I'm trying not to be biased ...

So I need to ask ...

Do all six-year-olds use crayons this well?

Nobody ever thinks of stopping to help

Education reform is a controversial topic. Geographic location, income, ideology, personal experience, moral indignation and even apathy tend to rub elbows in a national cocktail party where 17 million schools of thought are fighting for their dissertations.

I suppose I'd even be laughing at a contributor's column today - which opined a longer school day wouldn't work because it's akin to putting new tires on a broken down car along side of a road - if I didn't find the rationale behind the declaration so sad.

Many folks like to say you can't solve problems by throwing money at it. And yet they worry schools are merely a breeding ground of malfeasance and mediocrity. They can't seem to make the connection between money spent doing things differently may be money well spent.

The thing we can't turn away from is that our schools are failing our children.

All of them.

Now some of you don't care what happens to the kids who are disruptive. You don't care about their home lives. You focus on the tenured teachers and the summers off. You think their lives are cushy. And worse ... that everyone is undeserving ... except babyofmine, of course.

Hard work = success.

When these folks look toward positive change, what they see is merely ridding the schools of a "negative influence." If a kid doesn't want to learn ... if his parents aren't pulling their weight in his education ... the solution is to show them the door. Don't let it hit you on the way out.

It's the easiest, most cost effective method, after all.

Thing is ... they're out there, untethered. They're not graduating.

And it's not just them. Even when our kids graduate many aren't meeting a basic standard. You can think other people's kids aren't your responsibility, and technically you'd be right, but what you fail to understand is how important it is for all students to gain a better education.

We can't afford to throw even a small percentage of our children to the wolves.

More frightening to me than just the sentiment of intolerance that is pervasive in these arguments is the unwillingness to do what is not only right but what is difficult.

Saying lengthening the school will only leave more time for the bad eggs to infect others is effectively the same as saying education itself is already obsolete.

Saying the model won't work isn't even true.

In 2006 Massachusetts experimented with lengthening the school day for 5,000 students, adding 300 hours of learning time per year. Four years later it has been declared a success and 19 public schools in nine districts are currently participating. Results have shown marked improvement in grades in English, math and science in schools where ELT was implemented. The effort has also shown improvement in teacher satisfaction, student demand, as well as an increase in community partnerships.

A broken down car at the edge of a road may be a good analogy for the state of our education. But more important than focusing on the condition of the tires is the attention paid to structural maintenance.

We can't put off the inevitable forever.

Lego my Duplos

"You know ...

"I heard that Legos are a really poppulear toy.

"Yeah ... but I don't buy it. I don't think they know what they're talking about."

Are we making life harder than it has to be?

I'm not sure why I'm so fixated on these stories.

Another one hit the media stream this week.

Fear. Distrust. Jealousy. Anger. Rage. Meanness. Inexperience. Faulty thinking. Hopelessness. All mixed together with the immediacy, seeming anonymity, and enduring nature of technology, what we end up with is a society that can neither understand nor protect its own privacy.

I don't think I can comment on these individual cases anymore. I can only express sadness for such a senseless waste of life.

And while I'm opposed to laws that make "bullying" a crime, I'm not opposed to trying to prevail to humankind's better nature.

As soon as they get into school, kids start seeing differences in each other. They have their likes, dislikes, frustrations, irritations. They start to feel the pain as well as the power of exclusion.

These days, as I visit the classroom and meet my kids new friends, I can't help but look at their faces -- some laughing and smiling, others startled, worried or homesick -- and want to hug each and every one.

What is it that I need to teach my kids? Certainly they can't be friends with everyone. We all know we have our limits of patience and tolerance ... They won't be able to make everyone happy. No one will be able to make them happy, it has to come from within.

But we don't have to make another person's life harder. We may not be able to make everyone's life easier, but that doesn't mean we have to make anyone's life harder.

When a simple 'no' would suffice

I called the number on the birthday party invitation ...

fully expecting to decline the Saturday afternoon party.

The RSVP date had already passed.

I'd waited to reply for no good reason, merely forgetfulness and dread.

Saturday is filled with things to do. A mid-day party would put us over the top and over extended.

Yet, when the mom answered the phone I inexplicably accepted.

What's another couple of hours? Another present to purchase? It's not as if we COULDN'T make the time.

I should really work on saying "No."

A 'Special Day' indeed

Today was his first Special Day at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.

He washed his hands after painting 'the town' red.

Marilla was pleased.

I washed the fruit in fruit wash.

And Marilla was pleased.

I put the "bikes" where they belonged.

And Marilla was pleased.

I think I'm finally getting the hang of this school stuff.

Change of Seasons

No more changing infant diapers.

No more late-night feedings.

No more la-la cries.

It only took seven years ... two hours and 45 minutes.

But it's gone now.

The baby's perfect ... the gift doesn't have to be

As it turns out some long overdue babies we know may have been waiting for us to get back into the sewing groove to finally make their arrival.

Because as soon as we got the new machine up and running, the happy news started pouring in.

Seeing as how we only had pink and white cuddle fabric in supply, we're a little relieved that the takin'-their-time sprogs were of the girl variety.

Along with the taggie blankets we made for the last batch of bairns, we added a not-so-cute but extremely cuddly bunny to our baby gift repertoire. They were super easy and nearly painless to make.


THINGS YOU NEED

* 1/2 yard of white cuddle (minky) fabric
* 1/4 yard of flannel
* White thread
* Snippet of ribbon
* Fabric scissors
* Pins
* Poly-fill

THINGS YOU DON'T NEED but may be helpful ...
* Sewing machine
* A non-perfectionist's viewpoint on sewing (The baby is perfect so the toy doesn't have to be ... pay no attention to the atrophied arm.)


FIRST:

Cut two each of these from the cuddle fabric ...



Then cut two each of these from the flannel ...




NEXT

* Piece each set together so the outside faces in
* Sew the ears and arms and legs around on three sides then turn right-side out ... Fill the legs with stuffing. You can fill the ears and arms loosely with poly-fill or leave them floppy. I left mine floppy, but I sewed a little channel around the inside of the ear to give a little more depth.
* Turn the head/body fabrics so outside faces in
* Place ears and arms in between the two layers, pinning them in place.
* Sew around three sides, leaving the bottom open.
* Insert legs into bottom opening, turn fabric edges inward and pin shut.
* sew straight across the bottom.

You can tie a ribbon around the neck, or leave it in its birthday suit.


And ...

Well ...

That's it.

Painless, so long as you don't stick yourself with a pin.

Questions and Answers

Dear Ittybit,

I know I seemed frustrated with you as you fidgeted in the dentist's chair.

How many times had the hygienist asked you to "keep your hands on your tummy?"

Too many to count. I ended up sitting by your side, holding your hands.

Just. Sit. Still.

Less. Talking.

More. Listening.

Words spoken over and over again, like a broken record.

When it was the dentist's turn to probe and poke, though, I have to admit an admiration for your brave and inquisitive ways.

As the dentist examined your teeth she dictated her findings to her assistant, who noted them on a computerized chart.

You listened as she recited numbers ... then letters ... and a declaration of healthy without comment.

However the word "erupted" concerned you when she noted it for the record.

"ERUPTED! What does that mean?"

"It means your tooth is growing in, honey," the dentist explained and continued on with the examination.

"Malocclusion? That sounds bad!"

"That just means your teeth are a little misaligned."

Some more words I don't even understand make their way to the computer, but don't compute with either of us.

I am relieved when she immediately asks for an explanation:

"Oh, that' just means you have a little freckle on your tooth. It's nothing to worry about."

It's so impressive to see a child of mine ask such questions. Especially since I find myself to be the deer in the headlights when it comes to such things.

I go to Dr. Google and make myself crazy. You go to the source and get immediate understanding.

I hope you never outgrow the bravery it takes to admit you don't know something. I hope you never grow into fearing the answers.


With love and savings for orthodontics,

Mommy

How very retro ...

Too bad they're not retroactive.

Adoption clinic ...

Oh ...

Hello Kitty.

How sweetly you purr.


Witness my crazy: Our Ittybit's sewing machine has been broken since June when I *coughOVERTAXEDITcough* by making gazillion super capes for The Champ's birthday water slide party.

I promised Ittybit I'd replace it but agonized about tossing the machine.

Then, last week, I decided to bite the bullet and have it repaired.

Yet, before I even sent it back to the manufacturer, I impulse ordered the machine (phoned-in) above ... for no other reason than I am crazy.

Friday the new machine arrived.

And ... Oh. ... How I lurve the new machine. (Like a pet, that's how much ... Like I may NOT allow it to sleep in Ittybit's room, that's how much.)

Anyway ...

The projects are coming soon.

Please feel free to send me ideas. I have no idea what I'm doing, but we can learn together. *Or you could just laugh at how I translate your craftacular dares.*

Humor through the hemorrhage

It would appear Time magazine is hoping to put it's circulation back on the straight and narrow.



I hope it works for them.

Hang ups ...

Have to admit, I'm a little sad that the baby days are behind me. The not having a fundus to measure makes every annual visit that much more bleak.

But that little hang up isn't really what I'm kvetching about today.

Today I'm interested in the picture at the top of this post.

I took this with a camera phone, ran it through Photoshop and voila! Instant illustration. While I'm amazed and excited about this discovery, I'm also a a little terrified at what it heralds. The devaluation of true talent by technology.

A few years from now the guy who repairs the car will be doing heart bypass surgery as a lucrative little side business.


So.

What's your Hang Up?

The writing is on the wall ...

But I'm trying to get them to put it into journals.


******


School is back in session, and with it comes lunchboxes filled with nutritious comestibles and love in the form of sickeningly sweet puns.

Today's Lunchbox Joke of the Day:

What does a penguin use to wipe his mouth?

?

?


?

FLAPKINS!


?

?


?

I know. I need help.

Viva La Evolution ...

Dear Champ,

It wasn't until you stood on the front porch, headed for the storm door, that I realized what was happening: "My baby was going to school."

My baby ...

Going to school ...

The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.

It's a place with a lot of history for me.

The place I'd attended as a tot.

It's even a place I lived (in the tenant apartment) for a brief time in my 20s.

The place you'd been toted as an infant while your sister was a student.

You wasn't nervous in the least. We'd been talking about it all summer. You'd been there before. You remembered the rice table, and cleaved to it like a long lost friend.

I knew you would be fine without me. You're not the type to cling and demand my attention. You are a play-by-yourself kind of guy.

It's the play-by-yourself feature that makes me worry about how well you will eventually play with others. There's a part of me that hovers, knowing that it is possible for the fierce in your nature to come out.

Three other students join you at the table. You are the smallest, though not the youngest. I notice your shoulders sink down even lower and hear the smallest little growl. You want the table all to yourself, but you know school isn't really your kingdom just yet.

No one else could hear your frustration.

"Sharing," I bend to whisper in your ear, "is part of being in school. You will find that playing is much more fun when you share with friends."

Soon the table was crowded with children. You kept playing side by side.

I told you I was going to work, and you stretched to kiss me. "Bye, Mom."

"Is he going to be OK with you leaving," asked his teacher, I headed for the door.

"Oh, he's already kissed me goodbye," I told her. "He's all yours now."

But you're still my baby. No matter how tall you grow.


Love and happy learning,

Mommy

We can't inflict pain and expect to heal

Ordinarily on this day, I return to a letter I wrote in 2006 to my daughter who was attending preschool for the first time.

It talks about how I saw the country change in the years since Sept. 11, 2001 and how I hoped we could overcome fear and find true strength.

Today, and for months, it seems everyone in the mediascape is talking about a Christian pastor who has made a name for himself by threatening to carry out a very anti-Christian act – burning another religion's holy text. (Of course given the history of the Church of What's Happening Now, it may very well be in keeping with the many, many atrocities perpetrated in the name of Christ throughout time.)

Some folks believe this story has been blown out of proportion, and that he is a brand of nut that shouldn't get a crack at international exposure. Does national outrage take place when citizens of the world burn our flag or our presidents' image in effigy?

Whether true or not, the 24-hour news cycle will debate that, too. The media loves to analyze, interview experts and make pretty graphics to keep us all tuned in.

In this country, the freedom of speech protects this person't right to engage in racist rants. It protects his ability to destroy something held sacred by someone else as long as he hasn't stolen it from them. It also protects our right to be outraged.

The real issues aren't about this man and his ignorant threat. It's not about an Islamic cultural center's location two blocks from the World Trade Center site.

It's about tolerance and how little of it we as human beings have for each other. It's also about fear and how it can only lead us to destruction.

A mosque needs to be at Ground Zero, not just two blocks away. It needs to be there because American Muslims suffered there. Because American Muslims lost their lives there. Because American Muslims are serving this country in its war against terror. And most of all because American Muslims are part of our future as a nation. They are part of us.

When we soothe those who hurt we help them heal. When we help others heal, we heal ourselves.

For anyone who asks themselves “What Would (INSERT DEITY HERE) Would Do” if they come up with an action as hateful as this pastor, they are not in legion with a higher power.

... but until then, the rule doesn't apply

"When I'm big I'm not going to be a jerk."


I guess he means I'll have to wait until he's big before I get my "nice boy" back.


On the other hand, this morning he did tell me: "I don't hate you."


I swear, you could have knocked me over with a Nerf gun. Maybe he's growing up.

The muted midway

Every year we try to impress upon our impressionable children that the "games of skill" at the county fair are really just a rip off.

We try reason:

"You spend more trying to win the prize than the prize is worth."

We try bribes alternatives:

"If you don't play any games at the fair tonight, tomorrow we'll visit the toy store."

And every year our arguments fail to be more impressive than the bark of the midway shills and the colorful rows of chintzy toys they're hawking.

This year was only slightly different.

The midway seemed quieter. The kids were lured to play fewer games.



Technological addiction, as it turns out, has its rewards.

Open mind

Dear Ittybit,

In a thousand years, I would never have picked these shoes and run with them.

But you are not me.

And that's a good thing, I think.

Unlike me, you are attracted to things that shine and sparkle. Things that are pretty and dainty and flouncy and feminine.

If anyone had said those things about me I would have been insulted.

But you ... You see all that is beautiful in the simplicity of something lovely.

Something I would have overlooked.

I am reminded how different we are every time I turn on the radio and scan for songs. I always stop for the gritty rock and punk icons that lit up my world. You want to push on for the digital effects and rolling harmonies of today's happy pop songs.

It occurs to me that in the grand scheme of things, we are what we seek.

So I push on. And I listen. And I remind myself that it's never too late to learn new things.

Love,

Mommy

Last fling

I know everyone's going to school today. I just couldn't resist posting a few shots from the last gasp of summer ...




*And that first one IS Ittybit swimming UNDERwater. Huzzah!

Cheek to cheek

Dear Ittybit,

You don't mind hanging out with dad, but you prefer activities that don't involve grease and grime.

You're looking more and more grown up lately.

You've started asking me to check your face for remnants of food or other smudges. "Is anything on my face? Are you sure?"

The fight over combing/washing/taming your hair is over. You find the brush and you sit as still as I wrestle snarls and snags. I imagine soon you won't need my help to make your hair silky and smooth.

How many times had you gone to school last year with errant hair and a breakfast-marked face?

I didn't fight you to look presentable. We aren't really presentable people.

But you are noticing now. Determining not to look disheveled.

I see you studying your face in the mirror. Looking for imperfections.

People are starting to tell me that you and I look a lot alike. She is like your Mini Me, they say.

I recoil a little, and tell them I don't see it. I remember thinking how I reacted when I was a teenager and people told me I looked like my mother. I didn't want to see it. I was NOT my mother.

I know that in too few years, she won't smile when someone makes the comparison.

But it's impossible not to feel humbled inside. And it puts the flaws you hold as self evident when someone tells you your daughter, who is beautiful, looks just like you.



With love and European kisses,

Mommy

An evening with (and under) the stars

Hollywood isn't that far away ...



But this is its final weekend of the season ...



Mwaa-aah-ahh-ahh.

Changing my ways

There are two things, that, in the past, I have not been a fan: cats and camera phones.

Ariel and iPhone are going to make liars out of me.

So ...

Show me your pets and your peeves.

... if you want.

You only need one

Did I ever tell you that I once had the job title "Wedding Consultant?" for a photography company?

It was way back when I was the girl who never wanted to get married, never wanted to have children. ... just wanted to roam around with a camera and see new things.

Tragically cliched.

I was perhaps the worst wedding consultant in the history of wedding consultants. I'd routinely tell folks to buy the least expensive package ...

I reckoned there would be the same amount of photos to choose from, there'd just be a bigger book after the wedding. So 'You can always upgrade," is what I told them.

That was a fun job.

There were a lot of hilarious requests.

"Can you make the wall green? I meant to have that room painted before the wedding but never got to do it."

"My husband had too much to drink at the reception and hung out with his friends all night in the bar. Can you work some magic and put him in pictures with me at the reception?"

'Course, it probably wasn't as fun as my early days at the newspaper.

Engagement and wedding announcements can be hilarious, too.

You not only get to peek into the lives of different kinds of folks all doing the same thing - getting married - you also get to laugh a little at what the hype and hoopla makes them do.

Like the woman who sent in her engagement photo, a photocopied studio print with the groom-to-be's head taped over what appeared to be another man's body. At first I laughed, thinking the unprintable art project was the result of timing and desperation. Maybe they didn't have any photos together yet?

Yeah ... No.

Turns out she didn't really like her intended's physique so she pasted a picture of her beloved over her ex-boyfriend's body.

I will not tell you what I bet the longevity of that marriage would be, but I imagined the wedding proofs should be speedy if the photographer hoped to have them paid for a picked up.

Of course I never really understood how much I had in common with that vain bride until I had an engagement of my own to announce.

I set up my tripod and a YashicamatLM twinlens reflex in my make-shift studio and demanded my fiance smile for the camera. I set the timer and ran to his side 12 times.

When the roll was developed it seemed apparent to me that while there were frames that flattered us both, there were none that flatter us together.

So I picked one of me I liked best. And I pasted his head from another on on top.

Go head, scroll back up and check. My photoshop skills weren't really that good. But I guess anything is better than tape.

Everyone's Son

Simply put, I oppose the war in Iraq. I have since the start.

In the past I've also quoted the cost in dollars of the National Debt each of us will bear. It's a figure that has grown to more than $30,000 per person to date.

But the real number that matters most to me today is 5,623, the number of men and women who have died in Operations Iraqi Freedom and Enduring Freedom.



Today a motorcade carried the body of Staff Sgt. Derek J. Farley through Nassau, N.Y. -- his hometown and mine.

He died on Aug. 17 at Bala Boluk, Farah, Afghanistan, of wounds sustained when a makeshift bomb that he was attempting to disarm detonated.

As an Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician and as a soldier, he was, in no uncertain terms, a hero.

As the procession of cars and motorcycles and emergency vehicles passed by the corner where I grew up, I could only think of my children. And how all these men and women aren't just someone else's children, they're ours, too.

It can't be wrong to want the fighting to end, and for all our children to come home safely.

Yellow is the color of happiness

He was none-too-happy when I offered his sister and her playmate a few cookies from the yellow box.

That yellow box, in his mind anyway, contained the few and precious wafers that were his and his alone.

"I'm goin' to my wooom!" he shouted, grabbed the box off the table and headed for the stairs. He added "RAAAAAH" for emphasis.

I didn't want to chase him. I was tired and so was he, Mr. Fighter of Naps. I envisioned an exhaustive tantrum complete with incomprehensible words, ear-shattering shrieks and a flood of tears. So I let him disappear with the yellow box.

Soon I heard the familiar slam of his bedroom door and the springs of his bed.

And then silence.

Blessed silence.

When I went to check on him in the sustained quiet a few minutes later I found him sound asleep ... with an empty box.

Look on the bright side ...

At least it's not loaded.

So THAT's why the river looks so green

Picture a family paddling a canoe down a quiet river on a lazy summer day.

Imagine the voice of its youngest member as it rings out over the water to passing boaters:

"Hi."

"We're in a boat."

"On da riber."

"We're fwoating."

"Hi."

"I'm in a tanoe!"

"Dat's a BOAT!"

"Hi!"

"I'm picking my nose!"

Family reunion

Each year, since The Champ was born, my father's sister has held a party in Vermont. It's become something of a family reunion. As has The After Party at our lodging, which usually involves the consumption of locally brewed beers and, this year, in a rented ski condo, watching The Empire Strikes Back on a vintage Zenith television.

The rental company called our suite "Copenhagen" but I've re-dubed it "Frat Haus," since I assumed it contained all the furniture some poor schlub wasn't permitted to take with him when he moved back to civilization, yet couldn't bring himself to burn.

Actually, the accommodations were an improvement from last year.

Last year The After Party came with locks that didn't work, water that wasn't hot and after-hours construction folks pouring concrete at midnight. The morning realization that there was no railing at the end of the walkway to the second floor rooms, where the kids had rocketed back and forth all night as we sat and talked and imbibed, was just a bonus.

Just in case you missed me as I was iPhoning it in ...

Here are some iSnaps I uploaded while we were away.

I promise to inundate Flickr with pictures from our trip once I get them unpacked and through the washer.

Behold ... the iPed making an iPuss

So ... vacation is neigh.

Two weeks of coastal bliss ... interrupted only by four hours of sticky highway travel and 47,000 rounds of "Are We There Yet," set to the tune of earworm.

It will be idyllic ... with the possible exceptions of a crowded house, the potential for frayed nerves, family faux pas and too many encounters with Maine's state bird.

Not that I'm complaining.

I'll have my iPhone. ...

My camera. ...

Two not-so-summer-y reads. ...

And a date with the coffee shop and beach every morning.

I may even be singing a happy tune when I return.

Just a few days ...

Dear Ittybit,

You've gone off with your father on trip.

Perched high in the crane truck, strapped into your carseat, I bet you're on top of the world.

Car counting, word games and road food await.

It will be a few days before we are reunited as a family.

I won't miss the argument over bedtime. I won't miss harping at you to brush and floss your teeth. Or even the smoothing of tangled hair (though that chore is growing on me, I must admit).

But I will miss tucking you in at night and listening to you read to me. I will miss reading to you and playing our silly games. I will miss your face in the morning and the cup of coffee you slosh through the house ... for me.

Your shoes are scattered about the house - no doubt considered for packing, packed and then reconsidered. As I collect them and put them away - a chore I have protested time and again - I find myself missing your scabby, stinky feet.



Love and Kisses,

Mommy.

When Harry Met Silas ...

"You're beard is @!7&S ...

"What?"

"Your beard is @!7&S ..."

"I may need a translation: You don't like my beard?"

"No. I wike your beard. It's AWFUL!"

Oh shizzle

Monday morning: The house a mess, breakfast is in pieces all around the living room, Ittybit is clamoring for a freeze pop and The Champ has decided clothing is optional. He's particularly proud of the temporary tattoos he's designed in marker around parts usually covered with pants.

None of it really out of the ordinary until the little man tugs on my leg, holds up a tiny plastic bulldozer, and tells me he'd like to get dressed. He's got plans for the truck in his sandbox.

His father built the Taj Mahal of sandboxes for his birthday after he'd started playing on his own in the dirt of the carport. It took a truckload of sand and an entire day to build.

Which should have been a predictor that after a few minutes in his sandy oasis The Champ would declared it "too dirty" and refused to stay.

So, even if it was midnight, we'd be making our way outside with flashlights just to encourage him to play. Getting him dressed is usually the bigger problem.

He selects clothes he will be seen in (Spider-Man jammies and black Chuck Taylor high-tops).

He is patient as I try to get his sneakered feet through the leg openings (because that's how he rolls). He's even more patient as we traipse outside to the sandbox and find the tarp protecting it from the weather and the wilderness has taken on ponds of rainwater.

The legs of my pants get drenched as pick up the corners trying to empty the sheath.

He stands with his toy, watching me silently, as I make a lagoon around the play area. In another few years he will, no doubt, giggle at my comic ineptness. Right now he's as enthralled with the spilling of water as if he where watching flames dancing in a fire.

When I'm done, I pull the tarp into the sun to let it dry. Another few minutes of straightening and smoothing.

He hadn't moved from his spot by the side of the box.

That's when it happened.

"MMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" He screams in alarm.

What? What?

"Dat cat is peeing in the sandbox."

And there she was, the good cat Ariel, squatting center stage.

I scooped out the sand with a shovel and disposed of it in the flower bed we've mostly ignored this season, but his desire to push around sand had already fled.

"It's too dirty in there now," he says.

Where does it end?

When I first saw the reports that bullying was blamed for the suicide of a South Hadley High School student, I thought there must be more to the story than a three-month barrage of slurs from some mean (and arguably jealous) girls over the affections of some boys.

The suicide of a teenager is a tragic event. The fact that she suffered taunts and mistreatment before she died is additionally heartbreaking. Most people who have children would want atonement.

Yet, what was in print about the case, or said in front of cameras, to me anyway, seemed pretty typical of teenage taunts. Nevertheless, six students faced felony charges in connection with her death and the court of public opinion agreed.

Still, I can't help but wonder why.

Are none of us parents of imperfect children? Or are all the children who say mean things other people's kids? Kids who weren't raised to know right from wrong?

Ugly, yes; Shameful, certainly; appropriate, not in the least; but neither are the words they are accused of hurling beyond the pale in the power-struggle that pits one adolescent against another in the race to grow up faster. The desire to be more popular.

This week Slate released a story delving into the mental history of Prince, and included a fairly detailed timeline and description of what transpired between the teen and her alleged tormenters in the weeks leading up to Prince's death. Portions of it citing unreleased court documents supplied to defense attorneys.

The facts of the story don't seem to be in dispute.

Nevertheless, reaction in the Boston Herald from a former prosecutor (calling the Slate story a leak by defense attorneys that amounts to legal bullying) as well as commenters' outrage indicate that facts of Prince's mental state prior to the incidents are either irrelevant or confirm the heinous nature of the six defendants' behavior.

I know in the end a court will decide the guilt or innocence of the six defendants, and that it will do so based on legal definitions and rules of evidence. The victim's state of mind may have no bearing on the culpability of those accused of bullying her to death ... but in the meantime I can't stop myself from speculating where this all could lead.

Maybe making meanness a felony offense in high-profile cases will force our society to care more for each other. Stand up for those who need our protection. Maybe it will eliminate frustration and self doubt and loathing. It may even end the careers of some political bull(y) dogs.

The silence would sure be nice.

Or maybe it will lead to the assumption that words, based on their definitions alone, will be reason enough for imprisonment.

Model behavior

He wasn't doing this until his dad showed him how.

The nickel tour

This tour, however, is roughly the equivalent of 38 cents ...



- Trail Map courtesy of Thing Two Tours

Win, lose or draw?

I know the schools of thought on this: Let them win and it gives them a taste of success and the incentive to keep playing. OR ... Let them win and you undermine their self determination and bolster their sense of entitlement.

I suppose I let Ittybit win a lot when she was little. I'd keep the game close, or as close as possible, until the finish. I didn't really think of it as "letting her win" so much as simply putting handicaps on my advantage.

What I've shied away from are the celebrations of victory and the disappointed wailings of defeat. I always hated those particular points of competition. Win or lose, we'd just play another game.

So? Do you let them win?

What's the opposite of crying wolf?

It feels like I'm forever holding my breath. Counting to ten.

She hides things from me now, afraid I will be mad.

It's not her fault, but she still feels guilty.

The deception is the price I pay for jumping to conclusions.

Hitting the 'Motherlode'

"Can we stay for the fireworks? Can we stay? Can we stay? Can we stay?

Oh, Please. Oh please ... ohpuleeeze Ohpleezehpilezzeseeee....oooOH?"





"Oooooh."

"Ahhhh!"

"Wow!"

"Cooool."

"Ohhhhhhh!"

"Woah."

"Awwwww ...."

...

....

"Is that it? It's OVER?! What a bummer."


Sometimes hitting the Motherlode isn't what you expect.

Nostalgia

Technology brings us such amazing things.



But I tell you what ...

When I'm roaming around the house late at night ...

Checking on my sleeping children ...

I'm really going to miss the sight of flashlight beams filtered through blankets and the sound of paper pages being turned.

An imperfect fairytale

She lost another tooth ...

An incisor this time.

Luckily the Tooth Fairy was notified in time for her to break the last $20 in her special Tooth-Reimbursement Wallet. She knew the only other denomination in all of Tooth Fairy Land that night was a $50, which belonged to another Tooth Fairy Land resident.

You know I'm making this all up, right? I have no idea what's in the Tooth Fairy's wallet ... or if she even has a wallet.

Rituals surrounding the loss of primary teeth span cultures and are older than history.

The Tooth Fairy, Dog Bless her, is, by most accounts, one of the more modern of all mystical beings known for breaking into the houses of children. She's seems to have appeared from nowhere a little more than 100 years ago, presumably to make the scary part of growing up a little more enjoyable.

And having materialized from thin air and fairy dust, she has the most elastic of rituals. She has a special door, she slides through keyholes, she takes the tooth, she leaves the tooth, she gives coins or bills or trinkets. Sometimes she leaves toothbrushes ... For every house she has a different routine.

Of course, she's also the most hardworking of all sprites, seeing as how there's no set day in which she visits ... which means she sometimes forgets, which means she's the only mythical being who is allowed to be imperfect.

For instance, when Ittybit woke up this morning and found her tooth (as requested) in addition to a $5 bill (We are on the high side of the Tooth Fairy Inflationary Index) but not a note from the fairy herself answering the question in the postscript: "What do you do with all the baby teeth you collect" ... I knew I could just wave my hands in the air and make some excuse that would the poor fairy off the hook.

It would also give me time to Google the internuts.

Everything from makes castles out of them to reissues them to new babies was among the potential alternatives.

Jay LG: "ever heard of calcium fortified orange juice? or milk? she's also been known to make generic calcium tablets."

Underwonder: "She donates them to ex-hockey players and homeless people."

Concerned: "Well, of course, the tooth fairy builds the most wonderful creative playgrounds for all the children who need fun, out of those beautiful sparkly white toothy bricks. You can dream about this if you choose."

Skookum: "The tooth fairy has a recycling program. You know that grainy stuff in toothpaste? That's the ground up teeth."

Terry: "The teeth are brought into the fairies' circle and danced into releasing the Magick into the world. This is how Magick and Magickal creatures have lasted and will last as long as there are children."

Jupiteress: "I was told and I believe they build castles with them. They also use them in the dreams of dentists."

Smokey D: "She uses them to make dentures to replace those her aging parents are constantly breaking eating Werthers hard candies."


So ...

That's my question for the day ...

What do you think the Tooth Fairy does with all those baby teeth?

Looking forward to another scorcher ...

Not really.