Little Can Be Big!

It’s the little things that can make the difference.  

It’s the little things that can help you see the bigger picture.

It’s the little, tiniest of things that can end up mattering the most.

A few days ago, our doorbell rang later in the evening.  At any other time of year, I would have wondered who it was.  But it’s the holidays, and I knew it was going to be the UPS man.  He has a routine in our neighborhood, and he generally shows up at our house around 7:00pm.  

Olivia (who begins her Christmas countdown every year on December 26th by declaring “364 days till Christmas!”), ran to the door.  She also knew who it would be.  By the time she got there, the UPS guy had already dropped off the package and was walking down the driveway toward his idling truck.

As she picked the package up, I heard her yell loudly enough for the deliveryman to hear as he got into his truck, “Thank you!”

It was the littlest thing, but it made my heart do a little happy dance.  

The UPS guy never waits for us to open our door.  He’s in a hurry.  He drops the box on the porch and runs.  He’s got deliveries to make and a schedule to keep and probably a family to get  home to when he’s done.  

Even though he never actually hands me the boxes, I have always, always, always yelled “thank you!” to him, even if I thought he couldn’t really hear me.  

Because maybe he can.  

Maybe he reads lips.  Maybe he has bat hearing.  Maybe he runs away so quickly because no one ever says thank you.  I don’t know.  But just in case any of those scenarios are true, and because it’s just plain old polite to thank someone when they give you something, I have always yelled “thank you!” to the UPS man.  

And now so does my daughter.  

For all the times I doubted whether anything I was doing was sinking in; 

for all the times I felt like I was banging my head against a wall; 

for all the times I was absolutely positive that my kids did not hear a word I was saying; 

for all the times I was beyond sure that they were not even trying to listen; 

for all the times I thought they were missing the point; 

for all the times I was convinced that setting a good example was perhaps not going to pay off in the end run--

just the simple act of my daughter screaming “thank you!” at the top of her lungs into the darkness to a person she couldn’t see who probably couldn’t hear her felt like the biggest, most gigantic little gift in the world.  

Naked Shopping

So, yeah, I know a few posts ago I wrote about "running naked".  And now the title is "Naked Shopping".  But this one isn't metaphorical.  It's actually about shopping.  While being actually naked.

Hah.  

Didn't see that one coming, did ya?

So here's what happened.  

One of my favorite stores, Title Nine, advertised a "blowout sale" today in downtown Sacramento.  I was pretty excited.  Love their stuff--it's clothing for people who move a lot.  Sort of REI, except all women's clothing and slightly more fashion forward.  Their catalogs are full of women who look athletic and powerful and wildly stylish.  I want to be in their catalog.

So off I go to the "blowout" sale.

I arrive at the Convention Center. This is where they are having the sale.  It's a HUGE place.  I mean, really large.  They hold actual conventions there!  So I am expecting a convention-center-sized sale.  

It was in a Costco-sized room for sure, but it amounted to rows of tables on which were cardboard boxes full of various types of apparel.  The boxes were labeled with size, and the tables were labeled by apparel-type (tank tops, running shorts, dresses, etc...).  A respectable amount of tables and boxes, but hardly what I would call a "blowout".  With all the empty space in that room you could have still had a full-on convention in there amidst the sale.  I was disappointed.

But there I was, so I decided to at least look through some boxes and see what I could find.  

I found a pair of pants, a dress, a running bra to try on.  

So can you see it coming yet?  Figured out the naked part?

Turns out that when you hold a sale in a convention center, it's a BYODR (bring your own dressing rooms) affair for the retailer.  Their solution was to slap together some PVC and some black fabric and create one giant dressing room.

So...

There I am.  Standing in the middle of this somewhat shaky looking structure (and I use the term structure loosely) with about a dozen other women.  All in various stages of naked.

Did I want to be naked with them?

Of course I didn't.

First of all (and I apologize to any of my male family members who are reading this but I am going to have to ask you to skip the rest of this paragraph, possibly even the next one as well--you'll be sorry if you don't, I promise),
I was (seriously, stop reading guys)
wearing (this is your final warning)
a

thong (I warned you; I even skipped a line to give you one last chance).

Frankly, I don't even like looking at my butt (apparently I don't like having panty lines even less).  I certainly didn't want to subject anyone else to looking at my butt.  How was I going to try on a dress and a pair of pants without fully exposing my derriere to this room full of women?

There was no way around it.   I was going to have to get naked.  And, not only did I have to expose my butt, I also had a running bra that I wanted to try on, so apparently the girls were going to make an appearance as well.

I reluctantly entered the room and backed myself into a corner (literally) and began undressing.  Even though it was rather cold in there, I made the crucial decision to take my socks off, because ladies (I know you know this) there is nothing, and I mean nothing, more unflattering than standing in a fluorescent-lit room in your underwear and your socks.
Word to the wise: lose the socks.  You'll feel better about yourself.  I can't explain it, but it's true.

Anyway, the sides and corners of the room (where the fabric walls would hide half of you) were conspicuously more populated than the center area, where you would be visible for 360 degrees.  We were all trying to put our best body part forward and keep the rest as out of sight as possible.  

But of course when you're naked, or pretty much naked, there are parts of you (the naked parts) that you can't hide. 

Now I'm not in terrible shape.  I'm in what I'd call "reasonable shape for 45".  And while I aspire to it, I certainly do NOT look like the women in the Title Nine catalog, which is who I imagined would be shopping at this sale.  I imagined coiffed, toned, muscular, athletic women who had flocked to this sale because they had worn out all of their workout clothing due to their grueling yoga/running/cycling/triathlon regimen.

Who knew I'd have to disrobe in front of these goddesses?

Frankly, I don't think I would have showed up had I thought the possibility existed that I would have to try to squeeze into a disappointingly snug dress while simultaneously trying to hide all the reasons why that dress was snug AND having to endure all this while comparing myself to what I was sure were all the overly fit workout queens who would be surrounding me.

I didn't want to look up.  I was sure it would only confirm that I was surrounded by women my age who looked much younger and much more in shape than me.

I kept my eyes lowered for as long as I could, but finally I couldn't help but sneak a peek.  

I was pleasantly surprised.

I found myself surrounded by women my age (and older) who looked just like me.  Not a perfect body among us.  And while we were all different shapes and sizes and clearly none of us were going to make any Victoria's Secret models nervous about losing their jobs, I thought we all looked pretty good.

It was kind of liberating.

Like the time I participated in a triathlon.

Stay with me here.  I know this seems super tangential, but it'll come back around I promise.

So I'm at this triathlon.  They made me write my age on the back of my left calf.  In ink.  I was sure people of all ages would see my age as they sped past me and silently marvel at how slow I could actually go and still be technically moving.

Or even worse, I would get the dreaded "You're doing great!  Keep going!  You can do it!" cheer that really means "Wow, you look like you're really out of shape--good job making it this far!  You'll make it to the finish line eventually..."

But really what happened was that as  (much older) people passed, they would yell "Go 43! You rock!"   And as I passed (much, much,much older) people, I would yell "Keep it going, 78!"

It was supportive.  It felt good.  It felt like there was nothing to hide and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

That's how the giant dressing room full of naked women felt.

We were all out there doing our best and giving our all, and in search of some fun clothing to support our efforts.

We were all willing to fully bare ourselves (literally) in front of complete strangers in the hot pursuit of fashion.

I think that takes a bit of confidence that comes only with age and experience.

After all, I didn't see any of those Victoria's Secret-type women or Title Nine catalog models in that giant dressing room.

All I saw were athletic, powerful women in search of wildly stylish clothing.

People I Can't Forgive, Part 1

I'm generally a pretty nice person.  I'm far from perfect, and I don't expect others to be perfect.  I subscribe to that whole crazy notion of people living in glass houses not throwing stones.

Everyone makes mistakes.  Forgiveness is part of life.  It's a good part of life.  It makes you feel better.  It makes others feel better.  It allows life to continue along with less crap in your head.  Forgiveness makes you a happier person.

There are a few people, however, I am having trouble forgiving. They are listed below in no particular order.

Now I realize that none of these people have asked for my forgiveness.  So it's not like I'm doing wrong by them.  In fact, I think it's safe to say that all of the people on my list so far would actually not even think they have done anything objectionable or offensive or requiring my (or anyone's) forgiveness.

I would disagree.  Strongly.

So here is my list, thus far, of people who have committed egregious sins that I cannot bring myself to absolve.  I have included not just their names, but also their offenses.  As well as the severe and occasionally debilitating impact their transgressions have had on my life.  Yes, overly dramatic, but thanks to and according to Kim Kardashian (OFFENDER #1), melodrama is now something that should be not just a regular part of people's everyday lives, it should be celebrated, rewarded, and captured in every possible medium every single day so people can have it crammed down their throats.  Kardashian has made being a melodramatic, shallow, non-contributing, uneducated, greedy beauty queen into something to which young girls aspire.  My heart has never hurt more than when my wonderful teenage daughter came downstairs with her hair in a high ponytail, and told me how excited she was because the fabulous hairdo made her, and I quote, "feel like a Kardashian".  I cringed.  I may have visibly and audibly gagged.  We had a long talk.
I will be more accepting of Kardashian and her ways when she starts to responsibly demonstrate for her many young admirers that there is more to happiness than money and glamour.

OFFENDER #2: Sarah Palin
Oh, my god.  I could go on for days about the many things Ms. Palin has done that I find inexcusable and unforgivable.  But I'm going to concentrate on one.

She made ignorance into a badge of honor.

When asked what newspapers or magazines she reads and she failed to come up with any, she deemed it a "gotcha question" from the "lame stream media".  How is that a trick question?  The fact that you don't read any news periodicals should be a direct commentary on you, not the interviewer.  But people cheered her on, sympathizing at how she was dragged over the coals by Katie Couric.  Really?  Has Katie Couric ever dragged anyone over the coals?  She's far too perky for that.

When asked what she learned after going through the home of revolutionary war hero Paul Revere, she rambled on about second amendment rights and made no sense whatsoever (apparently, she also learned that Paul Revere had "warned the British").  When called on her gaffes (and called on it by a fellow conservative talk show host!), she once again accused the reporter who had asked her the question (again, as a reminder, that question was "What did you learn in there?") of trying to "get her".  People applauded her for exposing those 'hardcore liberal journalists' whose only true intention, apparently, was to make her look bad.

How much more of a softball question can you get?  If you can't even answer that one, you should bury your head in the sand, not puff up your feathers like a proud peacock.

You, Sarah Palin, make my blood boil.  If I have to go on blood-pressure medication, I'm going to bill you for my copay.


OFFENDER(S) #3: The Inventors of the Urban Dictionary
Those aren't words.  Don't encourage kids to use them.  It makes kids sound stupid.  And it makes the adults that try to use them sound even stupider.  Look that one up.  It's probably in the Urban Dictionary.

OFFENDER #4: John McCain
Once upon a time, I admired John McCain.  I appreciated his intelligence, his forthrightness, his ability to speak the truth even when it didn't match up with the Republican party line.
Then he brought us Sarah Palin (see #2).
I pretty much blame John McCain for inflicting Sarah Palin on us all.
Did you not do your research, John?  Did you?  Did you?  Did you not see it all coming?
Unforgivable.

I think this will be an ongoing list.  I will update periodically.

I'm going to stop here (for now), because it's just a day before Thanksgiving, and in the spirit of the holiday, I will focus (for now) on what I am grateful for--family, friends, and a bumper crop of GOP presidential nominees who, as a whole,  might just be the next update to this list.

Running Naked

I did the unthinkable this morning.
I ran.
With no music.

No buds in my ears.
No soundtrack to cover the sound of my footfalls.
No melodic voices to smother the "to do" list formulating in my head.

It was nice.  Peaceful.  Fast.

I generally will not run if my Shuffle isn't charged.
I've been known to start out on a run and turn around less than 100 yards later if the iPod runs out of charge.  Really.  I have done that.  Priorities.
I just have never really run without an accompanying playlist.
I have special attachments on my earbuds so they won't fall out while I run.
I have even gone so far as to arrange my songs by "bpm", or beats per minute, so that my pace will increase/decrease at certain points along the run, which seems to help me get a little more mileage.
The music is motivating.

This morning though, at 5am, I headed out the door naked (metaphorically, you know, without the music; it was 5am in November, so yeah, I did have running pants, a wicking long-sleeved shirt, a gore-tex jacket, ear warmers, a hat, and gloves; but naked mentally).

I was surprised by so many things.  Not just that I could run naked (with no music).  Eeew. I just re-read that part.  I'll find another metaphor.  Sorry everyone.  Try to get that mental image out of your head.  Please.  Pretty please.

Anyway.  I found out some things.
I  can run three miles with no music.
And I ran faster than I normally do.  And the run went by more quickly (which, I guess, makes sense if you are running faster than you normally do).

Without the music, I thought about things and people and places.  My mind wandered.  It was easy to get lost in my own head.  I wasn't waiting for a song to end, or anticipating what song would be next, or fiddling with my Shuffle to get to a certain song.  I was just moving my feet, listening to the steady sound of my breathing.  It's very calming to notice that your legs and your lungs can work in unison, increasing and decreasing speed in response to one another.  It makes you feel very in tune with your body.

I noticed details in my neighborhood (you can take down those Halloween lights now).  I heard sounds that are usually drowned out by Coldplay and Kelly Clarkson (lots and lots of very communicative birds in our area).  And while I cannot explain why, for some reason without headphones funneling Bruno Mars into my ears my sense of smell was much keener.  On a crisp fall morning, if you're paying attention, the air smells like camping and the beach and Christmas all rolled together.  I just never noticed that before.

It was very dark.  I don't want to say the darkness was disorienting, because I was just running a one mile loop over and over again, so it wasn't like I was going to get lost.  But it was kind of like the blackness made me less aware of where I was, which made me less aware of how far I'd gone, and less aware of how far I had yet to go.  The darkness concealed the distance, in a way.  In a good way.

I think I'll try it again tomorrow morning.

I'm going to run... how do I phrase this so no one gags... with my senses available.

Directions

Who stops reading the directions to something halfway through?  Who does that kind of thing?  (You already know it's me, don't you?)  Who sometimes chooses not to read the directions at all?  Why would someone do that, when there they are, all written out for you, in neat steps, numbered and everything, occasionally with corresponding pictures for each step?  What good could come of ignoring the instructions?

I don't really have any good answers for any of the above questions, other than: Me; me again; you do know that already; yep, moi; because they're tedious and long and not very exciting; generally none, but occasionally I get lucky and things work out just fine.

I told you they weren't good answers.

Several times recently I have noticed my own predisposition to, shall I say, disregard written instructions that come inside packaging.  One turned out perfectly; the other ended up fine, but with some added inconvenience and the realization that this is not a trait I should pass on to my children.

Round One:

I bought an office-type chair for our kitchen computer last week.  It came in a GIANT box that was so heavy I had to drag it out of the back of my van and push it across the garage floor to a space where I could open it up and lay out all of the parts.  It was half-assembled.  And half not, obviously.  Once I had all the parts sprawled out in front of me, I immediately went to work putting the casters on what looked to me to be the very heavy and unwieldy bottom half of the chair.

Now stop for a moment.  I want you to assess, right here and now, what kind of a person you are.  Are you (1) annoyed with me because you noticed that I hadn't even opened up the directions and was putting things together without being absolutely sure of what I was doing or; (2) super impressed with me because I used the word casters instead of "rolling wheels with a part sticking up out of them".

If you chose number one, then you are clearly not a person who does any of the things I specified in the first paragraph of this little post.  And you probably read through the entire set of directions before even starting.  And assemble all the tools needed before proceeding to step one.  And empty out all of the little baggies of screws and count to make sure you have the correct number of everything.

Damn you.  I want to be like you.  I really do.  But round about half a page into things I just get kind of bored.  Okay, not bored.  More like anxious.  I want it to be done.  Move it along, already!  If I can even remotely see what direction the directions are taking, I will go rogue.

Me and Sarah Palin.  We've got that in common.

If you happened to choose number two because of my impressive use of the highly technical term "casters", then you probably go rogue as well.  And it likely did not bother you at all, if you even noticed, that I was putting the casters on a chair part that I wasn't even absolutely sure was the right one.  The way I look at it, and I'm thinking you look at it this way as well, if the casters won't go on, then they obviously don't go there.  At which point I will, reluctantly, consult the instructions.  No harm, no foul.  The casters went on fine, by the way.

Admittedly, putting this chair together was not that difficult of a task.  As I mentioned, it was partially assembled, and it really didn't take a rocket scientist to figure the rest out.  It came with its own tools, turns out all the parts were there in their correct numbers, and it's a chair--I pretty much knew exactly what it was supposed to look like when it was done.  There was no great mystery to it--no internal parts, no moving mechanisms, no connecting of wires.

Still, I'm proud of myself for being able to put the thing together (without the directions).

Round Two:

My daughter Olivia, who is fourteen, woke up this morning with a bit of a head cold.  Stuffy nose, dry throat kind of thing.  Last year when she had the same type of symptoms and was at her grandma's house, her grandma introduced her to the netty pot.

For those of you who do not know what this is (and I'm guessing that's all of you),  it's a tiny, plastic teapot.  You put a cup of warm water into it, along with a small packet of some sinus-clearing powder, put the lid on, shake it up and, stay with me here, while tilting your head sideways over a sink, you pour the contents of the pot into the top nostril and keep pouring until it starts coming out the bottom nostril.  Seriously.

It's supposed to clear up your sinuses immediately, and my daughter thinks it is, in her exact words, "the greatest invention ever on earth!"

I have never used a netty pot.  So today, when Olivia had me pick one up at the store for her and asked me to help her use it, I did have to consult the instructions.  We opened the package.  I began reading each step to Olivia and she did the actual set up.  We got to step three, which was the actual "head tilting over the sink" part, and I read where it said to pour only half of the solution from the netty pot through your nose.

She did that perfectly.  She said it felt great.  The girl loves her netty pot!

And then I told her she should wash the pot thoroughly with warm soapy water so as not to have any germs left on it.  She washed it.

After she had the whole thing put into its box and was about to put the instructions inside as well, she said to me, "Well, I guess we skipped step five, which was to use the other half of the liquid for the other nostril.  I wondered why we only used half of the solution!"

Yes, I had stopped reading the directions halfway through.  I don't know why.  I have no good explanation for it.  It did occur to me, as well, that it was strange that we were only using half of what was in the netty pot.  I guess I thought that if the stuff is going in one nostril and out the other, it's getting everywhere it needs to go.  I was wrong.  So my poor daughter had to start again and make another full pot of solution and do the other side.

At that point I realized that reading directions--thoroughly and completely--is something I should be teaching my kids to do.  It's important to do things right and to do things safely, especially when your health is concerned.

Round Three:

Now, there is a Round Three.  Round Three, though, is somewhat hypothetical.  I have a file--an actual, existing file folder, full of EVERY SINGLE manual to EVERY SINGLE appliance/machine/computer/phone/whatever we have ever bought.  It's all there.  Waiting to be read.

I'm pretty sure that my iPhone probably does WAY more than I know it does.  I've read the manual.  Okay, most of the manual.  Okay, some of the manual.

I think my washing machine probably does more than I realize.  And my dryer.  And my dishwasher.  I'm SURE my dishwasher could probably clean things way better than it actually does.  If only I would read the directions.  Oven?  Probably has that awesome "auto-set" feature where you can set it to turn on at any time at any temperature to cook your food.  That would be awesome.  I would totally use that feature.

House alarm?  Yeah, I think if I committed to read the entire booklet all the way through, I'd be able to figure out how to set it so that I don't have to sprint through the house to turn it off every time I get home.

So I pledge to take the directions out of the box from now on.  I will read through them--completely and in order.  I will assemble my tools.  I will count my items.  I will dismiss my extreme desire to have something in common with Sarah Palin and I will not go rogue.

At least not when the kids are around.

Sixers

Dave (my husband of nineteen years) has, for the first time in his twenty-five year science teaching career, a period of 6th graders.  He has always, up until this year, taught eighth graders, with the exception of one errant class of seventh graders many years ago.  Not his favorite year.

While seventh graders can be immature and annoying a lot of the time, put 'em next to a bunch of sixers and all the sudden the sevvies look like bastions of common sense and self-disclipline.  Sixth graders are an entirely different species.  I'm not really sure they even belong in middle school, to be honest.  They are much better suited to being king of the hill in elementary school than they are to being the babies at middle school. They're sort of deer-in-the-headlights as middle-schoolers.

But here they are, and Dave has been tasked with teaching them a class of Earth Science.  He is a bit anxious about the situation, but as always is ready to make the best of it.

I don't think he has anything to worry about, and here's why:

First off, he starts his day with the sixth graders.  He has them first period, which is the best way to begin the day for him.  I think it'll be great because it'll make the rest of his day seem like a walk in the park.  Yes, sixers need to be told things three times.  They forget their materials.  They cry.  A lot.  For seemingly no reason.  But beginning your day with the most "challenging" set of kids seems much more preferable than ending your day with the most "challenging" set of kids.  Doesn't it?  I think that given a big enough cup of coffee each morning (or two or five), and possibly several ibuprofen (or more), this will end up being a nice change of pace for Dave.  He's a "rise to the occasion" kind of guy.

Plus, the rest of Dave's day is filled with  (relatively mature) eighth graders.  And sixth graders will make even your most exasperating eighth graders seem like they've got their act together. So by my logic, the rest of his day will fly by!

I also theorize that beginning the morning with Dave will be to the benefit of the sixth graders.  Dave is organized.  He is prepared.  He is smart.  He has a sense of humor.  He's interesting.  He cares about kids learning every single day, and he tries to make sure that kids look forward to learning every single day.  He has the best class control of any teacher I know, for all of the aforementioned reasons.  Any kid would be lucky to have him as a teacher, but to get to start each school day off with a teacher who demonstrates by his words and actions how important your education is to him, who knocks you out with his enthusiasm, who creates lessons designed not just to teach you but to involve you and make you want to come back the next day to see what you're doing next--that's one lucky group of kids!  Hell, I'd like to start my day off in his science class if I could, and I did terribly in science .

I think that both Dave and the kids are going to reap massive amounts of benefits from this new situation (massive is a comparative term, and since you don't know what I'm comparing this to in my head, you just have to nod your head and go along with me).

Frankly, the only person I wouldn't want to be in this whole scenario is one of the sixth grade teachers who gets Dave's students after he's done with them each day.  These kids will be coming from a classroom where the teacher brings his "A" game to work every single day.  EVERY SINGLE DAY!    These kids will be coming from a room where they are being engaged, challenged, stretched and inspired.  EVERY SINGLE DAY!  And these kids will be hoping for a second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth period filled with more of the same--EVERY SINGLE DAY!  It's a tall order.

Dave will have these kids excited about science for sure, but he is not a miracle worker.  Sixth graders are sixth graders.

They will still need to be told things three times.  They will probably still forget their materials.  They will most likely cry.  A lot.  For completely inexplicable reasons.

But they will look forward to first period.  EVERY SINGLE DAY!

Suck It 45!

Dear 45,

I am writing this out of concern for you.  It appears that you think you are 50, and you, my friend, are no 50.

You are, to be sure, way past 40.  I will give you that much.  40, although scary to think about, really was not such a big deal.  Sure, people warned me about 40.  But in the end, 40 was just a number.  It brought no giant change as prophesied by so many.  Some little changes--an ache here, a slower mile time there--but nothing dramatic.  45, you are only five years more.  And five years is not an eternity.

You, 45, seem to think you are years ahead of your time.  This must stop.  Now.

I do not want to be disrespectful.  You have five whole years on 40.  I acknowledge that, and I salute you.  Experience is important.  But I see the road you are headed down, and while it's ultimately a good one, you need to slow down a bit.  Take your time.  Don't rush into things.  I like where you are going, but you're getting a little pushy about it.

For example: you have politely insisted that I exercise more.  And I do, because you threaten me with actual weight gain if I do not comply (40 was a bit kinder in that respect--it actually let me lose weight when I exercised).

You have also kindly, persistently nudged me to become better acquainted with an old friend, ibuprofen.  I've never had anything against ibuprofen, by the way.  We always got along.  We just didn't need to be in constant contact.  We were fine getting together every now and again.  But at your insistence, now we hook up regularly.  I concede that you were right.  The more I get to know ibuprofen, the more I appreciate its qualities.  And you probably already knew this, but it turns out that exercise and ibuprofen have been hanging out together for years; I almost feel like a third wheel in the relationship.

And another thing, 45.  Get off my back.  Last week I threw it out.  Know what I was doing when it went out?  Not sailing.  Not swimming.  Not running or gardening or lifting heavy grocery bags.  Nothing even remotely athletic or even purposeful.  I was sunbathing.  Really.  I kid you not.  Layed down on the lounge chair for twenty minutes, and then couldn't get up.  What's up with that, 45?  You're going to take me out of the picture with sunbathing?  That's just lame, even for you, 45.  I understand you're excited about my renewed friendship with ibuprofen, but I see what you're doing.  You're pushing me towards flexeril.  And I know flexeril hangs with vicodin.  I'm not wild about either of them.  Not yet.  You shouldn't be either.  And you better watch out, 45.  I'm pretty sure 50 has already called shotgun with both of them.

Another thing I need to mention, 45, for your own good: I know you are excited about the prospect of being 50, but take a cue from 40, please, and realize that the day is not over at 7pm.  There's still plenty of exciting stuff to do after the sun goes down.  I know you may not love dancing into the wee hours the way 30 and even 40 did, but you are underestimating yourself.  I'm not trying to unfairly compare you to your younger self; I know we need more rest as we get older.  But for the love of god, you're 45, not 80.  Stop whispering in my ear that it's okay to be in my jammies at dinner time.  It's not.  I know you've worked your magic and gotten me to hit the sack before 9pm plenty of times, but I'm going to start fighting you on this one.  Fair warning.

In closing, I just want to remind you, 45,  that I'm trying really, really hard to act my age.  My parents taught me that long ago; did anyone ever take the time to teach YOU that?  It's important.  Don't rush it.  I need you, 45.  I need you to stick to your guns and keep me feeling 45, not try to make me feel older.  50 is five long years away still.  I don't think either one of us is quite mature enough to make that leap just yet.

Thank you for your understanding, and I hope we can still be friends.

Sincerely,

Kim

I Wanna Be My Mom When I Grow Up

My seventy-one year old mother just went to her 50th college reunion two months ago.  She and my dad, who is approaching seventy-five, flew from California to New York for a weekend.  A weekend with friends.  A weekend with friends my mother either (a) hasn't seen in decades; or (b) sees maybe once each decade and exchanges Christmas cards and emails and phone calls with in between visits.  Let me say it again: my seventy-one year old mother and my seventy-four year old father traveled three-thousand miles to see some old friends for a few days.

My parents travel all over the place.  They go to the beach, they go to the East Coast, they travel to AAPT conventions all over the country, they go to Europe.  They travel by car, rental car, train, foot, subway, metro, plane.  I don't recall ever hearing about any bus rides, but it may just be that I haven't heard all their stories yet.  They have a LOT of stories.  And even some slides to go with some of the older stories, if you're free some evening next week.

Back to the college reunion.  Or more precisely, a few days before they left for the college reunion.  My mom sends me a text (yes, my seventy-one year old mom has an iPhone 4; she texts my kids and plays "Words with Friends" with my niece and nephew).  The text reads something like this: "Do you know how to make a toga?"

Seriously.  I thought this was a funny question to be coming from my mother, and honestly I thought she was joking around.  She was not joking.  She wanted to know if I remembered from my own college days how to make a toga.  My mother seriously over-estimates my college days.  I don't think I ever had occasion to wear a toga in college (sad, I know, but don't tell anyone; if my mom thinks I was that big a partier, there might be others who think so, too--let's let them have their dreams, ok?).

So no, I had never constructed nor worn a toga in college, but I did attend one toga party a few years out of college, and I did remember how to take a bed sheet and make it into a fairly passable looking Greek ensemble.  I passed along my knowledge while inquiring as to why she needed this information.

Turns out that the all-girls college (at the time) that my mother attended was not only having a reunion for all of its graduated classes, but there would also be a parade of all the matriculates (is that a word?), as well as a party at which each graduating class would present a skit.  Guess which class decided to do a skit in togas?  The class of 1961.  Rock on, class of '61!  If you had asked me which class would be donning bed linens and baring shoulders, I'd have guessed closer to the class of 2001.  And in all fairness, let me just say that the class of '61 CHOSE the toga theme--it was not impressed upon them.  Okay, it might have been one person in the class of '61 that chose that theme and impressed it upon the rest of them, but still... if you still got your party panties (or togas) on fifty years out of college, I've got nothing but respect for you!  To me that shows a lust for life that is both admirable and enviable.

All throughout that reunion weekend, my mom sent me pictures of the various activities.  I saw the photo of her freshman dorm room.  I saw the picture of all the classes walking in the reunion parade across the beautiful campus.  I saw lovely shots of my mom with her classmates (my mom, just for the record, could have easily passed for someone at her 40th reunion).  I kept waiting for the toga shot.  I finally texted her--"Where's the one of you in a toga?"  Her reply: "I already sent it.  Didn't you get it?"  Hmmm.  Too convenient.  Me: "No, can you send it again?"  Her: "I'll try."  I was beginning to get doubtful.  Maybe my mom decided the toga was too much (or too little).  Finally, a very grainy, dark shot, with my mom's head and what appeared to be one bare shoulder peeking through from behind a wall of bodies.

Okay, it wasn't Animal House or anything, but I'm proud of my mom for rising to the occasion.  I'm sure not every member of the class eagerly embraced the Greek theme, and I'm not even positive that my mom eagerly embraced it, but she did embrace it.  And she had fun.  Three thousand miles from home.  At the age of seventy-one.  Among lifelong friends.  In a toga.

I wanna be my mom when I grow up.


EDITOR'S NOTE: The companion piece, entitled "I Wanna Be My Dad When I Grow Up", is currently in the works and will be appearing soon.

In the Blink of an Eye

So today, in approximately four hours, as of 12:02pm, I will be the mother of a freshman and a junior in high school.   In HIGH SCHOOL!  I am not exactly sure how this happened.

I do remember giving birth to two adorable babies.  I can picture playpens and bouncy seats and car seats and doorway swings, and lots and lots of Legos.

I recall two little cuties running around in the sprinklers (probably naked) in our backyard for several summers, painting on the easel Dave made for them, chalking up the back patio--and themselves!

I have vivid memories of walking the kids to school each and every morning for seven years, and I believe I walked them home for a good many years as well, until at some point the walk home turned instead into me waiting anxiously on the front porch, watching them walk home, waiting (hoping) to hear the stories of the day.

I remember lots of names of friends who came and went (Mack, Trevor, Abby, Barrett) as well as those who stuck around for the long haul (Rebecca, Christopher, Jessica).

Somewhere in there I can picture school elections, carpools, swim meets, band concerts, cross-country meets, carpools, summer homework, birthday parties, carpools, and summer nights spent at "the court".

Somehow, driving lessons crept up on us.  And tryouts for the JV cheer squad.

And just two nights ago I found myself at a college preparatory meeting with Steven.  That's where things start to get a little fuzzy for me.  How did I get THERE?  And the next morning, as I was sitting at Olivia's eighth grade promotion, the principal kept referring to "The Class of 2015".  I felt like Pavlov's dogs.  Every time he said "the class of 2015", my eyes welled up.  Every single time.  There was nothing I could do to stop it.

There IS nothing I can do to stop it, I guess.  I will admit I have tried.  And failed.  Telling your daughter you think the tankinis are cuter than the bikinis does not stop her from being a teenager and buying the bikini.  Telling your son that Facebook will just suck up hours of his life will not stop him from making giddy little sounds with a giant smile on his face as he opens his Facebook  page one hour after making it and finds he now has fifty friends.

In the blink of an eye, my kids grew up.  I know I was there.  I remember it all clearly, so many moments, big and small.  But right now it all just feels like a blur.  I was never very good at physics (there's a whole blog entry just waiting to be written on that subject), but right now, just when I want time to stand still, time seems instead to be accelerating at a ridiculous pace.  I'm having a hard time keeping up.

Right now Steven is at school enjoying a "Calculus Breakfast Final", and Olivia is still asleep upstairs.  I just looked at the clock.  I still have a little over three hours until I officially am the mother of an upperclassman and a freshman.  I think I may just go watch my daughter sleep for a few minutes...

...and furthermore, the wings look ridiculous!

You're killing me, Victoria's Secret.  Seriously.

It's not enough for you to advertise your wares with models who have impossibly long legs, ridiculously perfect faces, and smoking hot bodies. 

I understand why you do that.  I really do.  I get the marketing appeal.  You are a business, after all.

Sure, you can tell us that your underwear will make us feel sexy.  And you can imply that your bras will make our husbands crazy with desire.  And frankly, we will believe you.  We WILL feel sexy in your underwear.  And those racy bras likely WILL drive our husbands nuts (probably actually more the taking off of those bras that will make them nuts, but I concede that their lace and demi-cups contribute to them coming off faster). 

Yes, Victoria's Secret, I will concede that you can and have convinced me that when I am in your fashion-forward, ultra sexy merchandise I am indeed fashion-forward and ultra-sexy. 

But you do realize, nameless advertising executives for VS, that you are selling products to masses of women who bear no actual resemblance to your "angels", don't you?  You do realize that you have immense power over women of all ages, all body types, all outlooks, don't you?  Don't you? 

I don't think you do.

Today you, Victoria's Secret, made me feel like I'm not good enough.  And I'm here to tell you, that's not an easy thing to do to me.  I'm a pretty happy girl here.  While I know I'm not Heidi Klum, I'm more than okay with the way I look. 

I've got great hair!  It's got body and a pretty color and I look awesome in a ponytail!
My eyes are two different colors (very different colors: chocolate brown and green)--quite unusual and attention grabbing.  I think they're kind of stunning myself.
My husband tells me I have an arresting smile.  Good enough for me!
I'm in relatively good shape.  I'm forty-five, have run a half dozen half-marathons, and while my chance at being a Playboy Bunny is past (okay, really I never had the kind of bod that would have made that a possibility, but you know what I mean), gravity and I have made our peace.  I'm good with where things have settled.

But then I went to your website to buy a few new bras.  I don't usually buy bras from you as they are, in my opinion, stupidly expensive.  But you were having a sale, so I thought I'd see what you had that might serve double-duty (no pun intended) by both supporting my girls and making me feel a little, in the words of the thesaurus on my computer's dashboard, "seductive, desirable, alluring, toothsome, sensual, sultry, slinky, provocative, tempting, tantalizing; nubile, voluptuous, luscious, lush, hot, beddable, foxy, cute; informal bootylicious."  I really, really wanted to feel bootylicious.

And you, Victoria's Secret, made me feel inadequate.  Which is a very, very long way from bootylicious.

I looked at all the beautiful bras.  Dozens and dozens of them in all sorts of colors and styles--t-shirt bras, demi bras, strapless bras, push-up bras, support bras, cotton bras with no padding, underwires, etc....  It was a Wonderland of brassieres.  To narrow down my options, I decided to search by size.  So I entered my size, and clicked return.  And up popped my seven choices.  That's right.  My seven choices.  Out of the vast number of bras that Victoria's Secret markets, they make seven of them in my size.  But wait.  Here's the kicker.

All seven of them were push-up bras.  There were no bras available for me to even look at that were not of the push-up variety. 

So not only is my size not worthy of having all the sexy options available to those more amply endowed, apparently if you are a woman who wears a 36A, your breasts need help.  You should not be content with the way they are.  According to Victoria's Secret, there is no other option but to push them up to make them appear larger, to give you more cleavage, to create decolletage. 

Small is not worthy or sufficient.

Honestly, I really don't care if there are women who want to wear push-up bras every day, regardless of the occasion or the natural size of their breasts.  That's a choice for them to make.  I'm not judging the validity of the choice.   I'm simply wanting to be able to make the choice for myself. 

I would like to be able to buy a bra that is pretty and does what I want it to do for my body, not one of seven bras that mold my body into a size and shape that Victoria's Secret purports to be more acceptable than the one I already have.

So, Victoria's Secret, the next time I see one of your commercials with all of the super model "angels" posing and pouting for the cameras, parading around with their breasts practically popping out of their various styles and sizes of bras (lucky bitches), I think I will just ignore your implications that bigger is better, and instead remind myself to count my size 36A blessings.  

The Deeper Meaning of Hot Tamales

Anyone who knows me well knows of my love for Hot Tamales (the candy, not the actual Mexican food). My love of these yummy little treats has inspired my son to redesign the Hot Tamale box just for me as a Christmas present (a very fun, unique stocking stuffer, I might add--and just in case you're wondering Hot Tamales do in fact taste excellent at 7:30am as you are opening your Christmas presents), prompted friends to serve dishes of them as appetizers as well as desserts at our get togethers, and compelled my best friend to bestow upon me packages of them at random times just because she knows it'll make me smile.  That's an awesome best friend, by the way, who will surprise you with your favorite candy for no reason other than she knows it'll make your day!

A few days ago, as I was standing in line at the grocery store, I spontaneously threw a pack into my cart  to munch on the ride home (I know, never shop when you're hungry, but frankly that advice isn't applicable in this case, because I will eat Hot Tamales whether I am hungry or not-- they are THAT good!).  I loaded my bags into the back seat, and sat down in the driver's seat to enjoy a little bit of heaven. I opened the bag (changing the packaging to a bag instead of the decades-old box was, in my opinion, a terrible mistake--Hot Tamales make this very satisfying sound when you shake the box, and when you slide them out of the box; no such luck with the new bag wrapper.  Thankfully, they did not change the "movie size" packaging, so I guess I'll just have to start buying the bigger boxes gosh darnit...).

Anyway, so there I was sitting in my car with the bag ripped open and a few candies in my palm, and I realized that just the smell of the Hot Tamales made me smile.  And I paused.  Because I couldn't really think of any other candy that makes me smile like that.  And I wanted to figure out what it was that was triggering the big stupid grin on my face.

It didn't take long.

Movies.  I never really realized it before, but I associate Hot Tamales with going to the movies.  When I was younger (much, much younger, like say high school), when I went to the movies I always got Hot Tamales.  Always.  None of that nasty Good n' Plenty, not Mike n' Ikes (a blatant rip-off of the Hot Tamales in my opinion), not Dots (what the hell kind of candy was that anyway?), not Raisinettes (really, raisins in your movie candy?).  Hot Tamales.  Always.

I do love to go to the movies still--love the smell of the popcorn, love getting engrossed in the stories.  I do occasionally still get a big box of Hot Tamales when I'm at the movies (and I will state for the record that I think if you're going to put a bunch of candy in a box, the serving size should be the whole box.  I don't care if the nutrition information says it's three servings.  I'm not sharing.  And I'm certainly not saving any for later).

But there was more to it than just movies.  I can't name you any particular movies I saw when I was a teen that really impacted me.  No, it was more about the memories of going to the movies than it was actually watching any particular show.  Here's why:

When I was in high school, I shared a lot of the same friends with my older brother.  We ran in the same crowd, so to speak.  We took some of the same classes, both ran on the cross-country team, belonged to a lot of the same clubs.  We even worked at the same store (I miss the Bagel Bin and those yummy bagels covered in salt).

And our group of friends went to the movies together.  And sitting in my car, I realized that I think I love Hot Tamales so much because every time I open a bag or a box of them, my senses immediately take me back to hanging out with my big brother and remembering how much fun we had together.  I can picture the lobby of the Dublin Cinema with its maroon swirly carpet.  I can see the ticketing line.  I can even envision the little black board with the white letters that told the ticket prices-- and I believe they were somewhere around .75 cents for a student.  Wow.  It's now $9.00.  That's a whole other blog entry that won't have nearly the happy, nostalgic feel that this one does for me.

I guess that's what my Hot Tamale fancy is-- just a happy, nostalgic reminiscence of a carefree time in life when I palled around with my big bro, no cares in the world.

It got me to thinking about other foods that cause that same visceral reaction.  I came up with a few:

Butter Rum Lifesavers: more happy childhood memories

Peppermint Lifesavers: actually, it was Cryst-O-Mint at the time, but they don't make those anymore.  Peppermint Lifesavers will still cause me to remember the smell of Pop Pop's wooly sweater (my grandfather).

Reed's Cinnamon or Root Beer candies: haven't had these in a while now, but they always reminded me of going to the symphony with my parents because my mom always had them in her purse.

Hostess HoHo's: immediately takes me back to sitting in the back of my best friend's mom's van and eating entire boxes of them in one sitting--good times!

Grapefruit Soda: Hansen's makes a nice grapefruit soda that makes me feel like I'm a little kid again, standing in the kitchen of our first house on Bonita Avenue and stealing a little swig out of the green bottle of Cragmont Grapefruit Soda.

Sourdough bread with a hunk of cheddar cheese and some salami, washed down with a full-sugar can of Dr. Pepper : this is perhaps my favorite thing to eat of all time (although I do the diet Dr. Pepper these days) and I know exactly why.  I have so many memories of going to Carmel with my family, and each time we went we would go to the deli up on the corner of Ocean Avenue, the Mediterranean Market, and each of us kids would get to pick out a can of soda to go with the picnic lunch my parents would get.  We would take all the food out to Point Lobos Park, and we would sit on the rocks and eat bread and cheese while watching the sea otters in the surf.  I remember going there with my family, with Gaga (my grandmother), and with my great aunt and uncle at various times.  And always the same lunch.  It just makes me smile thinking about it.

I'm starting to see a pattern emerge here.  Perhaps I need to reassess my eating habits.  Maybe I need to dig a bit deeper and see if I can find some amazing childhood memory involving broccoli or apples.

But you know what?  Memories are a big part of who you are, and you will never convince me that bread, cheese and salami are anything but good for me!

Explaining the Inexplicable

I've been thinking a lot lately about being pregnant.  Not actually about wanting to be pregnant (someone revive Dave).  More about when I was pregnant, and the giant expanse of future that lay before our growing little family at the time.

It was fun to imagine all the possibilities that lay ahead--everything from quiet nights rocking a crying baby in the middle of the night (which is much more picturesque when you are just picturing it and not actually living it night after sleepless night) to trips to Disneyland and rides on the Matterhorn (which in my idyllic world would not have been closed for renovations when we took our kids to the Magic Kingdom).

While I was pregnant, I had lots of time to anticipate all of these Kodak moments because it's darn hard to sleep when there is a small human being reclining on your bladder 24/7.  And it got harder and harder to get a good night's sleep the closer I got to my due date, 'cause now that small human being who was nestled on top of my organs was closing in on nine pounds.  I recall friends and family advising me that losing sleep before you give birth is nature's way of preparing you for the months ahead of interrupted slumber.  So sleep deprivation before the birth, as far as I could tell from what I was being told, was supposed to help me get used to being ridiculously exhausted, which in turn was going to help me be a better parent because I will be used to functioning in a state of ridiculous exhaustion when the baby comes. Because that's how we want our new parents, right?  Confused, terrified, newly responsible for another human being's every need, and delirious from lack of sleep.

But it turns out they were right.  Those long, sleepless night truly did sort of prep me for what lay ahead.  Who would have thought?

Seemingly inexplicable things, in hindsight, are much more explicable once you can see the big picture.  That's my theory, and I'm sticking to it.

So I was a new mom, and as it turns out, I could get by on five hours of sleep (which were not continuous, but divided up into 45-60 minute intervals).  I was young and enthusiastic and could not be happier to be starting a family, and I was used to not sleeping very much and still getting things done.  Good job, Mother Nature!  You get a "10" for preparedness.

This no-sleep phase passed, of course.  Steven began sleeping through the night, and even Olivia finally made it through her colicky period and we all began to get some much needed rest.

And although I did not see it at the time, that makes perfect sense in hindsight, doesn't it?  Yes, it does, and let me explain why.  Because right about the time our kids finally slept through the night, thus also allowing US to sleep through the night, they became mobile.

They rolled.  They scooched.  They crawled.  They walked.  They were gettin' around.

And I had to keep up with them.  I needed that rest that I was finally getting.  I needed every single minute of that continuous sleep to keep up with my kids.  Mother Nature would have gotten a big high-five from  me if she would have added a few hours to each night so I could grab just a bit more of that shut-eye.

I know, I know.  It doesn't seem like it would be that hard to keep up with toddlers.  But here's the thing: I could not take my eyes off of them--ever!  Not because they were so darn cute (which they were and still are), but because if I did, there was this whole world of things they could get into because they were no longer stationary.  Baby-proofing only goes so far.  Toddler mobility=Parental exhaustion.  That's my math skills at their very best right there with that equation!

Here's my proof to support that mathematical equality: when they were babies, I could sit them in their bouncy seat for an hour and cook dinner.  I could put them into the playpen and make a marketing list. They would sleep in their cribs for an hour or two during the day.  But once they hit toddlerdom (remember, I like to make up words?), the kids didn't take kindly to being contained or still.  Their curiosity kicked in.  They wanted to explore.  They got a kick out of climbing onto things they could fall off of.  They were partial to putting things other than food into their mouths (I, at one point, seriously wondered if CPS would be showing up as I had called the "anonymous" Poison Control Hotline three times in a two week period).  During their waking hours, they never, ever stopped moving.  And I am here to tell you that nothing will both bring on and require a good night's sleep like a day spent hanging with the 2-4 year old set.  Again, job well done Mother Nature!  Perfect timing on your part with that whole sleep thing.  The kids were so pooped at the end of the day (as was I) that they slept soundly, which allowed me to sleep soundly as well.

And then the kids got older still.  And while now everyone was sleeping just fine, thank you very much, there did not seem to be enough hours in the day for me to actually get our house clean, plus I was exhausted at the end of each day from the swirl of activity generated by the kids.  Sure, the kids were independent enough to sit at the kitchen table and do some fun crafts (word to the wise: glitter is your enemy), but they weren't quite old enough to clean up after themselves, or make themselves a quick sandwich, or play a game together without mediation--you get the idea.  So while I would clean up one activity and make a snack, they would head off to do something else (code for "make another mess for mom to clean up").  No rest for the weary.  And certainly not a lot of spare time to mop those floors.  Would my house ever get clean?  Yes.  It would.  Because the kids would go to school.  I can't thank Mother Nature for that one, of course.   But I do feel pretty sure that many years ago, there was a mother somewhere, with a couple of four to five year olds, who said to her husband, "Hey, honey, if you'd ever again like to see clean floors and me naked, you better think of some way to entertain these kids for a few hours every day."  And thus preschool was born.

That's right.  I am now convinced, looking back and finally being able to see the big picture, that kids going to preschool, while being completely unnecessary in the academic sense, is the sole contributing factor to moms being able to finally get their floors mopped and their lingerie out of mothballs.  Those precious few hours were invaluable.  I had some time to myself, and it really was a feeling of accomplishment to unload my dishwasher completely, instead of one dish at a time as I needed them.  It felt good to actually put the clean laundry away--I was beginning to think that my kids would grow up thinking that the laundry room was actually a giant walk-in closet.  And hey--not being so tired I was ready to cry every night was much more romantic...  Preschool came at just the right time!

Parenting is hard, though.  A few hours a day never seemed enough time to get everything done that needed to be done.  Plus, now my kids were getting older, and at that age when they were mobile, vocal, and cognitive.  Steven wanted to know WHY?  Why does the sun shine?  Why is the sky blue?  Why does the ocean have waves?  Why is there so much sand?  And Olivia was right there with him.  She was Robin to his Batman.  It was wonderful to see, but mentally tiring.  No longer were car rides what I'd call relaxing.  They were now non-stop question and answer sessions.  Dinner time was endless conversation, with down time provided during chewing and swallowing.  Now don't get me wrong--I loved that my kids were curious, and both Dave and I were happy to answer their questions.  But man, it was, here's that word again, exhausting.    Preschool was great, but the time flew by so quickly. What could help me quench their undying, unending curiosity?  What could possibly save me from going completely insane?

Elementary school.  All day.  Five days in a row.  Again, no thanks to Mother Nature, but a lifesaver none-the-less.  Curious, intelligent kids are fantastic, but I needed some help with the never-ending spirit of inquiry my kids possessed.  Plus, in addition to school providing them with constant challenge, it was also, at least for the first few years, like having a playdate with their friends every day (but I didn't have to clean up after all twenty of them! Yay me!).

Now, kids going off to school is a double-edged sword.  Again, I didn't see it at the time--all I could see looming was a bit of long-forgotten freedom for myself.  At first, just the mere thought of the kids both being in school each day made me giddy with excitement over what I might be able to accomplish.   Once both the kids were in elementary school, I thought I had it made.  Sure, I cried that first day as I sat at my kitchen table, all by myself.  It was a bit lonely.  That day.  And then I rebounded.  I had time to not only clean the house, I could grocery shop BY MYSELF, go for a run, watch the noon news while I ate lunch, even occasionally meet a girlfriend for coffee.

As time passed, though, I realized something was missing.  What was it?   House clean?  As clean as I'm going to get it.  Quick run to get a bit of exercise?  Check.  Groceries in the cupboard?  Got 'em.  An occasional (shut up, whoever just snorted) episode of Days of Our Lives while I ate lunch?  Very nice.  Hmmmm..... what was that little feeling nagging away at me?  What was absent?

Turns out it was the kids.  I did not see that coming.  Yep.  Those same kids that I had been so anxious to schlep off to school so that I could have a moment to myself--turns out I didn't quite know what to do with myself for seven hours a day.  So I did what all moms do: I worked in my children's classrooms.  I volunteered at the school library.  I went to some PTA meetings.  I worked at the school "spring fling".  I went on countless fieldtrips.  I filled that giant expanse of free time that I had longed for so desperately right back up--and I filled it up with those same kids who had originally made me crave that giant expanse of free time!  How's that for coming full circle?

I didn't see it at the time.  I see it now.  Every little part of life, no matter how ridiculous it seems to you at the time, does its part to prepare you for something yet to come.

Right now, I'm thinking about how my teenagers can drive me absolutely batty, what with their eye-rolls and their harumphs and their seeming inability to pick clothing up off the floor of their rooms.  Truly, some days, they make me crazy.  And I think this may have to be a blog entry all on its own as events unfold, but my current theory is that teens unwittingly develop these behaviors (again, a tip of the hat to Mother Nature), which culminate precisely at the moment of high school graduation, at which time we parents have been driven so off our rockers that we are compelled to send them off to college to go drive their professors crazy for a little while.

Now, I'm not quite there yet.  And truthfully, as insane as the kids may make me at times, I can burst into tears just watching a car with "Seniors, Class of 2011" painted on its windows for homecoming drive by me.  The thought of me eagerly anticipating the kids leaving home is beyond my comprehension at this moment.  Just can't imagine it.

But I know things happen for a reason.  Remember those sleepless nights I recounted at the opening of this little discourse?  They're back, with a vengeance.  No, I'm not pregnant.  But my fifteen year old son IS about to get his driver's license... think that may have anything to do with it?

Subbing

You know what the single most important thing is to having a good day when you are a substitute teacher?  Go ahead and take a few guesses.  I’m pretty sure you won’t get it.  Long lunch?  Nope.  No “rainy day indoor recess”?  Not it.  Helpful colleagues?  That’s nice, but not the answer.  A fool proof lesson plan?  So close, but still not correct. 

Okay, here it is.  The single most important thing to having a good day as a sub is… a seating chart.  That’s right.  A plain old seating chart.  It doesn’t have to be fancy.  It doesn’t have to be neat and tidy.  It doesn’t have to be to-scale.  Sure, grading programs can usually spit out diagrams that have all the little boxes/desks lined up perfectly and names are neatly typed inside each one.  Fantastic.  But if your grading program doesn’t do that, or if it does do that but you don’t know HOW to make it do that, if you just plain old don’t want to LEARN how to make it do that, or even god forbid if you do not use a grading program so you have no access to this option, may I let you in on a little secret? 

We subs do not care about your technological prowess or lack thereof.  We simply want to be able to know who is in the class and where they are in the classroom.  There are a number of reasons, as I’m sure you can imagine, why it is advantageous to know a child’s name, as well as where that child sits.  Let me spell some of them out for you. 

As a guest teacher in a classroom, I begin the day at a disadvantage.  I do not know the routine.  I do not know the personalities.  Students are well aware of this, and even the nicest of kids will alter their behavior somewhat with a sub in the room.  Side note: when I was in eighth grade, I was one of those "nicest of kids" (if I do say so myself).  And yet when we had a sub in history one day, I so much wanted to sit by one of my friends that I traded desks with another kid in the class--a guy no less--and proceeded to watch as that kid had to confess to the sub that, yes, it is hard being a boy named Kim, and no, he wasn't aware that Kim was a much more common boy's name in England.  It all worked out--we weren't discovered.  But still, you see my point that having a sub in the room changes things a bit from the norm.  Okay, anyway, back to the topic at hand.


As a sub, I’m pretty good at setting out my rules and expectations from the get-go.  I begin the day somewhat stern and serious as I want the class to know that I am in charge and will remain so throughout the entire day.  But I will say that after I’ve let the students know I expect them to raise their hands if they have something to say, it doesn’t sound very stern or serious to say to a student who has just blurted out a response, “You, girl in the back row with the Tinkerbell shirt and the pink scrunchy in your hair, what’s your name?”  Try a few of your own—it’s like a Mad Lib. Say them out loud, as if you're talking to a student—see how authoritative you sound.  

You, young lady/young man 

 ___________ (location preposition, i.c. near, under, on, next to, beside, beneath)

 the ___________ (piece of furniture in the classroom)

 with the ___________ (popular cartoon or TV character) t-shirt,

 and the ____________ (color)

_______________ (accessory)

on your _________________ (body part corresponding to above chosen accessory),

please raise your hand and wait to be called on before you answer.

Really, try a few of these.  Mix it up a little.  Say it loudly while maintaining a direct stare.  

A seating chart would dramatically change the impact of the above exchange.
Try the same thing, but insert a child's first name and omit everything else except the last line.

“Joe, please raise your hand and wait to be called on before you answer.”

Much better, thank you very much.

It's not, I don't think, a lot to ask.  But you'd be amazed how many teachers do not think to leave a seating chart when they are gone.  They will leave detailed lesson plans.  They will explain at great length how the kids should line up for recess (line leaders first, groups with the highest point in descending order next, kids with check marks next to their names last, etc..).  Really, that's a lot of detail for recess line-up (and not at all out of the ordinary, by the way).  May I gently suggest to you, absent teacher, that you reallocate your time to dashing off a quick seating chart for me instead of filling me in on which order the kids should line up to leave the room?

And one final plea for seating charts: I like to compliment kids who are hard-working and on-task.  It really takes the "oomph" out of giving kudos to a student when you can't give them the compliment directly.  "Hey, Sarah, thanks so much for having all your supplies out and being ready to begin math.  Great job!  And thank you also to Justin, Jose, and Lori for being on top of things... "  sounds so, so much better than, "Hey, thank you to this guy, and that girl, and that girl, and this guy over here for being ready to go."

So, again, to recap, best possible thing I can find on the desk of the teacher whose room I'm about to commandeer for the next seven hours?  Seating chart!

And just in case you're wondering, worst possible thing I can find on the desk of the teacher whose room I'm about to commandeer for the next seven hours?  Bags of candy.  Bags of candy means you think, no you EXPECT, that I'm going to  have to bribe your kids to be good.  And that ALWAYS means you've already told the kids that bribery is the plan.  Not super high expectations of your students, or your sub for that matter.  I am not a fan of candy as a discipline plan.  Kids know how to work that one.  In their little heads, when the teacher says, "And I'm leaving treats if you're good...", what they hear is "And I'm leaving treats if you can convince the sub that you should get them..."  Big, big difference.  I expect kids to behave well, not "good enough for a treat".

I can make it work for me, though.  IF (big IF here) IF you leave me the seating chart with the candy.  That seating chart is crucial to my ability to establish a rapport with the students, which in turn might just allow me to not actually have to use the candy at all in the end run.

So teachers everywhere, I implore you: make a seating chart RIGHT NOW! Scribble it out on a piece of recycled scratch paper, and tuck it in the top drawer of your desk.  The next time you have to make out a sub plan, paper clip it to the back.  I guarantee your sub will appreciate it--and you might even end up with candy left over as a little treat for you!