dearest daughters

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty-Seven/Eight Months Old

Dear Babybel,

Now that you're three, the monthly developments seem a little less significant. The degree to which you can successfully pick your nose or the milliseconds less it takes you to put on your shoes seem numerically immeasurable.

Nonetheless, it seems I should keep up with the practice of writing to you monthly, if only to tell you how much I love you.

While you look like your daddy, in most ways you are a lot like me. It's TBD how much of your personality is your DNA and how much of it because you spend so much time with me.

Specifically, you use a lot of the phrases I use. Your manerisms are similar.

The other day, I put Danjo down for a nap without her Lovie. I began to wander the house like a crazy person, talking to myself. This is something I did before you existed in the tangible world; talked to inanimate objects, mumbled to myself while putting together IKEA furniture. But, which I now euphemistically claim is a practice that is "beneficial to developing your meta-cognitive, problem solving and critical thinking skills."

"Lovie, where arrrrre you?" I sing-song asked.

She was no where to be found.

"Bel, have you seen your sister's Lovie?" I asked, knowing you're the observant type, hoping you had either seen it somewhere or mischievously hid it somewhere yourself.

You didn't skip a beat, as you sat on the couch, reading a book. You didn't look up. You didn't bother to feign a search effort.

"Hmmmm. That's strange," you said.

You routinely use phrases like these. Things you've picked up and use in context. You're SO precocious. You know that "Hmmmm. That's strange" is something that someone says when something mysteriously goes missing, when it can't be found. Given that you DIDN'T EVEN LOOK, I guess this was an appropriate usage.

You often alert us when you have to pee: "Oh! I have to go pee!"

Resolved for matters unresolved

Dearest Daughters,

I was going to write Danjo's monthly letter today, but I got distracted by this:

I was on the brink of tears all eight minutes of this trailer, shared by former MBCC intern @Derrick Weston and one of Daddy's man crushes. Did I just say that out loud? Sorry, beadle.

It brings up so many emotions and thoughts and issues. But, I've narrowed down the rush of thoughts in my brain to the following:

It is, resolved, that my daughters will go to Wellesley College like I did, I don't care how far away it is, because that place effing empowers women (Did you notice Wellesley Center for Women and Jean Kilbourne? Woot!)

Resolved, that I will help my daughters think critically, deconstruct the media on a daily basis, because I can't shield them from it. (Disney, you already know, I'm talking to you!)

Resolved, if I ever have a boy, he will hear it from me even more than his sisters. He will be the most anti-misogynist, womanist person you'll ever know. I will buy him a shirt that says: "This is what a femenist looks like." And everyone will cringe and accuse me of "ruining" my son. Except for the women in his life. They will thank me. And, I will train him, like Pavlov's dog, so that any time he sees a scantily clad woman, he will quote Gloria Steinem: “We've begun to raise daughters more like sons... but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.”

That is all.

For now.

Love,

To Babybel on the Occasion of Being Thirty-Two Months Old

Dearest Babybel,

Thirty-two months is two and three-quarters of a year.

Quarters, you say?

The other day I found you behind the couch with my wallet. My first thought and exclamation was "ARE YOU GOING TAE?!?!" (Where, tae = TA-e = poop = feces = washing out your underwear YET again = having to do the dishes that are sitting in the sink = so they don't get poop on them = not dying of dysentery).

My second thought was that you were making trouble, imitating your sister who gets all SORTS of attention as she does her methodical rounds of the house each day, destroying, knocking over, pulling out, never resting until each and every book, toy, sharp utensil and item of clothing has been properly launched out the window and across the state of California.

But, before I could accuse, chastise or otherwise say anything I would come to regret, you popped up from behind the couch, not guilty at all, instead pointing the figurative finger at me: "You DO have quarters, Mommy! They are in your wallet. And here's your diaper." (Where diaper = Always brand overnight protection menstrual pad = you are too observant, cogent and a better listener than you let on = everything I ever say will come back to haunt me = dying of embarrassment when you discuss my "diaper" situation in the grocery store).

Quarters, you say?

"You do have monies, Mommy! For the submarine!"

Synapses fire, dots connect and I realize you're talking about the time last week when you asked if you could ride the "submarine" at the mall (even though we weren't even at the mall and last time you rode the coin-op submarine was over a month ago). And I lied. And told you I didn't have quarters.

I Couldn't Leave Well Enough Alone

[So, I'm all copyright offender status for posting this. I didn't think that one out. So, I reposted the clip without the song. Just imagine it in your head.]

[Also. Can I say? Rightously indignant. There are about 5,000 youtube videos of half naked girls dancing to "Cyclone" (just search the song title on youtube) and my baby can't dance to it?]

Dearest Daughters,

I don't know who Well Enough is, but I couldn't leave her alone.

 

This is inappropriate. Not the dancing (though your rhythm's a bit off), but the video. Outrageous outrage! And it is all your father's fault. Well the bad movie editing is my fault. And the song, that's mine too.

Actually, he suggested that I set the clips to "Get Low," but I don't have that song on my computer. So, I chose the most inappropriate song that I had access to. Baby Bash (feat. T-Pain) "Cyclone," for your listening pleasure. Don't ask me why this song is in my collection. Not because I don't know. Or don't want to confess. But, because the story's really not that interesting.

What's that you say? None of my stories are that interesting.

In that case, sit down. You WILL hear my story, missy.

This horrible, sinful, disgusting song is on my computer, because despite all intentions otherwise, when it comes down to it I'm a behaviorist.

For good behavior or good work, students in my classes got itunes "points." Yay positive reinforcement! Yay external motivation! When they amassed a certain number of points, they could exchange them for a song request. I'd download their requests (radio edits, of course) and that week's playlist would roll as students came in to the classroom, sat down, took out their notebooks and answered the "DO NOW BEFORE I SLAP YOU UPSIDE THE HEAD!" writing prompt.

Did it work? Yes, actually. Not only were (some) students motivated to improve their behavior or academics, but also they were quiet as mice and busy as beavers during those first few minutes of class. All so they could hear the songs that THEY (not some hipster white lady teacher) chose. Meanwhile, I bent below my desk to take a swig of tequila out of my flask, enjoying the melodious tunes of only our most brilliant musical artists of the decade. (This was the 2007-2008 school year; an era which also gave birth to  Soulja Boy Tell 'Em's "Crank That - Soulja Boy" and The Dream's "Shawty is da Shit" and my personal favorite Tiffany Evan's "Promise Ring" which basically says "If you give me a vending machine ring, I'll have sex with you! Oooo! It comes with bubble gum!")

Listen, I don't know where you get this inappropriate behavior and choice of music from, Danjo. But, it better stop now.

Love,

P.S. I'm just kidding about the tequila, people. What kind of mother do you think I am? One who posts videos of her 8 month old pole dancing to really bad music?

first grader baby advice

"Are you pregnant?" asks a first grader who has come up to me during recess.

"Why yes, I am," I say proudly for about the umpteenth time today.

"Why'd you put that in there?" she asks with a look of disgust on her face.

"Well, I guess..." I reply, taken aback by her response, because the follow-up question is usually: "Is it a boy or a girl?" or "When is it due?" I continue, "I wanted a baby, I guess."

She scrunches her nose up as if a fellow first grader just farted during storytime while the whole class is crowded on the carpet: "Um, why?"

"Why not?" I asked. "Do you think it might turn out bad?... like you?" I joke.

"Yup." she responds matter of factly.

The bell rings and she has to run off to line up with her class. As she turns she advises me: "When you get home tonight, you better get that out of there!"

Sometimes, I eat my boogers.

I subbed in a kindergarten class yesterday. It was lots of fun as usual and make me feel like I could actually be a real, live teacher. Kindergarten isn't fun because they're "cute"; I'm not really someone who falls for kittens and rainbows. And they aren't really that cute. They can be nasty and whinny and needy. What I do like about five year olds is that they're pretty transparent. What you see is what you get. They don't know how to play games or be "bad" on they playground yet. Many don't have a filter yet either, so the conversations are fun.

Seeing a boy picking his nose and walking around when he should have been doing quiet reading, I asked him if he needed a tissue. Not that he needed one. Maybe it was one of those boogers you can't get with a tissue; the kind that needs a nail. Or maybe it was just an itch. But I asked anyway, because it just seemed like something I should do as his teacher to teach him about appropriate public behavior.

"No."

"Are you sure? Maybe you should go get a tissue and wash your hands so we don't spread germs." Can you spread germs with boogers? I don't know, but it seemed a persuasive argument.

"Sometimes, sometimes, uh, sometimes," he stutters, "I eat my boogers." Students nearby whisper "ewwww" and "gross!"

I wasn't really sure how to respond to such a straightforward and almost unabashed proclamation: "Thank you for that information. Now get a book for quiet reading."

"I have to go pee!!!"

Dear "It's coming out now!!!",

Is it really? Coming out now? Lemme see your pants. Nope. Doesn't look like it. I think you're trying to pull one over on me, since you've already gone twice today during class. Not to mention you should really be using your recess and lunch breaks to go potty instead of playing "Bloody Mary." No, you may not go pee. Oh! But look at your face! Maybe you really do have to go pee. No, you're just a good actor. But then again, I don't really want to wipe up any pee. Or be that one teacher that ruined your life because she made you pee in your pants in front of your entire 1st grade class. Or, more importantly, the teacher who didn't listen and didn't believe you the one time your really were telling the truth, because the first two times you asked to go pee you really were just playing in the bathroom, but this time is FOR REALS!!! Okay, you can go. But, be quick! Now, there's three other kids asking me to go to the bathroom and they can't go until you get back. What? It's coming out of you too? Kid. When I sneeze it comes out! You can hold it until he gets back. Oh, never mind, forget it. I'm just a sub, not the guardian of elementary school righteousness. Just go.

Sincerely,

Your Substitute Teacher

Speaking of Conflict

Not much in the way of a top headline, but caused a stir on campus today and made the "Homocide Report": a reminder of the reality I leave behind at 3pm.

Update: 10/30/07
Here's the headline.

Today is Friday.

Fridays are good days. Even when they are bad days, they are good days. Thursdays can be good days too, if there's no school on Friday. Oh and Mondays too, if it's a long weekend.

I'm going to go ahead and do myself and my adoring audience the favor of writing on Fridays. Because they are good days. I can't promise Thursdays or Mondays, but Fridays I can do.

While I cannot announce a "hard" launch (my husband's in PR), consider this the announcement of a "soft" launch of my new creative endeavor: hippillow.

I should have some stuff up in the shop by the end of the weekend, whereupon you can tell everyone you know and their dog.

This is what I've decided to do to stay sane. This next semester, starting on Feb. 5, holds in store a LOT more lesson planning for an AP Human Geography course as well as two College Prep Geography courses. This semester with all it's ups and downs at least had a somewhat scripted curriculum, enabling me to basically go home after school and do nothing. Nothing became taxing. After a day at school my coping mechanisms told me to curl up into a ball, rock back and forth, pull out my hair and watch HGTV or Law and Order: SVU. You'd think that'd be fullfilling. Well that and cooking dinner and conversating with my husband. You'd think, but not entirely. I needed something to counteract my free fall into the vast abyss of public education, hurtling into darkness and an uncertain death. Everyday.

Okay, so teaching isn't the end of the world. I can do it now. I mean, I can do it without casualties. The body count was a little high there for awhile, but now we're just losing fingers and toes. It's just not exactly what I'd call rewarding, satisfying, or even fun. Nothing beats the satisfaction of waking up at 9am, eating waffles, going to class, eating chicken strips and French fries, taking a nap, surfing the Internet all afternoon, eating chocolate cake for dinner, picking up a book, looking at the cover, putting it down, watching TV, going to sleep and doing it all over again. But, I had to leave college at some point.

So, now I make things. With my hands. Not like how gorillas in the zoo make dung balls with their hands and throw them at taunting onlookers, but close. It feels that good.

Is it ironic or am I just a bad teacher?

I had my first fight today in class. Right at the end of a 3 week unit on Conflict.

(A fight between two students, by the way. When I told Kevin that "I had a fight in class today" he asked me if I won.)