Category Archives: The Natives are Decidedly Restless

November 26, 2011 · 11:51 am

A Sacrilege of Sorts

There are but two kinds of people in this world—those who brazenly read the endings of books before the endings are actually reached and those who would never dream of a crime so heinous. I myself fall with the masses into the latter category, always mindful of the tenets we must uphold: Thou shalt not spoil the endings of good books no matter how dire the circumstance or how great the temptation.

Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist that which is sinfully alluring. If nothing else, I can be proud of that.

However it wasn’t until I was deeply immersed in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Chapter Seven of this scrumptious read-aloud, more specifically) that I became painfully aware of a terrible truth: my children would (and, in fact, had) flipped ahead 20 chapters in said prized piece of literature, to the very last page (gasp!) “…because I wanted to know what would happen to Edward, Mom. I was worried about him. He lives, you know.”

Of course, I was horrified. And profoundly disappointed. I had higher hopes for my progenies—hopes that they would grow to become upstanding citizens, embodying all-that-is-righteous-and-good. Principled people who knew better than to commit sacrilege. Instead, it appears, my wayward bunch has embraced the dark side of life. Even my oldest daughter has admitted to that which is a sheer disgrace—she reads the very last sentence of every novel—as a rule. Needless to say, such a divulgence rendered me speechless and unable to move from the spot where I stood, slack mouthed and struck with horror.

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

“To pique your interest?!” I shrieked, shaking my head in disbelief. “Good grief! Where’s the mystery in that?! Where’s the long-awaited pleasure that a grand culmination promises?! The delicious sense of satisfaction derived from having journeyed far and wide across the vast and uncertain terrain of a narrative gem?!” I demanded to know.

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Of course, this was wrong on so many levels that I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around the unspeakable horribleness of which it reeked. Nor could I forgive the other two rat finks for having stolen my joy. I wanted to discover for myself Edward Tulane’s fate—to continue devouring the book, page after succulent page, and eventually, to drink in the magnificence of the grand finale that surely awaited me.

But it was not to be. Those devilish creatures continued to fill my ears unmercifully with details of the story, doling out bite sized blurbages just to watch me writhe in pain. “No! NO! Don’t tell me a syllable more!” I pleaded, wondering from whence this penchant had come. I don’t remember anyone bursting at the seams to tell me all about Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood, Chicken Little or even the Poky Little Puppy. Back then, apparently, it was a non-issue. The end was something that would be revealed in due time upon turning the last page. As it should be.

I’d almost rather my heathens wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they’ve done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), fill countless drawers with water enough to make hair brushes and blow dryers float (and that!), or plaster the dog with lipstick “…’cause we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom!” than to rob themselves of the parting gift of a fine book.

Sadly, this represents yet one more area of life I cannot control. I must come to grips with the fact that my children will choose friends, careers and eventually mates—almost entirely devoid of my (infinitely sagacious) input. And ultimately they will decide whether to continue as card-carrying members of the Flip-Ahead-to-the-Last-Page Club. Ugh.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as books, children, humor, parenting, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane

November 14, 2011 · 7:00 am

As Honeymoons Go, This One’s Over

The fall marking period at my children’s school ended late last week, and with it my collective enthusiasm for their cussed projects. Make no mistake; I applaud those who give birth to assignments doused in fun and originality—ones that are purposefully designed to encourage thinking outside the box and to harness the creative energies of students. What’s more, I love hauling out the arts and crafts box that lives beneath my bed—the behemoth-sized shoebox crammed impossibly with remnants of this chaotic life. Likewise, part of me truly enjoys rummaging around the garage and yard with my brood, in search of that which would otherwise be devoid of value.

Of course, Thing One and Thing Two become decidedly consumed with the process, wild with delirium as they harvest earthy whateverness from the lawn and paw through the aforementioned hodgepodge of fabric and twine, pipe cleaners and yarn, ribbon and lace. Never mind the vat of paints and modeling clay we’ve amassed in the cellar, the profusion of shoeboxes and poster board that lurks in our attic and the legions of egg cartons, oatmeal canisters and cardboard tubes we’ve stuffed in various closets and cupboards over the years—

precluding their certain death. Hoarders with a higher purpose.

I so completely get the bell and whistles, the inherent wonderfulness of said projects, the cleverness with which a great many are conceived and the good intentions of those who assign such work to the masses; however the sheer volume is fairly suffocating. At least it is beneath this circus tent, where eight of the hands-on wonders were due last Friday. A total of four per child, spread across three major subject areas, some of which took an obscene chunk of time to finish, all of which led to heated debate at the dinner table regarding the progress (or lack thereof) a certain couple of somebodies had made toward that end. Granted, students were given an embarrassment of time to complete the vast majority of tasks and a wide variety of choices were readily available to satisfy every possible artistic whim.

Thirty-four, actually. We counted.

Sadly, my progenies failed to choose anything remotely related to that which was manageable or that possessed even the merest suggestion of prudence given the window of time we have and the initiative duly required. Instead, they selected that which inspired a pervasive state of panic and ensuing dread as it related directly to our collective inability to tackle such a Herculean task. That’s code for: my husband and I wanted to light ourselves on fire—because, of course, that would have been so much more tolerable.

Indeed, after an entire weekend devoted solely to the construction of ridiculously detailed dioramas and co-directing a series of disjointed skits (which our children demanded that we film!) involving a gaggle of giddified fifth graders, I now know WAY more about the Native Americans of the Woodlands Region than I ever aspired to. And for a fleeting moment (shortly after we resorted to using duct tape and just before the pizza arrived), I felt a compelling desire to shrink myself manyfold—so that I could crawl inside the tiny wigwam we had built and hide from the oppressiveness of it all. Never mind the endless evenings crafting math whateverness and the weeks upon weeks that were spent overseeing the creation of TWO freakishly large and painstakingly elaborate board games—not to be confused with last year’s planetary beast-of-a-project (i.e. my brood’s beloved Styrofoam models of Venus, Saturn and more moons than I care to recall) that we somehow endured without the benefit of a marriage counselor.

Needless to say (and crazy as it sounds), we’ve lost sleep over such foolishness, and a fair amount of patience and sanity besides—which is wrong on so many levels I can’t begin to adequately express it. Truth be told, I fear that society has lost sight of the overall goal of education and that the fundamentals have somehow become an afterthought in this age of the almighty project.

That said, Pennsylvania’s education gurus would do well to note that bells and whistles are only as good as the clarity of their sound and the integrity of their message.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (like my friend, Ruth, wondering how many damned dioramas the Duggars have built). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Homework Hell, Rantings & Ravings, School Schmool, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, education, homework, parenting, school, school projects

October 3, 2011 · 5:00 am

Food for Thought

I’m pretty sure June Cleaver’s head would explode if she knew of my pitiful and often failed attempts to gather my brood at the dinner table for a real sit-down meal—Leave it to Beaver style. In a word, I am woefully inept when it comes to planning, preparing and placing said meal upon the table in a timely and aesthetically pleasing manner. So much so that my kids have apparently forgotten what it’s like to dine as a family within the confines of this particular circus-inspired, scheduled-to-the-max sort of establishment. Never mind that we did so for much of the summer, sweet corn having been shamelessly utilized as bait. But I digress.

“You want us to sit here? Together? And talk about our day?” my incredulous kids ask, clearly taken aback by the prospect of stopping whatever it is they’re doing to plunk themselves at the kitchen table for twenty to thirty minutes of food and not-so-idle conversation. Of course, my gentle demands are often met with a healthy dose of eye rolling coupled with I-can’t-possibly-set-the-table-if-I’m-tying-my-soccer-cleats-AND-doing-my-homework brand of snarky commentary. Par for the course in the trenches of Parentville, methinks.

Needless to say, the Gods of After School Madness rarely smile upon me and may, in fact, revel in my ineptitude, mocking my efforts to deal with the deluge of mini-crises that routinely befall our happy home at that critical juncture—that impossibly brief and patently crazed window of time wedged between the instant my charges make landfall and the race to the 437^th extracurricular event of the week. As a less-than-composed parent, and seemingly without fail, this is the time when the wheels fly off and the bottom falls out.

That said, the phone typically rings just as the pots on the stove begin to boil over and shortly before godknowswho knocks at the door, sending the dog into an apoplectic barking seizure. Moments later, my dear progenies demand that I flit from the stove to hover nearby while they wrestle, by turns, with the concept of divisibility and the large and unwieldy vocabulary words that may or may not appear in a book I, stupidly, suggested. Granted, the experience itself is decidedly intolerable. Furthermore, it’s rumored that I may know next to nothing about math and even less about adverbs. However, the ceaseless petitions for my help continue—in the midst of meal preparation, listening to a certain French horn and clarinet, answering the door and phone, conducting backpack search and rescue missions for decomposing food with disturbing regularity, frantically gathering whatever paraphernalia will be needed for this or that nightly venture and dealing with the occasional cat vomit surprise and/or dog-poo-on-the-bed bit of hideousness. (For the record, I’m not particularly interested in learning how the latter occurred).

At any rate, when and if I finally succeed in shepherding one and all to the celebrated table to feast on what (hopefully) will qualify as a palatable meal, I immediately remember why I went to such lengths at all. Firstly, there’s compelling data that links sit-down meals with a child’s success, especially with respect to at-risk behaviors—so saith a team of researchers at Columbia University and Dan Harris of ABC News. Secondly, Anderson Cooper of CNN desperately wants “…to bring back the family dinner, one meal at a time” through his Sunday Supper Club and I, most assuredly, don’t want to disappoint him. Thirdly, and perhaps most notably, the discussion that takes place over peas and potatoes (or whatever I managed not to burn beyond recognition) is invaluable. That alone is worth the price of admission.

Often there is talk of “bad actors” on the school bus and goose poop on the soccer field, who vomited profusely in the cafeteria and which dweeb dared to drink the “mystery brew” that a host of classmates lovingly prepared. Not to be outdone, my husband brings his own brand of bizarreness to the conversation, opening a tiny window into his day as well. As it should be, I suppose.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (occasionally at the dinner table with my inimitable cast and crew). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom to share your in-the-trenches parenting moments.

On a side note, I was completely thrilled to learn that I had been selected to receive the highly coveted Versatile Blogger Award last week! And in acceptance of said award, I’d like to personally thank the woman responsible for nominating me, Lisa Tognola of Main Street Musings. Please do take a moment out of your harried day to visit her site. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.

And in the spirit of celebrating some of the most versatile bloggers on the planet I know (and in passing along the award to each of them in turn), I’d like to invite you to visit their sites as well. Whether their voices have been irreverent and snarky, thought-provoking and informative or palpable and heart-rending, they’ve spoken to me in a manner that’s been most memorable. Here’s hoping they’ll speak to you, too.

http://julia.typepad.com/

http://anymommyoutthere.com/

http://stoopmama.com/

http://www.wendiaarons.com/

http://sarahandthegoonsquad.com/

http://annalefler.com/2011/08/frankenwhat/

http://thebloggess.com/

http://www.whiskeyinmysippycup.com/

http://www.goodybastos.blogspot.com/

http://mommasaid.net/

http://www.andrea-stanley.com/

http://toddlerplanet.wordpress.com/

http://www.alittlepregnant.com/

http://neanderdad.com/

http://www.finslippy.com/blog/

Welcome to My World…

In keeping with the Versatile Blogger Award tradition, here are seven random facts about me that hopefully won’t result in damnation, divorce or an inordinate degree of shame.

1) I am not EVEN REMOTELY RELATED to a morning person. Make a note.

2) Laundry is the bane of my existence. I’m fairly certain that’s where they’ll find me when I buy the farm, surrounded by behemoth-sized heaps of fetid-smelling clothes and mumbling something about “…a cruel, cruel world,” wishing I had simply been “…run over by a fucking truck.”

3) My husband and I once stayed in a Honeymoon Suite (for a much-needed respite from parenthood—and for the sole purpose of drinking to excess and engaging in wanton sex in a hot tub) only to fall dead asleep for 12 straight hours instead. Oy.

4) It’s rumored that my lips have touched a 2-quart plastic milk bottle on more than one occasion.

5) I only pretend to understand Pokémon whateverness, and on a related note, I only pretend to understand my dog, in all his neurotic glory.

6) I was once sneezed upon by a reindeer in North Pole, New York (aka Santa’s Workshop). It was ugly and I don’t want to talk about it.

7) I once broke my hand in a less-than-composed parenting moment (read: a fit of rage involving glitter glue, lip gloss and my children’s bedroom carpeting). I once broke a toe in the shower. Don’t ask.

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Filed under Homework Hell, Meat & Potatoes, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, family, family dinner, humor, kids, parenting, sit-down meal

September 19, 2011 · 1:14 pm

The $64,000 Question…and Then Some

We’re barely into the new school year and already I’ve failed spectacularly. It seems I’m a poor tool when it comes to providing the proper balance of parental guidance and just enough of the laissez-faire approach to encourage independent thinking—followed shortly thereafter by independent action.

It all became so painfully clear last week as I attempted to help Thing One and Thing Two tackle a multifaceted fifth grade math project—one that would likely involve and/or require a fair amount of fact-gathering, a smattering of organizational skill and, quite possibly, some flexible wire and a shoebox. And although I found the aforementioned assignment wholly intriguing (not to mention, decidedly fun), a tiny voice inside me screamed because I know myself all too well.

After decades at the helm (overseeing a plethora of term papers and some of the most endearing dioramas on the planet), I recognize how completely unhinged I become when commissioned as the Grand Taskmaster of individuals who are patently unaffected and/or oblivious to the sense of urgency I feel and the palpable wave of panic that consumes me upon learning that THIS hideously large nugget of whateverness has to be done by THAT rapidly approaching due date. Or at least such directives seem like entirely unmanageable edicts.

In truth, the volume of work (and corresponding time frame for completion) is perfectly reasonable—or so my rational-minded husband assures me. However my brood’s collective indifference, evidenced by their vacant stares and an unconcerned blink now and again, fairly exasperates me. And no amount of flailing my arms, shrieking like a banshee or pointing animatedly at the calendar upon our refrigerator makes any difference.

Predictably, the abovementioned math assignment was met with a similar sort of blitheness. “It’s no biggie, Mom. We have it all under control.” If nothing else, it felt familiar. However, the assignment at hand was far more complex than it appeared at first blush. In addition to several exercises that would cleverly test one’s mastery of place value, it posed a unique question: “If you had one million dollars to spend, what would you buy?” encouraging students to explore the possibility (ostensibly, the good fortune) of having an obscene quantity of cash to expend and/or fritter away.

To be fair, it was optional. Students could elect to address it if they felt so inclined. Or not. Naturally, my heathens jumped at the chance to compile a grand and glorious list of that which they’d snatch from store shelves immediately or sooner, no holds barred. “It’ll be a piece of cake, Mom. And FUN! Seriously, you worry too much.” So as I helped them choose which activities they’d prefer to complete, I echoed their enthusiasm and dove headlong into the endeavor, silencing the little voice that invited apprehension and doubt.

But as we began to explore (and painstakingly list) the items of their affection, we soon learned that a million dollars is a ridiculous—almost surreal—sum of money. Granted, we could have simply “bought” a baseball team, a van Gogh masterpiece or a tropical island. But thankfully, and in the true spirit of educational merit, my charges didn’t think of that. Instead, they chose immaculate houses, luxurious cars and outrageously expensive whateverness with which to equip their dream homes. Their lists grew and grew, filling each page to its very borders, capturing the fanciful essence of “what if” indescribably well.

Curiously, and perhaps refreshingly, they began to question not only the incalculable nature of such a sum, but also the frivolity of their desires. The word charity was discussed at length, as was the practicality of adopting eleventy-seven pets from the SPCA. There was even talk of scrapping the whole thing (Oy!) and starting over with a more altruistic mindset.

In the end, the assignment breached the bounds of difficulty, perhaps by design; but it made us all a little wiser in the process—leaving me with the hope that I might not have failed as spectacularly as I once thought.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably wrestling with someone’s 5^th grade math). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under School Schmool, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as altruism, children, homework, humor, kids, parenting, school

August 1, 2011 · 5:00 am

The Rogue Backpack

It was an interminable shopping excursion—a brutally exhausting back-to-school event that involved far too many fitting rooms with the suggestion of ventilation and, as one might expect, legions upon legions of petulant children, ones who were clearly more interested in setting off a medley of motion detectors and in being swallowed up by great forests of clothing racks than in trying on the armloads of garmentage that spoke to their parents unremittingly. Oddly enough, my dear progeny, a soon-to-be fifth grader completely thrilled with the prospect of buying that-which-is-tight-and-trendy, was uncharacteristically well-mannered throughout the entire ordeal. Go figure.

Naturally, I invited said fact to the forefront of my mind throughout the day so that I might be inspired to forge ahead despite the laborious nature of the task at hand. Translation: I needed something to psyche myself up in order to gather yet another armload of gotta-have-it-or-I’ll-surely-die Hello Kitty apparel, which I would then haul to the dressing room ad nauseam.

But I would do well to remember that there were lots of things that made the experience wholly tolerable—aside from the fact that my child actually wanted to be there. Firstly, my Mom not only orchestrated every minute detail of the aforementioned marathon event (to include clipping coupons, perusing last-minute newspaper advertisements and considering the alignment of the planets so that obscene savings would, indeed, be assured), she also convinced me to take just one daughter at a time—which was a slightly brilliant move. Okay, it was pure genius.

Admittedly, I can’t even take credit for the method employed by my brood to determine who earned the privilege of shopping first. True to form, Thing One and Thing Two settled the matter in a classic rock-paper-scissors fashion, the latter having emerged victorious. I merely served as a witness and as the official hander-outer of the consolation prize—the promise of an equally interminable joyous shopping excursion to the Land of Skinny Jeans and Profoundly Sarcastic T-Shirts, followed shortly thereafter by an epic quest for Converse All-Stars. Pepto Bismol-pink, of course.

The day was memorable if nothing else. Strangely enough, it became even more memorable, punctuated by the discovery of that which rendered me unable to move or speak, except for the tiny gasp that I’m fairly certain I emitted as I stood there, perfectly transfixed by what I saw. Truth be told, my daughter initially made the horrifying discovery and felt compelled to share it with me.

“Mom! Look at THIS!” she shrieked as if a mannequin had been juggling live kittens in the shoe department—which would have been a disturbing yet fascinating sight to behold. “You have to see this! There’s a backpack here for ONE HUNDRED TWENTY BUCKS!” Of course, I made her repeat the aforementioned string of heinousness as if she had uttered an obscenity and I needed to be sure it was, in reality, as impossibly foul as I had understood it to be. And it was.

To be clear, the rogue book bag in question was on sale, but that was beside the point. I couldn’t get past the egregious nature of its original ticketed price. The beauty of shock value had, indeed, been demonstrated as I gawked at the tag in stunned silence. Given to curiosity, I then studied it up close, tugging at its kryptonite-inspired zippers, spinning its endearing little wheels and peering within a multitude of hidden pouches and expandable compartments—frantically searching for that which justified its hideous expense.

Needless to say, I didn’t find it; but I fully expected to unearth a clone of the most remarkable teacher on the planet—one who lived inside that smallish space 24/7, crawling out on command. A pint-sized instructor capable of conveying a deep understanding of the Pythagorean theorem to my dog (never mind less-than-cooperative children). An educator extraordinaire, brimming with enough enthusiasm and patience for six people (and a collapsible Smart Board with tons of pretty markers, too).

Color me delusional, yet again (but not stupid enough to pay $120 for a damn backpack).

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (thoroughly consumed by back-to-school madness). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.