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When Girlfriend started kindergarten, a friend of mine whose youngest child was also starting kindergarten asked me, “So are you going to volunteer now that everyone’s in school?”
“Oh!” I said, as if the thought had never occurred to me, because it never had. “Wow. I don’t know. I guess I could do that now, couldn’t I?”
But I haven’t.
It’s May now, so I’m probably not going to at all this year. I’m a terrible human being.
It’s not like I’ve never volunteered at school. I’ve chaperoned field trips for Mister Bubby’s class. I helped out at Aussie Day when he was in the second grade. I helped set up chairs for one of the (monthly) movie nights last year. I’ve…well, that pretty much covers it. A couple field trips, Aussie Day and movie night chairs. That’s the sum total of my school volunteering. So yeah, terrible human being is more or less correct.
I used to have what I thought was a pretty valid excuse not to volunteer at school: I had other kids at home to take care of, and I wasn’t going to hire a babysitter to take care of these other kids while I volunteered at school because that’s crazy. I know other moms who trade babysitting with other moms so they can volunteer at school, but this was never an option for me because a) there are very, very few moms willing to trade babysitting with me and b) I am not going to waste that good will on freaking volunteering at school–that is crazy. Good will is for emergencies. Anyway. For the record, yes, I did actually end up paying a babysitter all those above-mentioned times I volunteered at school. It was crazy. I wouldn’t have done it, but Mister Bubby really wanted me to. He’s, like, the only kid whose mother never volunteers at school or something. So I did that crazy thing those few times, but I refused to do it on a regular basis, because that’s just crazy.
Now that all the kids are in school, I could theoretically volunteer on a regular basis without it costing me anything. I have no excuse for not doing it, except that I don’t want to.
I might feel more of a moral obligation to volunteer at school if there weren’t so freaking many other parents who volunteer at school. The school is lousy with parent volunteers, such that if you want to chaperone a field trip, you have to take a number. In my friend OBL‘s world, lots of parents volunteering= more pressure to volunteer. I might feel this myself if I didn’t choose to be oblivious to so many societal expectations. I don’t want to volunteer at school, so unless I feel like I am actually needed, I would have to try really hard to feel morally obligated to do it–and I’m just not made of that stern of stuff.
Here’s another thing: I’m not good with children. I like children, but children don’t like me. I mean, my own children seem to like me just fine, but other children are afraid of me. I speak to them, and they will actually turn their bodies away from me to avoid interacting with me, hoping that I will set my scary sights on someone else. I really don’t get how I can be so scary to other people’s children with no effort whatsoever on my part, and yet my own children aren’t afraid of me at all, no matter how scary I try to be. I don’t like feeling socially awkward. I feel socially awkward most of the time, but it’s bad enough feeling it around adults. I don’t like feeling it around young children. (I especially don’t like feeling it around teenagers, which is why you’ll find me volunteering at a prison before you’ll find me volunteering at middle school.)
Volunteering at school seems to me like one of those above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty things. Probably because my own mother never volunteered at school. (Probably because she had other children to take care of and couldn’t afford to pay a babysitter and anyway, that would have been crazy.) I don’t remember seeing a lot of parent volunteers at school when I was young, other than on field trips. Those must have been the halcyon days when public education had all the money it needed and class sizes were smaller and teachers had less to do. Oh, wait. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to public education, but between the time I was going to school and the time my kids are going to school, things changed so that parents are now an integral part of students’ education, even during those hours while the school is supposed to be educating them. It’s not enough to help with the homework, which is intrusive enough; now we also have to be there at school helping the teachers do their jobs for free. I mean, we’re helping for free. The teachers are still getting paid, albeit not enough. But I digress.
It’s not that I don’t believe the teachers really need the help. I believe it; I just choose to live in the past when nobody did anything about it.
Here’s another dirty secret which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone. My feeling is that the school is there to take the kids off my hands for several hours a day. That’s why I pay my taxes. I mean, I pay my taxes because the government will put me in prison if I don’t, but even if there were no government schools, I would pay money for someone else to educate my children so that they could go be away from me for a few hours a day. No offense to them, I love them, but we can only take so much of each other. I get them full time for the first five years. Kindergarten takes them for only two and a half hours a day during the school year. I just got rid of them–why would I turn around and volunteer at school so I can see more of them? It just doesn’t make any sense.
(Just so you know, I also send my children to school so they can interact with adults they’re not allowed to walk all over. I think that’s important. But secondary, I admit.)
And there’s this final thing. I had a very bad school experience with my oldest child. From the moment she started kindergarten, Princess Zurg hated school, and she misbehaved at school, and the school was always calling to tell me about her misbehavior and calling to tell me I had to come pick her up because she was being suspended again, and I was always going down to the school for the privilege of meeting with a group of educators telling me all the things that were wrong with my daughter and asking what we were going to do about it, etc., etc., etc. It was several years before I could walk into the local elementary school and not experience some symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. Intellectually, I know that it’s a good school doing good things for children. Emotionally, the school is not my friend. Therefore I am not emotionally inclined to do it any favors. Which makes it a lot easier to rationalize my intellectual inclinations not to do it any favors.
While writing this, Girlfriend came up to me and told me how excited she was for the school jog-a-thon, which is this afternoon. I’ll have you know that while I am very stingy with my time, so far as the school is concerned, I have tried to be generous with my money to make up for it. Because money, when you have it, is so much easier to part with. I will gladly spend more money in donations than it would cost me for a babysitter so I could volunteer my time (although as I’ve already said, I no longer need to hire a babysitter–but you get my point). So yes, I have sponsored both of my children generously in the school’s jog-a-thon, but Girlfriend just informed me that she would really, really like me to show up for the jog-a-thon and cheer her on. This was not my original plan. (See above about kindergarten only being two and a half hours and I just got rid of her, etc.) But she really wants me to be there, and since I’m never there to volunteer, I feel morally obligated to show up. So I will.
But I won’t help with the jog-a-thon. I won’t!
Apparently, in addition to compassion fatigue I also have title fatigue. (Was the “also” redundant? Yes. But it sounded better to me. Just like saying Tuesday thrice sounds better than just twice.)
I feel certain that I’m going to forget that my daughter has piano lessons today, just as I forgot that she had them yesterday, which is why I had them rescheduled for today, but will I remember that? It doesn’t seem possible, all things considered.
(And all things considered, why would I say my daughter has “piano lessons” today? She has a piano lesson today. She accumulates multiple piano lessons over time, but technically has only one today. But I always refer to piano lessons in the plural. Like I did just now. I can’t stop myself!)
I’ve had a few things on my mind. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but I’m easily overwhelmed. Like most people, I have a hundred things I ought to be doing at any one time, but I’m only willing to think about one or two and prefer to ignore all the others. When circumstances converge so as to force me to not only think about but actually do something about more than a couple things, I start to feel put upon. Hence, my current discomfort. And forgetfulness. I’m simply incapable of remembering most things, let alone everything.
The other day I panicked because I thought I had forgotten to order my dad’s birthday present, but then I remembered that I hadn’t forgotten, and I was relieved. So relieved that I proceeded to forget everything else. (Once I start relaxing, it is really hard for me to stop.)
SO. I know some of you would like to know why Princess Zurg was suspended on Friday. The short answer is “PMS? Insanity?” but the longer answer is this: She had a confrontation with her Language Arts teacher (the latest in a long line of confrontations with this particular teacher, whom she despises for reasons I don’t really understand) that culminated in her threatening the teacher’s life and subsequently she was taken to the Behavior Learning Center classroom to cool down and had another confrontation with a different teacher there, which culminated in her hitting the teacher on the arm. For those of you who aren’t familiar with these new-fangled school policies, that’s a no-no. I mean, all of it’s a no-no. She did very few things on Friday that are actually permitted under ordinary circumstances. So, yes, she absolutely deserved to be suspended for the remainder of that day, and she has had in-school suspension yesterday and today. I think she’s supposed to go back to her regular classes tomorrow, but I think she may be in for a change in Language Arts teachers. We’ll see. I really don’t have time to think about it right now.
Fortunately, I was able to get her in to see her shrink yesterday, and he has added another medication to our pharmacological support arsenal. It’s Abilify, which I think is probably the awesomest name for a psychotropic drug ever. I mean, it’s so stupid and nakedly condescending that you can’t help but love it. I believed I’ve blogged on it before, back when my own shrink was considering it for me (but alas, I was never actually Abilified). It’s supposed to have a calming effect and keep her from getting stuck on her runaway train of negativity. I’m sure I can come up with a better metaphor than “runaway train of negativity.” How about she’s got this Ferrari of negativity and someone’s cut the brake lines? That’s a little more apt. Anyway. She started that last night. One of the side effects is drowsiness (which is why it’s taken at night). She woke up this morning feeling nauseated. I was scared because I really, really don’t want this pill to make her nauseated. I don’t want it to make her anything but Abilified. Also, I really, really wanted her to go to school today. Because I want everyone to go to school everyday. It’s my dream, and I mean to live it.
She felt better after eating breakfast, so she went to school, and so far I have not had a phone call from the school reporting puking. So we’re cool. I guess.
Tonight is pack meeting for cub scouts. We’re going to eat cake. So that’s good.
Tomorrow night Princess Zurg and Sugar Daddy are going to the temple and the rest of us are going to Elvis’s basketball party. It’s the end of the season. So that’s good.
On Thursday I leave for California because it’s my dad’s 65th birthday on Saturday and my step-mother is throwing him a party. I am looking forward to the trip, but I haven’t really planned for it yet because I’ve been overwhelmed with thoughts of teacher-hitting and -possibly-murdering and suspensions and Abilification and scouts and cake and basketball and what to make for dinner and there’s also been a lot of laundry. Also, it is Dr. Seuss’s birthday on Friday and so the kindergarten is having Pajama Day.
HEAVY, PUT-UPON SIGH. Pajama Day.
So Girlfriend doesn’t actually own any pajamas. She did have some Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas, but they disappeared into thin air several weeks ago, and I have not been able to locate them. We even looked for them extra-hard once we found out that there was going to be a Pajama Day (HEAVY, PUT-UPON SIGH), but to no avail. I know what you’re thinking: So what has Girlfriend been sleeping in, if not pajamas? Answer: Not the buff. She just wears clothes to bed. Comfortable clothes, but not to be confused with pajamas, and therefore not a believable outfit for Pajama Day. So I went to the Target to look for pajamas, but being that it’s February, all the pajamas in stock are shorts, not long pants, because in Retail World, summertime starts in January. In the Pacific Northwest I shall not be sending my children outside the house in shorts until mid-July. Which is about when they’ll start selling heavy winter coats again, so I should make a note to pick one of those up then. Anyway, I got off the subject. I also went to Old Navy, which doesn’t sell pajamas, and I even went to Ross Dress for Less, which doesn’t sell children’s pajamas except for babies. So that was disheartening.
Today I had to go to Macy’s to buy fancy soap for my face, and while I was there I looked for pajamas. No love. So then I went to Kohl’s, where I eventually found something suitable. Ideally, I would have gotten her new Thomas pajamas, since they would match her Thomas slippers and her Thomas blanket, but there weren’t any Thomas pajamas to be found, so instead I got her Scooby-Doo. Of course, I had to go to the boys’ section because all they sell in the girls’ section is Pepto Bismol-hued princess stuff and stuff that says “Mommy’s Little Cupcake Sweet as Can Be” and crap like that. I mean, she is my little cupcake, sweet as can be, but jeez, she’s already going to school in her intimate apparel; let the girl keep some of her dignity.
While I was at the Kohl’s I remembered that I forgot to bring the belt that PZ gave to SD for Christmas and I’ve been meaning to return because it didn’t fit then, and since he’s lost 20+ pounds, it certainly doesn’t fit now. I just don’t shop at Kohl’s very often. It was doubtful that I could have returned it anyway, however, since I’ve lost the receipt and do they have a 60-day return policy or a 90-day, I can’t remember. Whatever. I think the best I could have hoped for was an exchange (which was all I wanted), but they appear not to carry that brand anymore anyway, so whatever. I bought him a new belt. Much smaller than the old belt. It was on clearance, so it sort of makes up for me wasting money on a belt he’ll never wear and I’ll never return. Kind of. Maybe I’ll just keep the old belt for those days when he feels bloated. Ha ha. If I see him start to put the weight back on, I can say, “Do I have to get out your fat belt, honey?” You know, just to be supportive of his new lifestyle.
Here are the things I have to do before I leave town:
1. Figure out what the weather is supposed to be in California. I mean, as I recall, February in Southern California is pretty warm, but it’s been a long time since I’ve actually experienced a SoCal February. I don’t know. It’s impossible to predict the weather in Oregon; you just have to be prepared for anything. But California tends to be pretty predictable.
2. Touch up my roots. I have this patch of grey by my right temple that looks like a bald spot from a distance. I don’t like that.
3. Remember how many ounces of liquid I’m allowed to carry on the plane. Now that I’m all high-maintenance with the fancy Macy’s soap and the conditioner that I have to buy off the interwebs, it makes travel a little more complicated. But I don’t want to check a bag.
4. Remember that PZ has piano lessons today. A piano lesson, that is. Just one. Approximately 50 minutes from now.
So I read this article this morning about a school board member who took versions of his state’s standardized math and reading tests and had a rude awakening.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” he wrote in an email. “The math section had 60 questions. I knew the answers to none of them, but managed to guess ten out of the 60 correctly. On the reading test, I got 62% . In our system, that’s a “D”, and would get me a mandatory assignment to a double block of reading instruction.
He continued, “It seems to me something is seriously wrong. I have a bachelor of science degree, two masters degrees, and 15 credit hours toward a doctorate.
“I help oversee an organization with 22,000 employees and a $3 billion operations and capital budget, and am able to make sense of complex data related to those responsibilities.
“I have a wide circle of friends in various professions. Since taking the test, I’ve detailed its contents as best I can to many of them, particularly the math section, which does more than its share of shoving students in our system out of school and on to the street. Not a single one of them said that the math I described was necessary in their profession.”
Now, I’ll tell you from the outset that I’m not a fan of these standardized tests, and I don’t like all the emphasis that is placed upon them, and if I were making a list of “Bad Things That Came out of the George W. Bush Administration,” No Child Left Behind would probably crack my top two. (I mean, don’t get me wrong; ordinarily, if teachers’ unions oppose something, I’m inclined to think it must be a good idea. Just not in this case. There are ways of assessing whether or not teachers are competent and doing a good job. None of these assessments can be performed long-distance by Washington bureaucrats.) So that’s where I’m coming from. But this article left me just a tad befuddled. We’re talking about an educated adult–two master’s degrees–with a successful business career, and he couldn’t pass a math test designed for a tenth grader. And he just barely passed the reading test. And the clear implication is that these tests must be unreasonably difficult or require highly specialized knowledge. This, forgive me, just doesn’t make any sense.
I’m not saying that it’s impossible that these tests are unreasonably difficult or require highly specialized knowledge. It just seems very unlikely. Because tenth graders take them, yes? And at least a handful must do well, and another handful must not embarrass themselves, either–or no one in this cat’s school district would be graduating or going to college. Of course, when you’re in high school, studying this stuff every day, the material will be fresh in your head. I would expect a smart high schooler to do better than the average adult. I might even expect an average high schooler to do better than the average adult. But I would still expect an educated adult with two master’s degrees and a successful business career to do better than a high schooler who hadn’t paid attention in class since they stopped putting stickers on his worksheets.
I mean, I’ve been out of school for a long time. I know that I’ve forgotten quite a bit of the math I learned in the past. I would not be able to pass a calculus test without some serious review. My trigonometry is equally sketchy. But if you’d asked me before I’d read this article if I thought I could pass a math test designed for tenth graders–not ace, mind you, but pass–I would have said, “Absolutely.” And if you’d asked me if I could do better than 62% on a reading test designed for tenth graders, I would have been insulted. I mean, I read every day. That part of the brain still knows what it’s doing. Of course I could do better than 62%. What is that, a joke?
So yes, this article left me befuddled because I can only come up with the following explanations for why this gentleman did so poorly on the standardized tests that he took:
1. The tenth grade math test is all advanced math. The tenth grade reading test is based largely on selections of William Faulkner’s prose.
2. The tenth grade tests are comprised primarily of trick questions.
3. The adult in question faked his way through graduate school–twice!–and only thinks he understands the complex data he’s confronted with at his job (really, his assistant is doing all the work).
4. The adult in question was drunk the morning he took his tests.
5. I’m not nearly as bright as I think I am.
I think these are all pretty far-fetched conclusions (yes, even #5), so naturally, I’m dissatisfied. I will not be able to understand this story at all until I find out what exactly is on these tests. I do find it interesting that no matter which link you follow in this article–and I followed link after link which led to other links which led to other links–you only get more articles about how bogus these tests are, but no information on what actually happens during one of these tests–nothing that would give me some clue as to why a reasonably well-educated adult wouldn’t know any of the answers on the math test and couldn’t muster more than 62% on the reading test. (A reading test.) It just does. not. make. sense.
Later in the article, the adult-in-question says, “It might be argued that I’ve been out of school too long, that if I’d actually been in the 10th grade prior to taking the test, the material would have been fresh. But doesn’t that miss the point? A test that can determine a student’s future life chances should surely relate in some practical way to the requirements of life. I can’t see how that could possibly be true of the test I took.”
He continues: “It makes no sense to me that a test with the potential for shaping a student’s entire future has so little apparent relevance to adult, real-world functioning. Who decided the kind of questions and their level of difficulty? Using what criteria? To whom did they have to defend their decisions? As subject-matter specialists, how qualified were they to make general judgments about the needs of this state’s children in a future they can’t possibly predict? Who set the pass-fail “cut score”? How?”
This is an interesting point. I’m the first person to argue that everyone who is not mentally incompetent should learn algebra. (Well, maybe not the first, but at least the second or third.) But I’m also the first to concede that you may lead a productive life even if you can’t remember how to determine the slope of a line. So let’s say we shouldn’t test tenth graders on whatever esoteric material is covered in this state test, but only on stuff that “relates in some practical way to the requirements of life.” What exactly would that stuff be? I assume it’s stuff that the state doesn’t currently require them to learn, since we’ve just established that these standardized tests are total BS.
If you were charged with writing the state test for tenth graders–the test that, unless I’m mistaken, is supposed to assess a student’s academic competence and/or possibly their career/college readiness–what would you be sure to include on it? Is it important that an adult should also be able to pass it?
So Princess Zurg has been complaining to me for quite some time about how the kids at school wear those pink I LOVE BOOBIES bracelets that are supposed to raise breast cancer awareness, but among middle schoolers really only raise boobie awareness (as if it needed raising). If you read my one blog in October of last year, you know how I feel about being naughty for breast cancer awareness. No, you don’t have to click on it, I’ll just tell you: I find it an irritating trend. Number one, I think just about everyone who could possibly give a crap already knows about breast cancer and how there isn’t a cure yet. Number two, if you’re going to be naughty in the name of a good cause, at least do it for money–you know, something that might actually help the cause and not just remind people of something they already know about.
That said, I can’t say I have a lot of righteous indignation about the I LOVE BOOBIES bracelets–maybe because I spent all my righteous indignation on that one blog post. Although I’m sure a portion of the proceeds from selling these bracelets goes to breast cancer research or breast cancer something-or-other, I’m reasonably certain that most of these middle schoolers mainly think that it’s cool to wear a bracelet with the word “boobies” on it–which falls squarely into the category of being naughty for awareness, which I’ve already explained is lame. But whatever. The point is not my righteous indignation–which is pretty well summed up with one big eyeroll–but PZ’s righteous indignation, which is summed up with a lot of complaining about how she doesn’t like the word “boobies” and how most of her classmates aren’t even aware that the bracelets are for breast cancer awareness (quelle surprise!) and how the school can’t legally forbid the students from wearing the bracelets because that would be encroaching on their right to free speech.
You might also already know my opinion of middle schoolers having a constitutional right to say “boobies” whenever they want.
But again, my indignation has been limited to eye-rolling, and I’ve tried to persuade PZ to limit her indignation to eye-rolling as well, since this is a heck of a hill to die on, when you consider all the problems an eighth-grade girl can have, not to mention all the problems in the world. Also, I am trying to teach her to be less uptight. (If you haven’t guessed already, she’s kind of a prude.)
Today, however, she was talking about a school policy that I already knew about and had previously rolled my eyes over: Students are not allowed to hug each other. They’re not allowed to hug each other because hugging a) can be construed as “borderline sexual harassment,” and b) is a gateway drug to hardcore public displays of affection. I mean, obviously there are a lot of legitimate issues to consider here–or maybe there’s only two. 1) We don’t want students sexually harassing each other. 2) We don’t want students making out in the hall. So it just makes sense to ban hugging. It solves all kinds of problems–or, you know, it solves two problems. You could just ban students from touching each other, period, but that would be extreme. Insert eye-roll here.
So today PZ was complaining about the boobie bracelets again, and then she was talking about the no-hugging rule. And suddenly the lameness of it all was in such stark relief. You have a constitutional right to wear a bracelet declaring your love of boobies because that’s free speech, but you don’t have the right to hug your friend because that could lead to sexual harassment or public sexytimes. PZ said that one of the justifications of the no-hug policy offered by school personnel is that some people might not want to be hugged but they don’t feel comfortable refusing and therefore will end up with an unwanted hug. So, you know, better make a rule so no one has to be uncomfortable. Unless someone’s declaration of boobie-love makes you uncomfortable, of course.
I’m sorry, but didn’t we give these kids the “good touch, bad touch” talk already? Isn’t saying no to a hug, even from your friend, good practice for saying no to a host of other things you’re going to have to say no to for the rest of your life? What’s wrong with teaching kids to say, “Hey, you know? Not really a hugger. How about a fist bump instead?” It works for grown-ups; it can work for kids, too.
As long as we’re stretching the First Amendment to the breaking point, how about we invent a constitutional right for a middle schooler to give his or her friend a hug if the friend happens to…oh, I don’t know…have a mother dying of breast cancer? Is there room in your America for such normal human interactions, or only for boobies???
Lame lame lame lame LAME!!!
I have decided to devote today to catching up on the laundry. I have about eight loads of laundry slated for today. I’m on load #1 right now. This whole endeavor is going to take 8-9 hours. That’s the trouble with having only one washer. I like my new front-loading, high-efficiency washer. I haven’t had any problems with it (yet). But it does take 58 minutes to wash a load of clothes. That seems crazy. At least the new dryer is very fast at drying, so the freshly-washed clothes can go directly into drying mode. My old washer washed clothes in about 25 minutes, but the old dryer took about 2 hours to dry clothes, so that was extra-inefficient. Wow, this paragraph is making me fall asleep. How are you all doing?
Anyway, I have decided to devote today to the laundry. Often I intend to catch up on the laundry but get distracted by other things and end up doing only one load, maybe two if I’m really on the ball. After all, I have to wait around 58 minutes for the clothes to finish washing. What am I supposed to do, stand there and stare at the washing machine for 58 minutes? The washing machine has a little alarm that goes off when the laundry is finished–it plays a little song, which is a nice touch. But the washing machine makes a lot of little song-sounds, and I’ve learned to ignore them. So the alarm isn’t helping me remember to put in the next load of laundry. It just gets ignored, along with the rest of my family. That makes it sound like I consider the washing machine a part of my family. Well, it may as well be. The only member of the family that earns its keep around here! (Except for my husband, who has a job. I haven’t forgotten that.)
So I have decided not to do any other chores today, just so I can focus on listening to the laundry alarm and getting my laundry washed in the most efficient manner. Isn’t that smart of me? It’s only a pleasant coincidence that it also allows me to be as lazy as I want to be.
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Did you notice that little lull in the post? That was me noticing that the washer had gone off and remembering to put in the next load of laundry. I just bleached my husband’s grilling apron. Is that silly? No sillier than having a white grilling apron in the first place, I reckon.
Grilling aprons are funny. They have to be all masculine because they’re for men (because a grilling apron for women would just be an apron). They all say something like “Master of the Grill” or “Keeper of the Flame” or “Grill Sergeant.” I don’t remember what SD’s says. It’s in the washer now, so I can’t check. It isn’t anything special, or I would remember. It might just have some random company logo on it. For a writer I can be an extremely unobservant person.
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No, that wasn’t me putting in another load of laundry. I just wanted to change the subject. School starts September 6. And not a minute too soon. Well, technically school starts September 6 for Elvis and Mister Bubby. Girlfriend and Princess Zurg start on September 7. Why is this? Well. Girlfriend is starting kindergarten, and they always have half the kindergarteners start on the first day and the other half start on the second day. (Kindergarteners who went the first day stay home on the second day.) Then they all go together on the third day. The rationale is so there will be fewer confused kindergarteners and confused parents milling about and it won’t be totally overwhelming for everyone. Historically, kindergarteners with last names beginning with A-L (or something) went the first day and kindergarteners with last names beginning with M-Z went the second day. But this year they’re having AM kindergarteners go the first day and PM kindergarteners go the second day. So there will be a full class of kindergarteners starting on the first day, and a full class of kindergarteners starting on the second day, rather than just half of each class starting on each day. So technically we are keeping up a time-honored tradition, only now there is, apparently, no rationale for it. Not one that I can discern, anyway. If one of you can help me sort out the logic here, I’d appreciate it.
As for PZ, the middle school has decided that this year, for the first time, they will have only sixth graders start on the first day of school. I guess that makes enough sense. It just means Summer With PZ is one day longer this year. I don’t feel that is strictly necessary, but I may as well enjoy it, mayn’t I?
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Speaking of PZ (I’m still on my second load of laundry, just so you know), I need to take her shopping so she can get herself a cool outfit for when she goes to see My Chemical Romance next week. I don’t like shopping with PZ because she always has a specific vision in mind when she goes shopping, and the mercantile reality never lines up with her vision. She’s kind of like me that way, only instead of shrugging her shoulders and making do with her current wardrobe for another year, she has to start moaning and whining and railing against the system that is keeping her from realizing her fashion ambitions. And she doesn’t stop. She just keeps going and going and going until I think I must have died and gone to hell, or else I’m surely going to die and go there because I will freaking kill her if she doesn’t shut up soon. My husband handles most of the PZ shopping, in case you were wondering. That is probably the only reason she is still alive.
SD is also going to the concert with her. I have this recurring nightmare that he gets called out of town on business and I have to take her myself. If I type that out loud, is it bad luck?
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Well, there’s 1,000+ words on nothing. I’d better get back to watching the washing machine. Gentle readers, adieu.
The other day I claimed that some of my favorite books ever were written by men and that at least some of those books had few to zero female characters. My friend turningreen said “inquiring minds want to know” what those books might be. Well, I’ll tell you not only what they might be, but what they are. So without further ado, inquiring minds…
My Favorite Books Written By Men
1. The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene – No major female characters, but some relatively important minor ones.
2. Never Let Me Go and Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro – The narrator of Never Let Me Go is a woman, and Remains of the Day has a major female character (if you can characterize any Ishiguro character who is not the narrator as “major”), but he has written other books about men that I also enjoyed.
3. Life of Pi by Yann Martel – No major female characters
4. The Plague by Albert Camus – No major female characters
5. The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne - Hey, there’s a woman in this one.
6. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens – Lots of female characters, but they’re either falling in love or knitting, so…
7. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad – One female character, who doesn’t even get a name.
And there it is.
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I woke up with an earache and a sore throat today, so I am feeling less-than-ambitious, blog-wise and housework-wise. So what do I attempt to do first? I think we all know the answer to that question. I attempted to sleep until 10, but the kids wanted breakfast, so I had to wake up at eight-something. The kids are off school today, for reasons I do not know. Mine is not to question why.
Later, I believe, I shall attempt to do some laundry.
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Earthquakes suck.
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Mister Bubby didn’t place at the science fair this year, which was very disappointing for him. So he has decided to have a family science fair. We all have to present our projects in two weeks. Princess Zurg and I are lab partners. Does either of us know crap about science? Did I graduate from school and become a housewife so that I could do science projects? I even married a scientist so that I would never have to help a child with a science project. And for all my careful planning, this is my reward.
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Now that I only have one child not in school full-time, and even that child is in school some of the time, I have more time, theoretically, to volunteer at my children’s schools. Have I done any volunteering this year? Negative, Rampart. This is in part because I have grown so accustomed to not volunteering that it doesn’t even occur to me to volunteer. But Mister Bubby’s BFF’s mom is a major school volunteering person, and every other parent I know volunteers, even if they have younger children still at home during the day. They get babysitters so they can volunteer. I have never wanted to do this because a) despite my extensive experience, I am still not very good with children, and b) during the first few years of Princess Zurg’s school career, I spent a lot of time in principals’ offices and in IEP meetings talking about how poorly she was doing, so to me a good day is one where I don’t have to go inside the school building. I like those good days. I never get tired of them.
So my point, I guess, is that I still don’t volunteer, but now I feel guilty about it. Unfortunately, I am so used to feeling guilty about one thing or another that one more thing doesn’t make as much of a difference as it should.
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Yeah, that’s all I got. I’m going to take some ibuprofen and possibly a shower. If you want to entertain me, you can leave me a comment about your favorite male authors, or you can tell me your weekend plans, or you can tell me a joke, if you know one. Gentle readers, au revoir.
None of my schools ever had Pajama Day when I was growing up. And I thank God for that because I think Pajama Day is stupid. Staying in your pajamas all day when you’re at home on a day off is fine. I guess. It’s not really my thing, but I don’t really have an opinion on it either. Going out in public in your pajamas is different. Spending all day in your pajamas while you go about your business just seems…I dunno…vaguely indecent. What are we doing, celebrating laziness? Thumbing our noses at what few standards of decorum are left in our society? Pretending that we’re relaxing while we’re actually not relaxing? Will that make not-relaxing more relaxing? Are we pretending that we’re all such bosom friends that we can hang out together in our PJ’s unashamed, like school is just one big slumber party? I don’t understand.
I think I especially don’t understand why a pre-school has to have a Pajama Day. Isn’t pre-school low-stress enough? Do the kids really need a break from that regimented, competitive environment? Don’t they already get enough of a break the other 21 1/2 hours a day they’re not in school, plus weekends? I don’t know about anyone else, but I worked hard to get my daughter in the mindset that she has to change into real clothes and brush her hair for school because school is different from home, e.g. we don’t wear our pajamas there. Except now we do! Whatever!
No, I don’t really think one Pajama Day is going to undo all sense of propriety that I have managed to instill in my five-year-old, and I realize it’s all just for fun. “Fun.” Bah! I’ve told you how I feel about “fun.”
And no, I’m not really angry or anything. I just think Pajama Day is stupid. Stoo-pid. But I’ve never particularly understood the lure of staying in one’s pajamas all day in any event. Unless you’re sick or just had a baby. See, there it is. Staying in my pajamas all day is not an activity I associate with fun or relaxation. I like to be lazy. I like to be useless. I just don’t like to feel lazy and useless. If I’m going to play pretend, I like to pretend that I’m being productive and useful, and part of that pretending is putting on real clothes and acting like I’m going to engage life today, even if I’m not. If I had to pretend I was relaxing while I was actually engaging life, I think I’d go crazy. So here I am, wanting to foist my values onto other people–sucking all the joy out of my children’s lives just to validate my own old-fashioned sensibilities.
Yeah, I’ll send her to school in her pajamas. But I won’t like it. I won’t like it one bit!
Last night I went with Princess Zurg to a middle school options fair. First of all, do you people understand that when I started this blog, PRINCESS ZURG WAS IN KINDERGARTEN???
[Blood-curdling scream]
But back to my story. We are fortunate to live in a school district that has many educational options for its students. Most of them are of no interest to me or to PZ, but last night we were at the middle school fair to learn more about the arts and communication magnet school in our district. It is supposed to be a very good school, not at all like that school in Fame where kids just dance in the halls and put on shows. It has solid academics, but with a focus on the arts. As the principal addressing us last night said, “The arts is infused into everything we do.” Or something like that. He probably said something that made a helluva lot more sense because the man was very articulate and not at all like that doofus principal the “Fame” school had those last few seasons. What was that cat’s name? Quentin Morloch? Could there be a more Satanic name for a character? Only he really wasn’t that bad once you got to know him, even if he was certainly a doofus–which this principal was certainly not. No, this cat had class. Like I said, very articulate–and no, I’m not going to add that he was also “clean”…except that I am, because he was, and I can’t resist. Anyway, he was also very…passionate. Which makes me wonder if the man has an arts background himself. Just curious. Not that you need to have an arts background to be passionate about the arts. I just think, “I know Quentin Morloch’s back story, but he’s not even real. What is this (very real) principal’s back story? Enquiring minds want to know. (I want to know!)”
Can I also say that I found him a tad intimidating? He was a nice man, but I got the distinct impression that you do not want to see him when he’s angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry. But I’m getting off-topic now.
Anyway, he gave us this 20-minute overview, which was all he had time for, given the restraints of the “fair” schedule. I put “fair” in question marks because whenever I hear “fair,” I think carnival rides, and there were no carnival rides at this middle school “fair.” No games. No prizes. No cotton candy. Just good, honest information. Not nearly enough information to make an informed decision, however, which was why Mr. Suave Principal (Don’t Make Him Angry!) strongly encouraged all of us who were serious about applying to the arts/communication school to visit their open house next Thursday. Which made me feel like I’d just wasted a big chunk of my evening–because it’s not like I just walked into the middle school “fair” and started listening to this gentleman extoll the virtues of an arts-centered education. No, I had to sit through 45 minutes of welcoming and explaining the application process and last-minute pitches for regular old comprehensive schools, which are fine institutions in their own right. Rights. Whatever.
Most of that 45-minute chunk was indeed spent on the application process, which fact only annoyed me because the application process couldn’t possibly be simpler. To wit, the common application for most of the options schools is exactly one page long, and most of that is an explanation of how to fill out the form. On the part of the form where you actually write, you are required to fill out your name, birthdate, address, current school, and your parent/guardian’s name and address, and then you and your parent/guardian sign and date the thing. There is an optional area where you may write a three-sentence statement about why you are applying to the school of your choice. (Optional!) It is almost insulting. I have descried the application process for our district’s options programs before–before I ever dreamed of sending any of my children to any of these schools. Two-thirds of the available spaces are assigned by lottery, hence the simplicity of the common application. One-third are reserved for best-fit students who didn’t make it in via the lottery.
I was about to explain how the remaining one-third are chosen, but do you really freaking care? No, you do not. Suffice it to say that this remaining one-third of students is chosen on the basis of “strong interest” and to a lesser extent, special ability. Which is fine. I’m glad SOME of the slots are determined this way. Frankly, I have no idea if PZ stands a greater chance with one method of selection over the other. She certainly has artistic talent, as well as strong interest. She’s interested in all artistic forms. The arts is pretty much all she’s interested in. I think she would very much enjoy an arts-centered program. I know that she’s capable of doing more challenging academic work, in that she is certainly bright enough. What I’m uncertain of is her level of motivation.
My sense is that PZ doesn’t like to do things that are hard. I get that sense about Mister Bubby, too. (Elvis, on the other hand, loves doing hard things. Nay, he insists on doing hard things.) I can’t swear that this is absolutely true. Obviously, PZ has been challenged over the last several years, and she has met many of these challenges–most of them in the last year or so. I just don’t know how much inner motivation she has. I truly don’t know. I say I don’t know because my tendency is to sell her short. Her father tends to have higher expectations of her. I don’t think his expectations are unreasonable, and I don’t know that mine are more realistic. Knowing me, they are probably unduly pessimistic. I have taught myself not to have expectations. My husband tends to set the bar higher, while I set it lower. I was not always thus. I used to have more expectations. I also used to get disappointed a lot. Now I am rarely disappointed and frequently surprised in a pleasant manner. When I saw how difficult it was for my daughter to be comprehensively awesome, I decided to pin my hopes on her achieving awesomeness in those categories I considered most important, i.e. decency and interpersonal relations. I want my kids to be good people, and I want them to have friends. Everything else is gravy.
Of course, I picked as most important the two things that are probably most challenging for PZ. I just feel that if she’s going to work hard, I’d rather it be in these two areas, even if it takes every ounce of energy she has and there’s nothing left for spelling tests or college. Now, I can’t imagine that there are any parents out there who think they’d rather have kids who are suckheads so long as they’re successful suckheads. I just think there are a lot of parents who assume, without giving it any thought, that they can have it all. It’s not that they’re deluded–far from it. It’s entirely possible for people to excel in both personal and vocational pursuits, which is why parents rightly encourage their children in all these areas. I mean, I also encourage my children in all these areas. It’s just that inside me, where my most fervent hopes and true expectations reside, I really only have my heart set on decency and personal relationships. I will not be disappointed if PZ turns out to be a mediocre student, even though I know (believe) she can do better. I will be devastated if she grows up to be a suckhead.
Believe it or not, I have gotten off-topic again. I bet you didn’t know there was a topic. Well, there is. It’s What To Do About Middle School. I want PZ to want to go to this arts school. I want it to be the best fit for her. I just can’t tell if it is. I tried to gauge her level of interest and motivation last night, but what I found was that PZ is too worried about middle school in general to be concerned with any middle school in particular. She’s worried about moving back into mainstream education. She’s worried about being around kids who are older and more, ah, worldly than she is. She’s worried that kids will be mean. She’s worried that the girls will be boy crazy and only care about stupid things that she’s not interested in (and that they won’t care about truly awesome things–like Corpse Bride). She’s worried that kids will gossip and tease. She’s worried about peer pressure. I’ve tried to allay some of these fears, but some fears I can’t allay without just flat-out lying. The fact is, middle-school kids are suckheads. (Not all of them, just most of them.) I think it was something on the level of a war crime to take all those hormone-infused crazy-people and stick them all together in that Lord of the Flies ghetto they call middle school. I want to meet the person who invented middle school so I can punch him or her in the face. (Or, as MB is so fond of saying these days, “punch them in the crotch!”) PZ is worried about middle school, but I am terrified.
Terrified.
Part of the reason I hope that PZ will be motivated to go to this alternative school is that I suspect it will be a somewhat safer environment for her–socially–than the comprehensive school. For one thing, it will be smaller (probably less than one-third the size of our neighborhood comprehensive). For another thing, it will be filled with somewhat-likeminded students, i.e. students who are interested in the arts. Certainly artsy-type people can be suckheads, too. I’m not counting on there being no suckheads. I’m just thinking that maybe, maybe it will be easier for her to meet kids she has things in common with, other kids who don’t fit in elsewhere. Also, that maybe school itself will be meaningful enough to offset at least some of those inevitable run-ins with the inevitable suckheads. But she has to want it, or it won’t work.
And I haven’t even gotten to the part where the school has to be willing to support her as a student with autism. That is a totally unknown quantity. But I have blathered on enough for today. Gentle readers, enjoy your respective weekends. Adieu.
I don’t take the daily paper anymore, so I’m not up on the comic page controversies. Apparently there was a mild kerfuffle when Scott Adams introduced a new character named Jesus (pronounced “Hay-Soos) in his Dilbert strip the week before the Holy Week. I say “mild kerfuffle” because it was apparently a genuine controversy among a certain segment of the population, but I would never have known about it if I hadn’t followed a link on a sidebar of a Mormon blog that told me that the Daily Universe, BYU’s student newspaper, had opted not to run the strips. Apparently some students were horrified that the Daily Universe would censor a comic strip. Personally, I was horrified at some of the grammar in the DU’s editorial explaining its position, but that’s neither here nor there. All of this reminds me of a story.
I didn’t get my higher education at BYU. I went to a small Baptist college in southern Virginia that no one has ever heard of unless they live in that town and/or attended that school themselves. (Don’t bother guessing which school it is, because you’ll only guess some school somebody’s heard of, and you’ll be wrong.) It’s a good little school, and I enjoyed my four years there. It was not Baptist school in the same sense that BYU is a Mormon school. It was affiliated with the Virginia Baptist General Board, which I believe gave it some of its funding, or at least provided scholarships, or something–really, I didn’t and don’t know the particulars, but it sufficeth me to say that the affiliation was mostly a historical one. Baptists being what Baptists are, the school enjoyed much more sovereignty than BYU ever has.
However, the trappings of its religious affiliation were still present. They held (non-compulsory) chapel services and six credits of religion classes (including one on the Old or New Testament–quelle horreur!) were required for graduation. All dorms were single-sex, and no one of the opposite sex was allowed in the dorm after 11:30 p.m. (2 a.m. on weekends). It was also a dry campus (absolutely no alcohol allowed on the premises). Lots of students, unfamiliar with the meaning of the term ”private school,” complained about the religion requirement and the draconian visiting hours (hey, they never said you couldn’t have sex in your dorm room, just not after 11:30 p.m., 2 a.m. on weekends). But mostly they complained about the no-alcohol policy. Ostensibly there was this Puritan vibe emanating from the trustees’ office or something, but in practice, aside from the alcohol thing, the students had the freedom to engage in a fair amount of debauchery, so long as the old ladies from the alumni association didn’t find out about it. And there was academic freedom on a scale that BYU professors can only dream of. But more on that later.
I think it was my sophomore year that Residence Life began sponsoring Movie Night on Fridays (maybe to make up for the fact that there was nothing to do in town and also no alcohol to drink). Among the first movies they decided to show was Henry & June, which you might recall was a NC-17-rated romp for people who wanted to pretend they’d read Anais Nin (or Henry Miller, for that matter). Anyway, they had posters for it up all over campus and the dorms, until one student, who happened to be majoring in religion so she could go on to study at a seminary, complained that this film didn’t strike her as consistent with the school’s Christian mission. Bottom line: Henry & June was summarily cancelled. I think they replaced it with The Lion King. I don’t really recall.
This was a disappointing turn of events. (Damn straight my friends and I were planning on going–what did you think?) But oh well, what are you going to do, right? Wrong. A bunch of students rose up and swore they were not going to take it. They put up posters about free speech and censorship and blah blah de blah, and there was a story in the student newspaper, which quoted some English professors saying it was really so silly, as they discussed things in classes that were much more shocking and revolutionary than Henry & June and that this whole incident made the school look like a Mickey Mouse organization–or something. One professor–the History department chair, actually–was so distressed by the school’s Gestapo tactics that he walked into class with a TV and VCR and showed the offending movie to his Western Civ class, just to “prove a point.”
When I heard about this, I thought a couple things. First, it wasn’t really fair to those students who paid their tuition on the assumption that they would be learning about Western Civ in their Western Civ class. Sure, a bunch of them probably thought, “Excellent! No Greeks and Romans today!” But others may not have been pleased that they hauled themselves down to the lecture hall just to get an eyeful of Anais Nin’s goodies. (And not even the real Anais Nin, but someone pretending to be Anais Nin. And who was Anais Nin, anyway?) The second thing I thought was, if we regularly discussed shocking and revolutionary things in class, why was it such a big deal that we show Henry & June, which was, after all, so much less consequential than the shocking and revolutionary things we ordinarily preoccupied ourselves with? It wasn’t as though Henry Miller or Anais Nin appeared anywhere on any of our professors’ syllabi, so how important could it have been for us to know them intimately?
In other words, I thought it was a whole bunch of silly. And the silliest part was that these kids were crying “censorship!” when they had no idea how easy they had it. I confess I waxed a little Grumpy Old Man and told them that this was nothing compared to the oppression my people suffered at BYU, where watching Henry & June in the privacy of your own apartment (which must be university-approved) would probably get you called up on an Honor Code violation–and I never even got to the part where BYU students weren’t allowed to drink ANYWHERE, EVER. Their heads might have exploded.
See, I think censorship sucks and all, but what frosts my cupcakes is when people waste moral outrage on issues that are essentially trivial. If you wanted to go to a college where Residence Life would sponsor screenings of arty sex flicks, maybe you should have gone to a non-religious school. That you are entitled to watch a particular movie–any movie–as part of your educational experience makes about as much sense as being entitled to play ice hockey in P.E. Nothing against ice hockey, but did your college have ice hockey and if not, did you protest? Even if you went to school in Florida?
Moreover, it was not possible to escape the irony of the fact that cancelling Henry & June–which, I reiterate, was a movie sponsored by Residence Life as a recreational activity–at the request of a student (on the basis of it being an inappropriate event for a nice Baptist college to sponsor) resulted in this huge uproar, but when the college incurred the wrath of the VBGB for sponsoring a female minister’s lecture on God and gender, there were crickets chirping. Probably because she didn’t use any pictures in her presentation. But also because academic freedom doesn’t inspire the same passion as recreational license.
Now, probably the BYU students who were upset about missing their Dilbert that week also get upset about some other, consequential stuff that goes on at BYU–stuff actually related to the quality of their educations. At the same time, lots of people go to BYU so they can live and learn in a Mormon environment and not be bombarded with stuff that offends their religious sensibilities. These students have a hard enough time with Nietzche and Faulkner. How crucial is it that they pick up a paper to relax with the news of the day and have their eyeballs seared by a Dilbert Jesus cartoon?
Perhaps I’m just sympathetic to the editors of the Daily Universe, as I used to work for a newspaper, where my job description entailed fielding calls from readers irate about something they’d read in the funnies. Those calls were unpleasant and frustrating. People have strong feelings about the comics. Also crossword puzzles. And don’t you dare take away their bridge column. Oh, no–but I digress. My point is that I understand why the DU folks decided to just pre-empt the whole controversy, even if they did follow up with a self-serving editorial justifying their decision. (Hey, I do self-serving stuff myself all the time, so who am I to throw stones?)
On the other hand, talking about my newspaper experience reminds me that we had a janitor there named Jesus. Yes, it was pronounced “Hay-Soos,” but let’s be honest–who doesn’t see the name Jesus and read it as “Jesus (not Hay-Soos)”? Not me. Which is why it used to amuse me to no end when we’d get messages on the network computers telling us that Jesus would be cleaning the bathrooms between 4 and 5 p.m. Because that was comedy gold. I like to think Jesus himself would have appreciated it. (Either of them.) But then, I look at these Dilbert comics and I don’t see what the big deal is. I imagine if Jesus were to pick up the Daily Universe and see these comics, he wouldn’t just stand there somberly with a tear rolling down his face. He might chuckle at a couple of them, even–in a “heh heh, very well, Scott Adams, touche” kind of way. But no outright guffawing because eh, they’re just not that funny. Definitely not worth protesting over, in any respect.
We’re back from the school carnival. We spent the first hour and a half in the cafeteria, eating overpriced junk food. Pizza, chips, hot dogs, soda. It wasn’t that the kids ate so much food, but they took their sweet time with it. Especially Elvis, who nursed that 12 oz. can of soda so long, I thought the whole shindig would be over before the last drop touched his lips.
The problem was that we couldn’t have food or drink outside the cafeteria, so we were effectively quarantined there until Elvis decided he was all done. Of course I understand why they don’t want any food or drink outside the cafeteria on Carnival Day–would you want to clean up after 3,000 people tromped through the building with foodstuffs and little children?–but it was still annoying, especially because Mister Bubby started whining about wanting to go play games, but he refused to go by himself (Princess Zurg having tromped off with a friend about twenty minutes earlier), so we were all stuck there in the cafeteria and I really wanted to scream and/or punch someone. Not the kids. Maybe the principal I might have punched, had he walked by, but lucky for him, he did not.
Anyway, my babysitter happened to be at the carnival today. Her son doesn’t go to MB’s school, but his cub scout troop had a booth at the carnival, so they were working it and decided to stay for fun and games and overpriced junk food. Her son was the friend PZ had just tromped off with, and she said she’d take MB around to play games while I played the Waiting For Elvis To Finish Drinking His @#&$ Soda game. Fifteen minutes later Elvis finally agreed to give up the can, and we were allowed to leave the cafeteria.
We walked into the gymnasium, which was full of folks playing various carnival games–you know, the kind that don’t interest any of my children–and when we’d reached the center of the room, Elvis threw up.
Well. So much for keeping things tidy.
This is when the principal did show up, but I didn’t punch him because, well, he’s really a pretty nice man, and I was mostly over all that anger over being trapped in the cafeteria with the Slowest Drinker On Earth, and also, I was so freaking happy that Elvis threw up someplace where I didn’t have to clean it up.
I mean, imagine if he’d gotten sick in my car. That would have been the worst! My car’s disgusting to begin with, but adding vomit to the mix, I don’t know, I might have just intentionally driven us into a brick wall, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. If he’d waited until we got home, that wouldn’t have been quite so bad, but he probably wouldn’t have done me the favor of losing it on the linoleum. He always has to throw up on the carpet. And this time he probably would have gone all the way upstairs just so he could throw up on the new carpet! That would have really depressed me.
So yeah, that was awesome.
The principal assured me that Elvis was not the only child to throw up today. Which was kind of disappointing, as I rather enjoy the distinction. Everyone step aside for the Traveling Vomit Show. Thank you verrah much.
So Elvis and the baby and I went outside for some fresh air. Elvis immediately spied the bouncers and proceeded to move to the front of the line, but of course I pulled him away. I am a woman of little shame, but I seem to have just enough to prevent me from putting my kid in an inflatable bouncer thirty seconds after he’s lost his lunch in the most public of places. He took it surprisingly well. We played on the jungle gym instead. Eventually we made our way to the swings. He seemed to be feeling much better, but I figured if he did get sick again, well, throw-up flying from a swingset would be a new experience for all of us. And again, it’s not like it was my car.
I could have sworn that trip to the carnival lasted four hours, but we were really only there for two and a half. I can’t complain, though. Seriously, he threw up in the school gymnasium. How lucky can I be?
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