 30 plus years ago, I tell you.  I remember seeing it on field trips.  Never told my teacher, mind you.  But, that was just the sort of kid I was.  The sort that doesn't report penises to her teacher. 

So, anyway...The group I am wrangling turns a corner to the exhibit now thought of simply as "Penis".  One girl with great enthusiasm and energy and slight lisp stops dead in tracks.  Jaw drops.  Hand raises to the air. 

"Ummm...That is just gross," she gasps.

Boy turns corner.  Jaw also drops. 

The two continue to stare.  Third child looks, shrugs, moves on.  After all, there are guns at an exhibit right nearby.  Why bother ones' self with a plastic penis?

Girl and Boy 1, however, are still locked in.  Simply can't look away.  Hypnotized.

In case I didn't hear that she'd seen something "gross" she says (again with a perfectly slight lisp).

"Wow.  I see something that I am NOT supposed to talk about."

And how do you not laugh? 

You do.  You just do.  Because, really...Kids are awesome. And embarrassing.  And attracted to body parts.

Which brings me to another story.

I've asked before what age would be appropriate to send Fuss into a locker room of his own.  This is getting urgent.  Last time we escaped disaster when nobody actually heard in the dressing room that he was going to shoot my hairy thing.  This time - Not so much.

Thursday night.  Swim lessons.  Very, very, very busy at the YMCA.  So, no matter what locker room you're in, someones there.  With ears, no less.  They always insist on listening. 

I am trying (without success) to wrangle my semi dry self into my clothes and hightail it out of crowded locker room before Fuss embarrasses me.

Only I don't move fast enough.  Only a jet plane wouldn't move fast enough.  Light doesn't move fast enough, really.

So imagine my horror when he says, "I know what those floppy things under your shirt are called." 

I gave my very best, "Do not say a word or your ass is toast" look and said, "DO.  NOT.  SAY.  A.  WORD."  You know, in case the look didn't cut it. 

He did.  I guess I shouldn't jump to the conclusion that he then chose not to listen to me.  It was quite possible that he didn't hear me what with the laughter of the no less than five women in our dressing area.

He did.  And I guess I should have expected it because as much as always listens to my stern demands (pffffft...like never), he enjoys a good laugh.  And he was getting one, so why not be EVEN funnier.

So, he did.

"Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooobs," he says.  All drawn out like a crazy pervert. 

Lord.  Help.  Me. 

He did give the peeps in the locker room a nice little story to take home on a Thursday night.

I fool myself when I say I blog these so that I remember them.  How could I not.

I blog these to amuse you. 

Oops - Could this be Day 1 of 31?

So I lied.  A lot.  Or I broke a resolution already.  Which, wouldn't be new or novel or lonely.  Or the first time.  If I'm honest, I know it won't be the last. 

I did intend to blog every day.  I even was going to take a picture every day - A picture of him.  Or me.  Or our life.  Maybe just something interesting.

But, once I said I was going to do it, then I didn't want to.

Why is that?  Why is verbalizing my intention to do something often (almost always) the downfall?   Why?

So, here I am going to verbalize an intention again.  Or a few intentions, as it were. 

There will be a 31 day spell this year that I blog.  There will.  It may start today and go on.  Or I may be scrambling to do it from December 1-31 (a far more likely scenario).

I will run this year.  I will.  I am working on finding a way to carve out some time for me to be healthier and happier (I'll be f-ing blast then if I get even happier) and I WILL run.  So there.  Even if I'm scrambling to do that in December.  I once said before I'm 41.  Now I ammend - The year I turn 41.  I will find the time.

I will clean my mudroom.  At some point.  I will.  Then I won't have to forbid the world from seeing it.

I will give up the dream of mastering Saran Wrap.  We must know our limitations and I  know mine.

So there.  My intentions.  Verbalized. 

I'm doomed.

But, I do have lots of blogging ideas stirring around my head.  My little man has given me some material.  And my job gives me endless material. 

My job.  It's also what's kept me from blogging and I'll get to that soon.  It's a constant struggle for peace and good feelings as a teacher right now.  I am hoping I've found it. 

More soon. 

Blog 365

I am not good at keeping New Year's Resolutions.  Obviously.  

I do like the idea of a Blog 365.  Some sort of entry for every single day of the year.  Picture.  Statement.  Long carrying on of wisdom and sarcasm and general orneriness.  But, 365 is a loooong resolution.  The only resolution I ever kept for an entire year was to give up soda for a year.  So, I can't say here that I am going to actually blog every single day.

But, I can do a Blog 31. You know, for January.   Just this month I resolve to do that. 

This may or may not count as today's entry.