Coffee talk

A QUESTION OF DIGESTION

Scott Adams, the creator of Dilbert, set off a little firestorm in the ethosphere this week after he published, then temporarily retracted, a tongue-in-cheek essay on positions pushed by Men's Rights organizations. The post had feminists calling him misogynist and men's rights advocates crying misanthropy.

I'm not sure I really have an opinion of the original essay to be quite honest, but I thought Adams' explanation of the whole debacle was an interesting little journey through the bowels of social media.

See, a few weeks back, I wrote a column in which I complained about family game night. It was supposed to be an off-beat, light-hearted glimpse of some mundane thing we all do, and that from time to time drives us crazy. It was supposed to be akin to looking at a snapshot, not painting a portrait.

In the print edition it appeared on a page opposite the obituaries ... which that day happened to contain an obituary for an 8-year-old child. I was mortified by the context I now found my story. Some mother was mourning her son, and if they looked to the right they would read my complaints about a family ritual they will never be able to have again with their child.

I thought: This wouldn't happen on the internet. My frivolousness wouldn't share a page with someone else's sorrow.

Now I see how it can. And how anything, no matter what audience it was meant to entertain, can take on meaning it never was meant to convey.


REPLACING TEACHERS WITH TOOLS

The NYTimes ran a story this week that city schools were planning pricey technology purchases despite cuts in other areas of education spending, namely teachers.

Questions about the effectiveness of these new technologies as they pertain to learning and evaluation persist, but we are like moths to the technological flame. ... We seem to prefer the automated bells and whistles despite any proof that they work better than the lest costly tool they replaced.

As in the case of Interactive White Boards it seems pretty clear: Everyone likes them, but there's no real way to tell if they are more effective than their low-cost cousins.

I know I'm kind-a old school, here. But I'd rather have more teachers.




TAKING A BITE OUT OF THE BIG APPLE

You've no doubt heard about the female King Cobra that supposedly slithered out of the Bronx Zoo last weekend. Well, zoo officials didn't think the venomous viper got far, but by Monday a mystery asp started a twitter account under that moniker "BronxZoosCobra" and began live-tweeting its supposed tour of Gotham.

Among its tweets:

"Dear NYC, Apples and snakes have gone together since the beginning."

and "Holding very still in the snake exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. This is gonna be hilarious!"

and my personal favorite: "At the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Temple of Dendur really kicks some asp. #snakeonthetown"

In few days the little viper was on slitherabout, she'd had garnered more than 190,000 followers. The Bronx Zoo was sponging up some of the curiosity, too. Its follower count jumped more than 100 percent (to 8,000 including @bronxzooscobra) after the snake started tweeting. She even got @Jon_Favreau 's attention by posting a link to a photo on display at Ellis Island of his 1900s doppleganger.

Snake = winning.

Of course zookeepers said they believed the snake was holed up somewhere inside the confines of the zoo and would mosey on out when she's got good and hungry. Which many had hoped would mean a few weeks of reptile raillery.

On Thursday afternoon, however, the zoo reported the snake had been located, leading many twitter fans to wonder (and hope) that would be keeping its smartphone.

and ... @bronxzooscobra's first tweet back in captivity?

"Just regurgitated my iPhone. Oh, it's ssso on now. You'll never guess what's coming. #freethebronxzooscobra"

Keep the party going:
@BronxZooCobra
@TheBronxZoo

Score = tied.

Just in case you were wondering ...

This is essentially the reason why photos swimming around in the flickrverse are heavy on her brother lately:



I am the official photographer of Overshot Your Welcome.

There's other stuff I haven't been talking about much.

For instance ...

THE PARENT TRAP Who's big idea was it to design a gift holiday around St. Patrick's Day? Isn't it enough to believe a boy kidnapped from England and sold into slavery grew up to drive the snakes out of Ireland? Now you hook the kids into making intricate traps to capture little green imaginary creatures, who once cornered will leave a gift?

Guess how I found out?



She made a trap. And checked it hourly.

Also ...

EGYPT * LIBYA * NEW ZEALAND * JAPAN I am sending my best agnostic prayers your way.

WISCONSIN? THAT'S THE CAPITAL OF MINNEAPOLIS, RIGHT? Oh, education in this country is the target of much scorn. I know we need to work harder to energize students and prepare them a world we can't even comprehend. But I can't help but wonder why millionaires are picking on school teachers. To me one group eviscerating the collective power of another isn't the answer for society. In fact, it seems a little like throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

SMALLER IS BIGGER, THOUGH. Consolidating districts, sharing superintendents, administrative staff? That's OK in my book.

LAST IN, FIRST OUT I have to say this is tougher for me. Experience should count, and it should be weighed heavily. That's not to say that I think "bad" teachers should be protected. But I just don't think during a layoff is the time to be punitive. Performance-based reductions should be continuously handled through evaluation. If that was happening, last in first out would be fair. Eventually all these young teachers grow older, too.

NEW YORK TIMES' ONLINE SUBSCRIPTION ANNOUNCEMENT: Wow. Not exactly the "paywall" people had predicted. But to my limited mind it seems pretty brilliant. Although there are several ways to trick the system, the system is really set up to make sure those who have been benefiting the most from having free news to aggregate (socially speaking, anyway) will be asked to pony up. If you are really "benefiting" from the downward trend of the news business I'm guessing $15 a month isn't too much of an uphill climb.


BUT WHAT DO I KNOW? I don't have a crystal ball, either. I'm just interested to see how all this turns out in the end. And really? I'm hoping for a time in the near future when we can laugh about some of this stuff.

Including this:

Weekenders ...

Just another manic weekend. We went to a friend's house for a brunch on Saturday and had a wonderful time pestering the couple's poor little pug pooch and playing hide-and-seek in their closets.

Yeah ... we really watch our kids when we're toasting good times.

But hey, It's all good ... nothing got broken and the kids ate their weight and fruit and fake sausage.

Sunday we had our usual yoga class, which I know Annabel is SICK of attending. She's happy to see her friend Maya, but only because Maya brings eye shadow and lip gloss, and they get busy getting all gussied up. She has no interest in actually doing much yoga, except for the OMs at the end.

Then I had to go to a year-end dinner for board members at Annabel's preschool, a place I like to refer to as Marilla Cuthbert's Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children, which I'll admit was fun, if only because it's still so hilarious for me to listen to the preschool teachers try and break out of their early-childhood-educator voices as they're downing daiquiris. In case you are wondering, they just can't do it. ... all roads lead to using your "listening ears," or your "walking feet." Furthermore, it is now my unscientific conclusion that preschool teachers are the most UNCORRUPTABLE humans on the planet. Each one -- including the teacher who was retiring -- called it quits at ONE daiquiri. They have their standards.

I, of course, was drinking seltzers and lime and eating WAY too much tenderloin and salad (all of which came back up when I tried to go to sleep four hours later). So it turns out I'm experiencing a late pregnancy evening sickness, which I think has to be related to the "out of control" heartburn I've been experiencing on and off since month FIVE. (Aren't you glad I'm sharing?)

The best part has to be this morning, however, when Annabel brought her bright little self into Lori's house and told her in her tiny voice and without fanfare: "Mommy has terrible heartburn EVERY DAY."

They're not like us ...

If you ever want to feel the true weight of your dreadful parenting skills pressing down upon you, spend the day at a pre-school. I promise you will learn a lot about your shortcomings.

Every so often I am called upon to attend lessons with my daughter and her classmates at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children (or MCA-UCC for those of you who insist upon academic abbreviations -- you know, for the bumper stickers).

As a cooperative pre-school, the MCA-UCC relies on parents to take turns in all tasks relating to upkeep, maintenance and the supplying of wholesome snacks. Helping children struggle into painting smocks and elaborate costumes to fulfill their wildest dreams during their child's "Special Day" is just a bonus.

The MCA-UCC is a place where all the children stand in line, take turns and play with wild restraint. When they forget and play with abandon, the teacher sings a reminder that children are to use their "walking feet," or turn on their "listening ears," or sit on their bottoms. It becomes clear how reinforcement and expectation becomes part of any behavioral outcome. No one ever says "No." Instead they say: "We don't throw toys." "We don't eat paste." "We use indoor voices."

Such wonderment must be witnessed first hand.

As a parent whose experience with tantrums has resulted in chocolate for dinner, no hair washing for days and more television than the FCC censors have ever seen, I can tell you teachers of small children are genetically different from the rest of the human race.

Whereas, I have one tiny gladiator to wrestle into a coat, she has 10.

Kids who develop hearing impairments at home as soon as you remind them to wash their hands after using the potty, or wipe their feet at the door are happily obliging the kindly headmistress. Eventually, everyone at school starts using their listening ears and their indoor voices. The accounting alone is enough to make you nominate her to a high-ranking position in the United Nations.

I've been through the Special Day drill twice so far this year, and each time I feel as if I need remedial intervention.

When one kid in my charge dips his hand into the paint and drags it across his paper, she zips over with a paper towel, apparently observing with the eyes in the back of her head, and reminds us "We use brushes," in the same jovial tone.

Oops. My mistake.

"I'm just going to hang this over here," she sings as she relocates artwork I've hung right above the walkway. "Otherwise you're going to get painted. And we wouldn't want that."

Uh. Sorry.

"We use one puzzle at a time," she reminds as I sit with pieces from at least six puzzles strewn between three puzzlers.

Oops. I didn't even think.

Everything I touch seems to take on a life of its own, careens out of control then is dashed to bits.

I sit in awe as the three children I've just spent an unsuccessful 20 minutes trying to costume in elaborate dancewear disappear into the main playroom. Not one -- not even my own Ittybit -- heeds my beseeching to come back and reverse the process. I panic. Snack time is fast approaching and if it takes 20 minutes to untangle them from the plumage there will be trouble.

"Um. ... Miss Cuthbert?" I stammer apologetically. "I can't get the kids to take off their costumes."

With a knowing look, she conjures a string of magic words: "Oh, girls, when I ring that bell you're going to want to be ready for snack. And that means you'll have all the play clothes put away."

And wouldn't you know, before you can say "abracadabra," all three are back in the dressing room, tugging off their costumes and handing me their shoes.

Proof, I have to believe, that teachers have supernatural powers. Hopefully some will rub off on me.

The usual suspects

The message popped up in a facebook post. Perhaps you saw it:

"Florida is the first state that will require drug testing when applying for welfare (effective July 1st)! Some people are crying this is unconstitutional. How is this unconstitutional yet it's okay that every working person had to pass a drug test in order to support those on welfare? Re-post if you… agree!!! Let's get Welfare back to the ones who NEED it, not those that just WANT it."

One could practically hear the Tea-cups clinking at the Party as the revelers lined up to agree.

"Hell, yah!"

"Why should taxpayers enable a drug addict?"

"I'd apply for welfare, but I'm too busy WORKING!"

It's so easy to get on a band wagon when the place its taking everyone seems like a logical destination.

Why should public money go to support drug addicts?

The short answer is that the whole argument is a red herring.

The poor are easily scapegoated and held up as an example of all that's wrong in society. In the 80s the offending individual was painted as a "Welfare Queen," milking the system for handouts as she flaunted her government cheese from the windows of a shiny black Cadillac. Now the face of contempt is a degenerate junkie who could easily get a job if she'd accept personal responsibility for herself and the children she never should have had in the first place.

But the longer answer is so much more complicated. It has to do with the fact that welfare is the least we can do when there are children involved. The long answer doesn't really solve our problems, either.

The long answer includes the understanding that society is like a flawed chain with weak links that need reinforcement. We think of these as individual rights unless we're of the mind to excise them entirely, then we call them entitlements.

Sure, some will fight for a fetus' entitlement to life, but that's as far as that train goes. Don't come crawling to them for affordable healthcare or education. Those teachers are just one measly, money-grubbing step up from those worthless slugs on the dole. If you know what's good for you, you'll defy all odds and become a Wall Street banker. Then you can screw the taxpayer the acceptable way. Through capitalism.

The furor over Florida's welfare plan is nothing more than the most expedient way for politicians to get votes. They know hard-working voters love to place blame and will rise to the bait. But what the Florida law won't do is save any money.

If the goal of the Florida law were to get treatment assistance for the poor, it might be a provision worth fighting for. But it's not. It's more worthless legislation in the name of moral certitude. it's also costly: It may seem like a ten-dollar test but what happens with the test leads to untold amounts needed in social work, law enforcement, courts, incarceration and foster care?

And none of it will make a dent in problem we face with substance abuse.

Substance abuse (alcohol and not merely illicit drugs) is rampant in all sectors of society, and no more prevalent among the poor than the rich or the middle class.

That logic isn't the point, though, Is it? When we'd rather put children in foster homes and parents in prison than foot the bill for food stamps, I think we're paying too much for our principals and not enough on our problems.

Word

classing up our toys, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Perhaps yesterday's malaise was the result of a delayed reaction to news of the death of George Carlin last Sunday.

Now, I'm not what one would call a devotee of his nor could I honestly say I enjoyed his humor ... appreciated might be a better way of phrasing.

I appreciated the cleverness and quickness of wit. I appreciated the down in the dirt, lay it on the line tack it always took.

It made you think differently. Even for just a minute.

But as old as I am I wasn't old enough to really understand what he did when he - and others like him - stood up and swore up and down for free speech.

I know there are lots of people out there who think the way we use our words has changed the world we live in; made it a meaner more hateful place. They might be right. I don't know.

What I grew up being told, however, was words can't hurt you.

I think about this because I send my child to preschool - a place I've here and there referred to as "The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children" for all its gentle molding of its young charges -- in the hopes of jumpstarting the work of making model citizens.

Making model citizens is a lofty goal, and one that people like me - parents who have gone through their entire adult lives wearing the same uniform -- T-shirts, casual sweaters and blue jeans (well excepting for that very brief window of time in the late 80s when *shudder* stone and acid wash BLACK jeans were all the rage) have rebelled against.

We have stalwartly refused to march to the beat of the professional drummer. "Be your own person." "You don't have to wear a suit and conform." "You don't have to play by some lousy, corporate hack's rules. YOU CAN BE SUCCESFUL AND BE YOURSELF."

Of course there are naysayers. There are those who ascribe to the school of thought that in order to achieve success one must dress for it; one must speak its language; one must put away childish things and act with mature refinement.

We shrugged our shoulders, made a kind of half-snort, half-meow sound and said: "make me."

Then we set out to make our own way in this world - which had now become a horrible place where crimes were recorded in times per second and no one gave up their seat on the bus to either the elderly or the pregnant. A place where parents were raising their kids in bubbles and the kids were coming out worse than before. ... That world. Who cares if it really doesn't exist? We think it does therefore it was created.

But I wonder ...

Have words lead to this?

I shake my head. I don't think so. I can't think so.

No. I don't think the world is any worse off because aint slipped into the dictonary. The world didn't stop turning when women left the home in droves, headed for the workforce. And it won't spin backward because I refuse to wear a business suit, or force my kid comb her hair and wear matching clothes. Giving my kids home haircuts isn't an act of abuse.

I don't care if my kid's arms are marker covered or if she's got splotches of popcicle on her shirt. We all choose our battles. And the crusty dirt between her toes is a rite of passage.

Yet, I worry.

Am I making a mistake by not making more of society's norms? To hover ... not to hover?

I've already felt the sounds of mild alarm raised in the eyebrows and clucked tongues in my direction; the doctors and teachers ... other mothers.

Carlin said it, and maybe it applies to me, too:

"People who say they don't care what people think are usually desperate to have people think they don't care what people think."

Since becoming a mother I have to admit there is really no longer a vast luxury in "not caring what people think," because there are people - Little People - who are depending on not only WHAT but also HOW we think.

And we all believe thoughts are shaped by what?

That's right, WORDS; Big words, little words, good words, bad words and even sounds that make no sense.

Of course Carlin, in addition to being a tweaker of notions, was proably best known for his ability to knit four-letter words into warm sweaters of intricate patterns.

Swearing is fun. It makes us feel powerful and in command. I don't want my kids to think that there are "bad" words. I don't even think I want them to think there are inappropriate words. Only that there are alternate words, which might make the message more readily received.

As satisfying as a good curse word is, too often used it becomes difficult for people - even willing people - to hear you above the din.
We must remember that the individual words should never be more imporatant than their collective meaning.

I think Carlin understood that.

I hope I can help my kids understand that.

As a parent, it just feels so odd to wonder: "What Would Carlin Say?"

I'm sure he'd say this was all full of shite. He'd leave off the e.

** In any event we are off to Maine for a week of rest and relaxation. I'll tell you all about Silas' birthday party (or at least show you pictures) when we return.

Today's snack was brought to you by the letter "L"

That's what the teachers at The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children are demanding, anyway.

Really? Let me see ... A healthy snack that doesn't contain chocolate or refined sugar ... AND something that begins with the letter "L."

(DO YOU ALL SEE WHY I HATE SCHOOL?)

The following is a list of brainstormed items coupled with Ittybit's responses in parentheses:

La-la-la Lemons? (Too puckery, but lemonade would be fine).
Lemon-poppyseed muffins? (Naw).
Leeks? (What are they)?
Lobster? (Yech).
Lox? (That's not even food).
Liverwurst? (Uh, NOOOO)!
Lamb? (WHAT? Those cute and cuddly things)?
Lumpfish? (That just sounds not good).
Lutefisk? (I don't even want to know what THAT is).
Lentils? (I suppose. ... it's a soup, right)?
Lasagna? (At least I've heard of that).

Lollipops? (But teacher said 'No lollipops').
I'm sure she won't mind if they're made of apples ...

Of course ... on second thought, she's going to be none-too-happy about the skewers ... Maybe we can just saw the pointy parts off.

Something tells me this won't be the first time I see this look

Dear Ittybit,

How many ways can a parent fail their child on the first day of school?

Why don't we count ...

1. Bus for kindergartners makes a special trip on the first day. ... One hour AFTER the usual time. Stepping on the early bus only to have to climb right back down will cause tears.

2. That bus tag that has your name, address, phone number and route number? The one every other kid has pinned to their clothes? Should have been pinned to your dress not lost in the mess we call our house.

3. You will need to pack a healthy snack each and every day ... BUT NOT ON THE FIRST DAY. Everyone eats graham crackers and milk on the first day.

4. Uhm ... lunch money?

5. Where is that piece of paper from the dentist's office confirming that you are a patient? (Probably hanging out with the bus tag in the mess we call a house).

6. Oh look, there's all these cute pictures of your classmates on the bulletin board. ... We needed to provide a photograph from home? Where did they ask for that? Oh, right there ... where it says put extra clothes in shoe box to store in cubby. At least I remembered the shoe box. Perhaps tomorrow I will remember the clothes.

7. Forms ... morfs ... smorfs? What form was that? Oh, right ... the health one.

8. Homework folder? Whoops. Wrong one.

9. Oh. ... the scissors were communal? Shouldn't have put your name on them, huh? Oh riiiiight. ... says so right there with the photo and extra clothes shoe box.

10. Tearing up in class to the point of vision problems after reading (in class) the little note from your teachers, tucked inside a sandwich baggie containing a little pink cotton ball:

"To Our Dearest Kindergarten Parents,

We just wanted to give you a little gift as you leave your "little growing edge of the world" with us for the first time tomorrow so you will not go away empty handed.

As you hold this cotton ball in your hand tomorrow, the softness will help you recall the gentle spirit of your child. After you have wiped your tears, make your self a warm cup of tea. Put your feet up and relax. Remember that together we will work along side your child this year to help him/her grow to his/her fullest capabilities.

Thank you for entrusting your child with us for the upcoming school year. We promise to do our best every day to be your child's companions in learning and exploring this bright new world he/she has just stepped into ... the wonderful world of "I can!"

Sincerely,

Kate and Nicole

Please know, Ittybit, I don't usually cry at sappy form letters. (Evidently I don't read them either.)

Love,

Mommy

Random Question Thursday

What's your favorite recipe and why?
*Bonus points if you share how to make it.

It's no secret that my cooking skills leave a lot to be desired. While the foods of sustenance (breakfast-lunch-and-dinner) give me little or no pleasure at all, the treats of decadence (desserts) make me happy to toil away in kitchenland.

So. With Ittybit's upcoming gradution from the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children, I've been rhumanatin' on what to give her teachers. In the past I've given them etsy-made single pack tissue covers, hand-made (not by me) bath bombs and, as it was so elegantly renamed by my husband, chocolate covered compost.

The idea of food gifts has made me practically giddy with delight lately, especially in light of our upcoming (though still unscheduled) move.

But what about the final hurrah? The last impression?

I decided the prettiest, easiest thing I could make was Chocolate Covered Toffee.

So ... using a pilfered recipe from the Interwebs, I added (and subtracted) a few ingredients and voila! Candy.

Here's the gist:

STUFF YOU NEED:
4 sticks of salted butter
2 cups of granulated sugar
6 tablespoons of water
1 bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips
A half a cup of blanched almonds, lightly ground into a chunky dust
A candy thermometer
A large pot
Baking sheets (use one for thick candy, two for thinner candy.
Parchment paper (to line baking sheets).

WHAT YOU DO:
Prepare baking sheet and almonds in advance, set aside.
Throw butter, sugar, water and vanilla in the pot and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly. Put candy thermometer in so that it's NOT touching the bottom of the pot and keep stirring. I had to hold the thermometer in one hand and stir with the other, (stupid thick-sided pan!) so I really thought seriously about fudging and not bringing the mixture all the way to hard-crack (300 degrees). But I resisted laziness persevered ... it's only about 25 minutes. ... right?

Once the velvety goo reaches the magic 300 degree mark, remove from heat and pour onto the parchment-lined baking sheets. Dump the chocolate chips over the hot toffee a wait until they melt. Spread the chocolate over the top, then sprinkle with the almond dust. Let it cool for a few hours. ... in the fridge if you have room ... and then break it into little bits.

THE PRESENTATION:
I'm slightly proud of myself that I was able to salvage two glass jars (doing nothing but collecting dust and holding dry beans from 1999) so that I could nix a trip to Target and the very real potential that a quest for two glass jars (perhaps $8) would end up costing $80 in additional purchases.

UPSIDE: EASY homemade gift, two fewer things to move from one house to another, and zero dollars spent on impulse purchases.

DOWNSIDE: There's a week left until the graduation and I don't think the natives will ignore such yumminess staring them straight in the face every time one of them opens the fridge. Might be forced to repete recipe next week (in middle of the night and in total secrecy).

It will be worth it: success never tasted sweeter, sweartogod.

Dear heart

Stupid Kindergarten teachers! Always making me cry.

Wink and a promise

Dear Ittybit,

You go back to school with fewer teachers, more students in your class and a political mindset that views public education as an entitlement (the pejorative definition). Yet, I am reminded you are still at an advantage. And we need to be grateful.

We also need to be present.

Love,

Mommy

Today is a very good day

I’m not much of a history buff.

I can’t rattle off chapter and verse on the cause and effect as it pertains to events in the past and be able to follow my own (or anyone else's) line of thought. Maybe when I was in school, and the teachers were grading me on it, I could delve into the black hole that is my mind and extract "1492" and pair it up with some silly Italian explorer who got lost as he was looking to spice up his life.

But by the time summer vacation rolled around the dates got all jumbled up with the pictures. ... And I never did really trust the stories.

For instance … When we learned about Martin Van Buren -- the follically-challenged 8th president of the United States who hailed from nearby Kinderhook – I burned into my memory the fact that he had red hair; that he was small in stature; that he was of Dutch decent but the first American-born citizen to hold the office; that he was a one-termer, probably a result of an economic depression that gripped the country in the year he was elected; and that the biggest controversy surrounding his name was whether or not he coined the colloquialism, "O.K." (as in Old Kinderhook), as part of some brilliant political promotion that helped him pack his bags and head to Washington.

I expect more comparative histories to be written about “The Little Magician” -- as he was called back in the day -- as Barack Obama’s presidency progresses since the former presided over a similar boom/bust economic era as this country is experiencing today. Of course the hope would be that the 44th president is compared more favorably than the 8th president, who, at the end of his tenure, was known to readers of the press as “Martin Van Ruin.”

But I digress.

This was supposed to be about the stuff about Martin Van Buren that I hadn't realized.

Such as the hostile policies he and Andrew Jackson created toward Native Americans when they began removing and relocating them to areas West of the Mississippi River. Funny how I learned about the Trail of Tears and its horrificness, and yet somehow divorced the policies that caused it from any real human and married it instead to the nameless-faceless federal government in power during our westward expansion. When in fact, it was aided and abetted by a man from the place I now call home.

I have more hope for Mr. Obama. I have hope that his presidency WILL be remembered with more past-gazing into the likes of Abraham Lincoln than into our man, Van Buren. Like I said, I have hope.

But I also have caution. I know history isn't really in the now of today, but in looking back from the hindsight of many tomorrows. I know this man we put into office doesn’t walk on water. He will struggle. He will be tested. Sometimes he will pass, but not always. And yet, as I prepare to accept his mere mortalness I am also prepared to be awed by his miraculousness. I am also prepared to marvel in our own miraculousness as a nation. It's not all on his shoulders, after all.

Mean, rotten, horrible jerks

I said it once, I'll say it again: Kindergarten teachers may seem sweet, but underneath their friendly exterior there is a tiny, hardened and sadistic core.

Example:

A note came home with Ittybit, attached to a sheet of pink construction paper, outlining my "homework assignment."

I was to trace my hand and cut it out.

Yesterday THIS came home from school ...



Inside it says, in Annabel's handwriting: "You will hold my hear t forever. - Love Annabel."



To this class of professionals whose job it is to make moms cry, I must also add childcare providers and librarians.

Why do you ask?

See for yourself:



This came home from the babysitter with the boy. Inside it shows construction paper cut outs of his hands with a heart popping out that says: "Mommy, you have my heart! Love, Silas."




This - an 8 x 10 print of The Champ feeding a goat ("he ate it all up") - came attached to a card from the Nassau Free Library with a note: "I love you, Mommy. Silas"


I tell you, the only thing I need for Mother's Day now is a box of tissue. Thanks for that.

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.

Color me happy, it's finally Friday

Of course I may just be heading back into town for the Red, White and Blue this weekend. ...

SPEND YOUR WEEKEND IN TROY
Old Glory on Broadway Block Party gets underway Saturday from 1 to 7 p.m. on Broadway, between Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue in Troy. Featuring a hot dog eating contest sponsored by Hembold’s, live local music, children’s activities, vendors, and food and beverage, it seems like a fitting precurser to Troy's most enduring event, The Troy Flag Day Parade -- the largest parade of its kind in the nation to honor the American flag -- which steps of at 1 p.m. on Sunday. The Flag Day Parade is a two mile route that runs along Fourth Street beginning in South Troy at Fourth & Main streets and ending at Fourth & Federal streets.


OR I MIGHT GET OUT OF TOWN TO SEARCH OUT THE OTHER COLORS OF THE RAINBOW
Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art, 125 West Bay Road, Amherst, Mass. is hosting a Birthday Bash and Book Festival on Saturday from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. The event celebrating the Western Mass Illustrators' Guild includes special art show, sale, and auction with many local artists. Enjoy special storytimes, book signings, face painting, card-making for Eric Carle, free birthday cake. (413) 658-1100. Free with museum admission: $7, adults; $5 youth seniors, students and teachers; $20 for families of four. carlemuseum.org

Rhythm on the Ridge, Maple Ski Ridge, 2725 Mariaville Road, Rotterdam is the place to be for the music minded. The day-long summer music festival, with food, crafters, children’s activities, music workshops gets underway on Saturday 10 a.m. and continues until 6 p.m. The tickets are reasonable, $10, $8 if canned goods are donated, and children under 12 scoot in free. 381-4700 or mapleskiridge.com

Omi International Arts Center, Fields Sculpture Park, 59 Letter S Road, Ghent is hosting its 2009 Summer Annual Exhibition opening on Saturday. If you like contemporary art, this is a good event for kids as well. There are acres to roam, art workshops for kids and you get to stretch your legs. You will take 'em home inspired and tired for sure. Free. artomi.org.

'Surely we can do better ... '

I hadn't expected to bring my kids to school today. I'd planned to send them off with the bus just like any other Monday.

But it had been a long weekend filled with winter walks, neighborhood parties and a constant albeit quiet grief.  I wasn't surprised that we woke up late. I wanted to make sure they had breakfast ... and I wanted to make sure I didn't spend the last few minutes of our time together today yelling at them to get ready lest they miss their ride.

Not today. 

Today, I wanted to be mindful of the one thing I, and everyone on this planet, can do right now to begin the process of change -- we can spread kindness.  We can smile at each other more; we can kiss our kids and hug them just because they are amazing; and we can help someone who needs us. Especially a stranger.

Right now our schools need us.

And our kids need their schools. Because schools are the places where community truly becomes real to our children. 

I didn't hug my kids as they ran to their classrooms. I didn't follow them and speak to their teachers. I know them well, and know my kids are in excellent hands.

 I did speak to the former principal, though, a woman who is so devoted to the school that she has remained active there despite having to step down from her position as she battles lung cancer. I hugged her and told her I appreciated the time she took trying to comfort me.

As I left the building and headed to my car I was thankful for our president's words:

"There’s only one thing we can be sure of, and that is the love that we have — for our children, for our families, for each other.  The warmth of a small child’s embrace — that is true.  The memories we have of them, the joy that they bring, the wonder we see through their eyes, that fierce and boundless love we feel for them, a love that takes us out of ourselves, and binds us to something larger — we know that’s what matters.  We know we’re always doing right when we’re taking care of them, when we’re teaching them well, when we’re showing acts of kindness.  We don’t go wrong when we do that."

Kindness is what we need. Kindness and community.

Out of the mouths of babes ... and their mothers ...

Don't you just love how cute they are?

Like just the other day, we're driving in the car, pretending to see all manner of forest flora and fauna, when, during a calm in the game, she comes out with this little gem:

"... and I just had to say shiT."

Oh yeah, she's been listening quietly all this time. Saying nothing but taking it all in.

Last week, when I dropped the glass and it shattered into a billion pieces on the kitchen floor?

What did I say?

You bet I did.

Last month, when I noticed someone other than me did the laundry and dried my wool sweater in the clothes dryer?

What did I say?

You guessed it.

And countless times before that?

So why did I think that she wasn't listening?

"I say shiT sometimes, too, mommy. shiT. You say shiT sometimes instead of 'Oh Bother.'"

I was practically crying I was laughing so hard.

There are no bad words (only words that will make your babysitter and your teachers swallow their tongues or send you to the principal's office). There are no bad words. There are no bad words. Okay. Stop laughing. Stop laughing. She hears that, too. It bolsters her resolve. There are no BAD words ...

"Ok. I don't want you to say that word. You say 'Oh bother.'"

"But sometimes you need to say Oh ShiT."

"I know that sometimes it slips out, but it's not a word that makes people happy. Some people may be offended by that word. A better word is Bother. Or Pooh. Or Drat. Why don't you say Oh, Pooh bother? I like the sound of that: Oh, Pooh bother!"

"But I like shiT."

"I know, but it's not a word you should use until you're older."

"When am I going to be older?"

"Too soon for us, not soon enough for you."

"ShiT."

Automatic pilot

flying her "kite", originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Parent is a verb.

That's what we like to think anyway.

We big people who, through the miracle of evolution (har), have grown from microscopic organisms to organisms that study our own spawn as if they are under a microscope.

Myself an offender of daily proportions with all these observations written down that will haunt them forever for posterity.

I like to think that I'm actively trying to raise kind-hearted, fearless children who will take calculated risks. Every so often I get a glimpse of my baby becoming a girl and I think she's really raising herself. I'm just here trying to make sure the sharp objects are pointing in a downward direction.

And yet she's not really raising herself; she's just getting ideas from the people she meets and the places she goes ... her grandparents, her teachers the babysitter's house, the playground. ...



"Mommy. You're not supposed to talk to strangers?"

"Why not?"

"You're not supposed to."

"Well our family talks to strangers. We may not believe a word they say, but we talk to strangers."



Still, I hold my breath every time she climbs the jungle gym or goes running in the parking lot. I yell and rail against the dangers of not holding my hand as we walk in crowded places. I harp at her to hold the handrail. I tell her to be careful ... of her fingers in the car door. ... near the blender ... while shutting the drawers of her dresser.

Eventually I will have to let go of her hand.

We might raise them afterall, but they are the ones who have to fly.

Eventually, I must accept my role as "verb" being over and settle into the role most young people see us in anyway - a noun. You know, like the furniture.

At least you won't be bored this summer

Ah ... 'Tis the season: Teachers are doing their super secret happy-dance on the grave of another school year; parents will soon be pulling out their hair for want of activities that will keep their kids independently entertained; and publishers are promising a carefree summer vacation if you buy their activity books.

Here's one thing I can honestly tell you about that last part: If the book involves crafts or cooking (and your kid is under 10) there is no way in hell you won't hear your name called at least 15,000 times in that familiar sing-song whine that makes you wish you could legally sell them to gypsies. ... So choose wisely.

IF YOU CAN'T STAND PAPER DOLLS do not buy "Paper Fashions Fantasy," Klutz, $22. Although this book is clever -- offering a bunch of different templates for tops, bottoms and accessories your budding designer can trace onto prettily printed papers, you will go out of your mind trying to figure out how to hang the fashions on the tiny wire hangers, which are provided.
Mom Rated: *Mommy Dearest Comes to MInd*
Kid Rated: *This is Totally Styling*

IF YOU HAVE A THREE-YEAR-OLD don't get "Eye Q Picture Puzzler," Downtown Bookworks, $12. It may actually keep the older one enthralled as you travel, but if you forget it's in your luggage and your graffiti-artist toddler finds it, you may be needing a visit from room cleaning service.
Kid Rated: *I Found the Rabbits!*
Mom Rated: *Where's the Pen?*

IF YOU DON'T WANT TO BUY SOCKS take a pass on "The Lonely Sock Club" by Laurie Goldrich Wolf, Simon and Schuster, $17. Because for all its "Green & Groovy" cache, your kid will not be satisfied until you part with some actual cash. The way she sees it, the cats made using old "dryer-ate-the-other-one" and "used-to-be-a-nice-color" socks will pale in comparison to the creatures featured in the book. Another tip? Ignore the no-sew directions if you want to save your sanity.
Mom Rated: *Thank GOD Target Sells Socks*
Kid Rated: *I Will Populate the World with Sock Kittens*

One final warning ...
Though your kid may not be able to MAKE the projects in the sock book without help, she WILL be able to dress them. You can estimate the resulting fashion show will keep you busy for at least an hour.

Time, she flies

Annabel's last "special day" at preschool, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

Today was your last "Special Day" at the Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children.

It's not your last day of school there, but the last day in which one of your parents **points to self** will show up bearing healthy snacks that none of your friends will touch with a ten-foot pole.

It was the last day I'd have a chance to slip the photos I had taken of your classmates (all year long) into their bookbags. Photographs I'd tucked in envelopes and that you had dutifully sealed with "Love" in a color representing their name ... Blue for Billy ... Magenta for Madeline ... Silver for Sierra.

It's the last day in which one of your charming teachers will tilt their head and cluck in my direction ... when I so obviously hang up the paintings in the wrong place or as I'm reading books when I should be helping kids put on their smocks so they can paint. There will be chittering among them as I break some other rule ... such as talking to you when you are in line instead of making sure you are all as quiet as church mice.

It's been more than three years since you first walked through the doors of this cooperative preschool ... the very one I went to when I was your age ... the very one I lived above when I was a young adult.

You already know those stories, you say when I mention them in passing.

You also know numbers and the difference between upper and lower case. You can spell you name and recite your phone number. And every day you come home with a new letter and all the words you learned that begin with that letter.

Both of us have learned a great deal these last three years.

In addition to writing your name and remembering your numbers, you've learned to cut with scissors, recognize letters and understand about cause and effect, as it applies to so many things.

On the last Special Day I was finally proficient in hanging the paintings to dry, and collecting all the crafts so that parents wouldn't have to search. I easily did the chores that needed doing ... cleaning paintbrushes, wiping tables, vacuuming floors and taking out the trash.

I didn't even mess up snack time.

"O" was the letter of your last special day.

We brought Oranges and Oyster crackers and Olives (though you were quite sure no one would eat them). We also brought orange smoothies, blended at home the night before.

You helped. We blended oranges, pineapples, papayas, mangos and bananas with ice and orange juice, squeezing in the juice of a lime for good measure.

When we tested it you gave it your highest praise: "The most delicious of deliciousities I ever had in my whole entire world of worlds."

I beamed. And then I set the blender up for a second time ... this time adding kale to the mix and a plan to call the new creation "Oscar Isn't Such a Grouch After All Smoothie."

But as the kids' luck would have it, the blender broke.

And then your father gave me his patented eyebrow arch: "Kale? Really?"

"Yes, Kale. ... I just wanted to see Ms. Cuthbert's eyes roll back in her head one last time."

Of course tonight you'll have to report that I didn't need a green smoothie to do that; all I had to do was put out the green tractor trikes in the play yard.

"In the wrong place again, mom. In the wrong place again."

*Sigh*

Look out Kindergarten, ready or not, here I come.

Love,

Mommy