What You Really Learn in First Grade

First Jensie came home from school belting "Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg...Hey Mom, what'dya think of that song? Isn't it funny? Mikayla's sister made it up."

Then she started sneaking up on everyone and clapping her hands loudly in their faces. "Oh you blinked," she'll yell. "You're afraid of butterflies!"

Last night she found me on the couch, and stretching her hands out towards me, with her fingertips touching, said "Open the gate." (I did.)
"Who do you hate?"
"Um, Satan?"
"That's who you'll date!"
(This all followed by fits of hysterical laughter).

Next up: "I took a bath with bubbles..." and M.A.S.H.

Jensie getting an award for a few other things she's picked up at at school as well.

Sick Day

This morning my little sickies piled onto my bed to snuggle before the day began. It was heaven. I think we should take sick days more often. We giggled and cuddled while the sun came up.

When we finally got up, Asher helped me make pear granola muffins from scratch while the girls played with their dolls in their room. After breakfast I promised to pay Jensie this week's allowance as soon as her room was clean. She never really got around to it though. She was too busy building an awesome fort--complete with a "front gate" and a drawbridge.

I liked today.

Quaggas and Happy Lights: Updated

Remember that one time I told the truth? Sadly, things aren't looking much different here on this side of January. I'm afraid they've taken a turn for the worse. Much worse.

On gloomy days I find it difficult to perform even the most basic of tasks, like say, oh, feeding my children.

After school yesterday Jensie walked in the door and demanded "Hey, mom! What's for dinner?"

Before waiting for me to respond she rolled her eyes and added sarcastically "Oh wait, let me guess. You don't know because we have no food and you have no money."

She was only half right. It's true that we're low on groceries and even lower on funds. (Let the countdown to payday begin!) But in a lot of ways it just boils down to plain old fashioned depression. I don't feel like doing anything--cooking included.

The good news though, as I am only just finding out, is that there is hope.

The other day Nate called and I asked him excitedly "Nate, did you know there are therapeutic lamps and vitamins that help people with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder--I have self-diagnosed myself as one such person)?"

(I also have AAD, Army Affective Disorder, again self-diagnosed, which sadly is not as easy to treat with bright lights and cheap gimmicks.)

"Oh yeah," he said, "I've read about that."

My first thought was obviously. Because really, what hasn't he read about?

Here's another example: today I told him "Asher has to take something that begins with the letter Q to school for show-and-tell, and I don't want to do anything with queens or quilts--too obvious. Any ideas?"

"How about a quagga?" He replied.

"What the heck is a quagga?" I queried.

"Oh it's a horse. Kind of like a zebra really. They recently went extinct. I was just reading about them."

(image)

Wow.

Anyway...

My second thought (we're back to SAD now) was Why the heck didn't you tell me about it?

Friends. Friends who are suffering the moody blues in the worst imaginable way. Friends, whose spirits rose when the sun peeked out behind the clouds on Saturday morning, only to have your hopes dashed by the return of a gray endless sky Sunday night...there is hope. Better, there are lamps! Lamps I tell you. And they give you bright sunshiny light almost-as-good-as-the-real-thing right in your very own kitchen. Or living room. Or closet. The possibilities are endless. They are "happy lights." You can buy them at Costco or here.

There are also vitamins. Sunshine Vitamins. Rich in vitamin D. Three kinds of D I think. Sure to perk you up after a winter of deficiency. You can buy those at Costco too! (Now do you see why I so missed Costco while we lived way down South?)

And I'm pretty sure they work. People I trust have PROMISED me they work. I haven't been able to try them myself just yet, because, as Jensie is quick to point out and I have already mentioned, I have no money. But you can bet that first thing Friday morning "go to Costco" will be #1 on the to-do list.

'Til Friday my friends, be strong.

_________________________________________________

Update: Happy-Lites and Go-Lites are all sold out at the Orem Costco, but can both be found in mass quantities at the store in Lehi. And the Happy-Lites are only $49.99. (They cost twice as much on Amazon.)

A Limerick

This is sweet Jensie Lissette
Why's her face creamy and wet?
Her whole body's scaly,
Poor lizard-y baby,
But we'll beat her eczema yet.

and a weak limerick at that. Cute picture though, right?

From the Archives: A True Story

Easter Bunny Gone Mutant
written August 31, 2001

"Una zorra, una zorra!" Someone screamed from a distant classroom.

Instantly what seemed like thousands of terrified kindergartners scrambled from their desks and swarmed towards the door--trying to escape some unseen nightmare.

I tried to stop them from leaving, pulling on pigtails and diving at little brown boys, but they were too quick.

Tears of humiliation burned my eyes as I realized that, once again, I'd lost control of my class and would no doubt be the hottest topic of gossip at lunch. This wasn't the first time these rambunctious five year olds had gotten the best of me. I'd been in Panama nearly three months already, and was volunteering as a kindergarten English teacher in the middle of the jungle.

The other teachers, all native, middle aged, and short tempered, were demanding and quick to discipline. In their classes, everyone spent serious time learning to read, color in the lines, and count to one hundred. However, keeping little kids silently in their chairs for nearly three hours seemed almost criminal to me. In my class we played "tickle tag" and dressed Barbies while occasionally learning a few English words or nursery rhymes on the side. The only problem was that I didn't know enough Spanish to ask them to play quietly. More often than not, our fun and games were interrupted when a furious teacher from a neighboring classroom stormed in to let me know that we'd once again disrupted her lesson. My students all loved me, but this quickly made me an enemy to the other maestras, making meals and faculty meetings almost unbearable.

I stumbled through the door towards the playground after my class, praying that somehow the rest of the school would be temporarily deaf while I had time to round up the bunch that had just escaped me. Much to my dismay, as I neared the playground I heard frantic adult voices, as well as those of my own pupils, and feared that our unruliness had been discovered.

As I rounded the final corner, I was surprised to find that I was not the only one whose entire class had completely freaked out. Even more shocking was that there were quite a few teachers who seemed just as panicked as the students. More and more were beginning to join in what was now becoming a frightening chant "una zorra, una zorra!"

What was a zorra anyway? I cornered a small boy who'd been running toward the protective circle of his friends, lone enough for him to pan something about a hideous monster with long ears.

Long ears? What could that possibly be? My visions of Monty Python's Easter Bunny Gone Mutant (aye, but he's a killer!) were shattered as a terrifying howl boomed across the crowd.

"AAAAAAAEEEEEEEAAAWWWHHHHOOOOOOOOOYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAWWWW"
A madman came crashing through the tall palm trees that lined the school grounds. Whooping and howling, swinging a machete wildly above his head while bellowing ferociously to get out of his way. The blade's sharp edge flashed in the sun as he came nearer. A vicious rabbit suddenly seemed trivial, as this jungle terrorist on the rampage, swooped toward us.

I screamed and lunged for the children. Just then, something red flashed on the right and I saw a small animal, with long ears, go streaking through the palms. A fox! The machete crazed lunatic ran right past us and headed straight towards the defenseless animal.

All of the kids took up the chase, and soon had the fox cornered near the school garden. The man violently chopped at the cowering creature, and as the brutal knife came crashing down on it, the children squealed with delight, taking turns kicking the fox in between blows of the heavy blade.

The teachers, who until this moment, had continued their rhythmic incantation "a fox, a fox," began cheerfully screeching, "Matalo, matalo!" Kill it. Kill it.

The fox died as she let out one long ghastly cry. As everyone clapped and hollered, I stood horrified, unable to keep from staring at the gruesome carcass, that had only moments before been a sleek healthy vixen.

"Can we eat it now?" asked little Juan Carlos.

"Yes, of course!" replied one of the teachers pleasantly, "With rice or noodles?"

My stomach began to heave as everybody tried to decide just how they'd like their lunch prepared. While I headed back to my classroom in disgust, someone yelled, "Look at Maestra Erin, she's green!"

"What a wimp."

"What a weenie."

Ha ha ha hee hee ha. Everyone was cracking up. The little ones rolled in the dirt holding their bellies, while teachers wiped their eyes and slapped me on the back good-naturedly.

"Don't worry," one said. "You'll get used to it."

________________________________________________________

And I did.

This is the where the archived story ends and the new one begins. I wrote "Killer Easter Bunny Gone Mutant" (its actual title) when I was 18 for my first college English class when tasked to describe a time in my life I felt I didn't belong. The end of the original essay emphasizes how apart from the group I felt, how completely out of my element I was as a teenage gringa in the jungles of Latin America.

What I'd like to remember instead is how much I actually learned from and came to love the Panamanians--how I learned to recognize a small fox for being the symbol of something much greater.

While studying abroad I was blessed to live with one of the wealthiest families in the rural town of Penonomé. My host-father was an orthopedic surgeon. My host mother was a nurse. Their professions allowed them many modern-day comforts that most of their neighbors simply could not afford. I dare say, could not even dream of.

Most families lived in the forested hills above the village in small huts, thatched roofs on poles called Ranchos. Instead of beds they slept in hammocks and scrawny chickens pecked the dirt floors below. These chickens were of course meant to feed the families swinging sleepily above. Whether or not a family starved was determined by whether or not a fox attacked a hen that night.

Having grown up in a middle-class American home, I was absolutely mortified the day la zorra met her doom. But in the months that followed I saw many other things that opened my eyes to the reality of life in a third world country--a family living close to my house died of Hantavirus after a mouse nibbled his way through a corner of their cereal box. I watched a small child with the flu die in the arms of her father while he begged for the driver of our rickety bus to "please, please drive faster. I need a doctor!"

The fox was killed brutally and with malice. But the death of that fox was something that could be controlled, in a life full of uncontrollable hardships. Control is something akin to power, and the grounds-keeper and school children grasped it that day and held on tight.

Last week while I was browsing headlines online I came across a photo essay of life in Afghanistan. One heartbreaking picture in particular has stuck in my mind. A small boy, no bigger than Jensie, gathered bits of scrap metal from a mountainous garbage heap. He hoped to sell the metal to pay for his family's supper that night.

My children (Jensie, Asher, and Frances) are intelligent and have many talents. At the risk of sounding callous, I'll admit that I am glad, oh so grateful, that trash collection isn't one of them. Or really, that is doesn't have to be one of them.

Though my heart aches for small children whose lives are hard and often cruel, I more fully appreciate that my own kids will grow up knowing the love of two parents, with a sturdy roof over their heads, warm clothes on their backs, and nutritious food in their bellies.

And I have the good people of Penonomé to thank for teaching me not to take it for granted.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

Love Your Enemies

"So this morning, as I look into the eyes of all my brothers in Alabama and all over America and over the world, I say to you,
I love you. I would rather die than hate you."

--Martin Luther King Jr.
at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church
Montgomery, Alabama 1957

A New Dress

Last year I fell in love with this:


So, I thought for a minute (real hard like),made a pattern, and came up with this:

Photo by Ashley Thalman Photography

Next up:

(Shabby Apple only sells clothes for short people. Boo.)

Wish me luck!

Dumb Dog Why Are You Bothering Me?

When Nate is gone, the dog suffers. Though I do remember to feed her twice a day and pet her every now and then, when I am feeling overwhelmed by a long list of to-dos, her walks and training sessions are first to get the axe. As a result she seems to have forgotten that she was ever obedience trained and even remotely house-broken.

Last week I decided enough was enough. It was time to give that dog some love and attention. That, or strangle it, but I thought I'd try the latter only as a last result. The dog used to reside in the living room, but it seemed wise to get her off the carpet while being reconditioned, so she now sleeps in the kitchen. Sure, it's gross to have a dog in the kitchen. But our only other hard-floored option was the bathroom. And sometimes I am naked in the bathroom. I'd much rather find dog hair in my Cheerios than my lady parts.

I thought things were going pretty well until I arrived home last night, after a long day of doctors appointments with Jensie, to find the kitchen a shambles. Shards of broken dishes, a shredded box of All Bran with its thousands of fibery kibbles, and a shattered bottle of Italian salad dressing made for a greasy, dangerous, hairy mess. And there, in the middle of it all, stood my doofy 200 pound puppy eagerly wagging her tail--happy to welcome us home.

Clearly I needed some new discipline tools, and fast. So, this afternoon after picking Asher up from preschool we headed to the local thrift store hoping to find a few books of the "How To" variety.

I quickly found four books. And all at the bargain price of less than $3.00 a pop. After a quick dinner, baths, and homework I sat down to look them over, impatient to learn the secrets of dog success.

Upon closer inspection however, I'd say I put the idiot in Idiot's Guide.

Sea Water Tea Company: The Birth of a Legend

Years ago, a two year old Jensie, wearing her most glamorous sunglasses, wrapped herself in an old curtain and sat down in her bedroom to enjoy her first tea party.

Pinky raised, she took one dainty sip from her plastic cup and gasped.

"Blech." she spat. "It's sea water!"

Fighting to regain her composure, she smoothed the ivory lace of her "gown" and began again.

Alas, with the second swig of her imaginary brew, she fared no better. "Oh it's so salty." she cried, pretending to gag.

Coughing and sputtering, she gathered up the entire service and cast it into the sink of her child-sized kitchen.

Without so much as a backward glance, she disrobed and wandered downstairs to watch Sesame Street.

The singing teapot and colorful saucers have since been used for frogs and captured insects, scientific experiments, and magical potions, but tea itself has not been served.

At our house there is never High Tea. There is not even Low Tea. There is only no tea.

The Ghost of Mothers Past

When my grandmother was growing up women could be nurses. That is, until they were married. Then they could “be” nothing—just wives and mothers. I seriously doubt her mother was presented with even that many options.

When my mom had reached kindergarten, and the teacher asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, women's "choices" had expanded to include secretary or teacher.

By the time I came along however, countless women, my grandmothers included, had put up one hell of a fight—ensuring that I, unlike them, would have the freedom to dream. Success, education, and equal treatment were mine for the taking.

When I started school I had already determined to become a Prima-Ballerina. And maybe an astronaut, oo ooh, and then I'd be a dentist. And no one ever discouraged me. My parents smiled “You can do it.” My teacher flashed me two thumbs-up.

My mom often used to play a song called “You Can Be Anything” for my sisters and me. We’d dress-up and dance around the house, envisioning all the ways we’d someday change the world. I remember it well. In fact, I play the same song for my own children now.

“You can be a doctor, a scientist or a professor
(but you’ll have to go to school)
Be a winning athlete, but only if you do your best, sir
(and follow all the rules)
You can work for a dream ‘til it comes true
(just get in there and persevere)
You can even be president, yes you! (Someone else did it just last year)
Set a high high goal you’ve nothing to lose, you can be anything you choose!”

Sadly, though not surprisingly, no where do the lyrics persuade you to “Stay home and vacuum all day, while a roast stews in the oven, and a baby vomits on your shoulder." They do not say, “Your hubby will bring home the bacon.”

I grew up thinking I had every choice in the world. But I guess no one ever considered that what I might choose, above all else, would be to go back to the kitchen. Take my shoes off, get pregnant, and decide to spend my young days changing endless poopy diapers, making playdoh and washing crayon off the walls.

ERRRRR: Wrong Answer.

When I announced the birth of my first child, my mother began to cry. (Not because she was happy.) By the time I became pregnant with my third I dreaded the call I knew I’d eventually have to make. “I was already having a bad day,” she said. “I’ll have to talk to you about this later.” (i.e. This mistake will someday sink you so far under that you’ll never fight your way out of your black-hole of endless despair. How could you be so stupid?) She didn’t speak to me for nearly two months.

“Are you planning on going back to school anytime soon?” This is invariably the first question my grandmother asks whenever we talk on the phone. Which is rare—go figure.

So I second guess myself. I wonder, should I feel guilty? Is it not enough to be “just a mom?” This must be a big slap in the face to women who worked very hard so that I didn't have to be here. Right? I mean, how can I tell them, those very women who changed history for me, that this is how I accept their gift? The gift of choice?

Not only do I choose to be a stay-at-home mom, I’ve got the audacity to admit I know I’m good at it. No matter how hard it gets, or how tired I am, I know (way down deep in there somewhere) that I am a great parent. Seriously, I rock. Ok, so I’ll admit I’m as guilty as the next mom when it comes to flaunting my flaws now and then. As one blogger put it-- Claiming to be bad parents is the new “I’m fat” for even the thinnest of women.

Sometimes we watch all six hours of “Nick Jr” before we get around to eating breakfast. Bad Mommy.

And sometimes I let the kids dump Cap’n Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, and Cookie Crisp in a bowl, douse it with milk and call the sugar-fest “dinner.” Bad Mommy.

I’m tired of sitting through endless playgroups with other mothers lamenting the fact that we all suck. I’m through pretending I don’t have a clue. Sure I come across obstacles now and then (remember Jensie’s serial scissor spree?) When faced with a challenge, I don’t rush to Google the answer or read countless self-help books before I decide I was right all along. I trust my instincts and listen to my heart. Does admitting this make me sound cocky, arrogant, or just plain rude? I sure hope not. I work hard to be a good mother. I’ve earned the right to be confident.

My joy in motherhood will not be stifled. When we get right down to it, isn’t that what women’s lib. is all about? The right to pursue those things we find most fulfilling? I think so. I pray I do not disappoint my mother. Or her mother. Or all the mothers that came before me. I want to "do them proud." But they promised I could be anything I want to be. And I want to be a mom.

(Written February 20, 2008)

A Conversation in Which Two Good Mormon Children Discuss Creation and How Things Came to Pass.

Asher: Why don't we have dinosaurs?

Jensie: Because God got tired of dinosaurs and said "I feel like making something else." He wanted to make people.

Asher: But why did the dinosaurs die?

Jensie: They were taking up all our space! Where could we live if there was giant dinosaurs everywhere? God had to send a big meteor to kill them all so there'd be room for us.

Asher: But what about the Hadrosaurs?

Jensie: What about them?

Asher: They're the nicest dinosaurs. God wouldn't kill the nicest dinosaurs.

Jensie: Oh, He killed them all right. He killed them.

Today

Asher wants to grow up to be like Mario and Luigi. Why? Because they are plumbers. How does he know they are plumbers? "Because they plumb things."

Poor guy hates the snow. Every morning he stands at the foot of his bed to gaze out the window and his shoulders slump as he takes in the snow covered lawn. This morning I heard him mutter to himself "It's ok, it's almost summer." I don't have the heart to tell him the snow will last 'til May.

Favorite food: sushi

Favorite super hero: Spider-Man

Three things to love about Asher:
Yells "Coast Guard" when sword fighting (instead of En Garde)
Loves to Beat-box.
"Shanks!"

317: Unconditional Love

Do take the time to listen to this. It will move you. More importantly, it will change you.
(Click on the orange button for Full Episode.)