Great Information, How Does It Apply To Me?

Sitting in the junior high auditorium at parent information night listening to school officials outline the expectations for my soon-to-be eighth grader was a piece of cake. I was calm and relaxed, and, unlike at last year’s parent information night for incoming seventh graders, I never once hyperventilated.

Unfortunately, my peaceful state was short-lived as the focus shifted from eighth grade course descriptions to a frightening presentation regarding ninth grade.

“When choosing classes with your future ninth-grader, be sure to read each course description carefully,” I heard the advisors caution, “as failure to select the correct courses will undoubtedly ruin all hope your child has of living up to his or her fullest potential.”

At this, I looked up from the eighth grade course catalogue.

“Depending on which course you choose, you could either set your child on a track that will guarantee a post-doctorate research grant midway through his or her junior year of high school, OR you could set your child on a track that will guarantee he or she will live at home with you for the rest of your life…”

My pulse quickened.

“… so choose carefully or you will end up spending your golden years doing LAUNDRY for a nest full of 30-somethings...”

My breathing grew shallow.

“… because high school, college and the REST OF YOUR LIFE are right around the corner.”

I began to sweat. I had no idea how much pressure was involved with pursuing a junior high education.

While one parent asked a question about the Fulbright Scholarship, my mind wandered back home to my firstborn, content in seventh grade and far away from frat boys and finals. My dear daughter, who, thanks to unlimited texting, can type 40 wpm using just her thumbs but is nowhere near ready for a dissertation. My little girl, who looks forward to using her new algebra skills someday (in fashion school) but, at that moment, was most likely in her room humming a song by a band I have never heard of before.

All this talk about college as it related to my daughter seemed a bit premature, given the fact that she still hasn’t grown in all of her permanent teeth yet.

Then I remembered how quickly the time passed from seventh grade to the day my parents moved me into the dorm at KU. I went from navigating my way through puberty to navigating my way through campus in the blink of an eye. And through it all my parents never knew the names of my favorite bands either. In fact, they still don’t get that Bono sings with The Edge and not Cher.

On the other hand, they do NOT still do my laundry.

Which gives me hope. I may not know who sings “Fireflies,” but I’m sure when ninth grade enrollment comes along next year my daughter will be ready. Even if I am not.

Does Not Compute

“Welcome to Seventh Grade Algebra,” Mrs. Houston began. I had been looking forward to Parent Night at the junior high ever since putting Ellie on the bus earlier this fall.

Ellie had been kind enough to let me not only walk her to the bus stop the first day of school, but take her picture at the corner while waiting for the bus as well. Unfortunately the bus showed up a little earlier than scheduled, and I had to leap behind a bush – camera in hand – to avoid being spotted by a busload of seventh graders.

(Ducking behind the bush in the early morning hours wearing my jammies and holding a camera was not nearly as embarrassing as jumping back out after the bus had passed, startling and confusing my poor neighbor who happened to be jogging by that very spot at that very moment.)

Junior High got a lot easier after that first morning, with the exception of one class.

Seventh Grade Algebra.

“Your child has been recommended for this class because he or she excels at math,” she continued.

This statement might have had some element of truth, but just the night before, Ellie and I had both cried over her algebra homework. Neither of us knew what the textbook wanted out of us, and I ended up Googling the instructions for her calculator.

Until then, I had considered myself to be quite bright.

“You should be proud of your child for falling into this category,” she said. “These are the students who will likely go on to be engineers or physicists.”

Physicist? Ellie? I thought. She told me she wants to be a fashion designer...

“Many of these students are smarter than I am,” she explained.

Oh, crap.

“… work for NASA someday… “ umm, Mrs. Houston? We have a problem “… go on to promising careers as adults.”

FASHION DESIGNER!!!

Mrs. Houston seemed oblivious to my dropped jaw and furled brows. “This class puts them on track to be finished with college statistics before they ever even enroll in college.”

She isn’t going to need college statistics to design the skinny jeans of the future. She only needs to be able to convert inches to yards…

“… a lot like Doogie Howser… “

Maybe figure square footage…

“… keep them challenged… “

Like Tim Gunn or Heidi Klum?

“We will cover exponential expression, convergent sequence, and harmonic mean,” she said, as if they were Christmas presents I should look forward to opening. I quickly scanned the room and realized I was the only parent who had lost all coloring in her face.

“… compete in national mathematic… “

… but she’s a real blonde…

“… really, really, really smart… “

… and cute…

“… motivated… “

… and likes makeup…

“… genius level… “

WE HAD TO GOOGLE HOW TO WORK THE @#$% CALCULATOR!

Fortunately Mrs. Houston could not read my thoughts nearly as well as she seemed to be able to integrate and differentiate (I have no clue what that means).

And, as it stands right now, my real genius is pulling a B in the class by sheer willpower and has had exactly one boy ask her over to watch “Star Wars” and play with Legos, confirming that my daughter is in way over her head.

Queen Trish: Using Her Powers for Good

Summer is here, and I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t miss getting four kids out the door to school by 8:00 every morning. I don’t miss worrying if the school uniforms are clean or if we have enough bread and peanut butter to scrape together a sandwich. I don’t miss the homework, the early bedtimes, or the onslaught of activity at 3:30 every afternoon after an otherwise peaceful day alone in my house.

But every summer, I do miss Trish.

(That is her real name, she told me I could use it.)

Trish is the most undersung hero at our kids’ school, holding the all-powerful role of school secretary.

Any parent who has ever forgotten a lunch, field trip forms, or bake sale money; any parent who has ever tried to pull a kid from school early the day before spring break; any parent who has ever wanted the rest of the story (including names) that only partially made it home from school knows what I’m talking about.

Trish is all that and a bag of chips (usually from Jimmy John’s). And one bad-ass mom.

When her older sons (1st and 2nd grade at the time) told her, during the ride home from school, about a classmate “doing it” with someone, she immediately asked, “Do either of you know what ‘doing it’ means?” Upon seeing their little heads shake side-to-side in the rearview mirror, she filled them in with details about “doing it.” Who, how, and with what. She had a captive audience in the back seat growing more and more nauseous, educating those boys like no nun ever had at their Catholic school and swearing them to secrecy within an inch of their lives.

As she pulled into the driveway she asked, “So, do you think your friend is really ‘doing it’ now?” They held back tears, squeaked out “no,” and ran to their rooms for the rest of the night. Voluntarily.

Years later, she had a similar conversation with her youngest boy, a 3rd-grader at the time, when he asked his mother on the way home from school if she had ever been hit in the balls at recess.

“I don’t have balls!” she laughed from the driver’s seat.

“You don’t have BALLS?” he said, wide-eyed with surprise and horror. “What do you HAVE then?”

This is the same son who, since he was five years old, had been trained by Trish to leave any lost teeth on the stairs leading up to his bedroom so the Tooth Fairy won’t have to wake him up at night (or forget to come up and make the swap before going to bed herself).

But my favorite Trish moment came while I was filling in for her at the secretary’s desk one morning.

A beautiful, sweet-looking young student walked into the office from recess, forcing tears out some very blue eyes. I noticed the little child’s face looked disappointed to see me, rather than Trish, sitting in the hot seat, but the kid stuck with the plan, saying, “I think I broke my elbow.”

I sat the child down and gently touched the allegedly afflicted appendage. My patient gave a B-movie performance (at best), with a delayed flinch and minor whimper.

Knowing this was a frequent flyer to the school office, I proceeded with caution. “Well, I can tell it hurts, but the good news is that it doesn’t look broken.”

Savvy to the inner-workings of Trish’s arsenal, the child pointed to the medical supply cabinet and said, “I think I need a cast. Can you look on the 3rd shelf down and get one for me?”

Having four kids of my own, I was not about to get played by this one. “You need a real doctor to put on a cast. Should we call your mom and have her take you to the emergency room?” I said with feigned concern, offering an ice pack instead.

This did not satisfy. We were at a deadlock.

Just then, the phone rang. Trish was on the line. I told her about her little fan and my failure to comply.

“Let me talk to the kid,” she said.

I handed the phone to the child who changed expressions to one of defeat.

This is what I heard on my end:

“Yes..... Yes…… Okay….. (looks up at me) Thank you Miss Jules (back to the phone)….. okay.”

And then they hung up.

“Miss Trish says I have to go back to my class now,” the child said, handing me the unused ice pack.

I stood there, dumbfounded, ice pack in hand, and watched the kid head out the door without another word.

(sigh)

When I grow up? I want to be just. like. her.


Dedicated to Miss Trish

Work of Art

Caroline, as I may have mentioned before, is an interesting creature in our home. She lights up our days and fills our nights with song --- and has provided me with much blogging material.

This fall she began the wondrous journey of Kindergarten. And every day I’m in awe of her teachers who not only instruct with love and patience, but allow her to come back, morning after morning. Never more in awe, however, than I am right now, this Monday morning.

Let me begin by saying that Caroline, at this point, has been publically (and correctly) recognized by her teacher, Mrs. MyHero, as being “not like the others,” relative to our three oldest (and model citizen) children. The distinction came early but has snowballed in recent weeks, starting with her near-sabotage of parent-teacher conferences.

My husband and I had planned to address Caroline’s chronic complaints about a supposed bully in the class. A real monster. The kind of kid who will likely finish high school in juvie, with a rep for teasing, taunting, and terrorizing classmates, according to our daughter. And we were more than ready to call this child out. But just hours before conferences were to take place, we got a call from the principal. Caroline, apparently, had stabbed said “bully” in the hand with a pencil in a fit of vigilante passion.

But just when we feared this would greatly reduce the likelihood of our concerns about a classroom terrorist being taken seriously, Mrs. MyHero forgave her without a second thought. And the “bully” (actually, the entire class) has yet to mess with our Caroline ever since.

I know she’s learning things at school too, though. She comes home eager to share her newfound knowledge nearly every day. Her Catholic school recently presented a lesson to the children on “good touch, bad touch,” and I greatly appreciate their willingness to protect my child from molestation with dignity and a sense of security. Caroline couldn’t wait to let us all know, however, that it’s not really called a “fanny,” but rather, a “ba-gina.”

We always look forward to seeing what Caroline brings home. So I was happy to sit down with her Friday and read the “Alphabet Book” she had been constructing at school for weeks now.

We had flipped nearly halfway through pages of impressive writing and illustrating, all by Caroline, from apples and bears to ice cream and jars.

And then came the letter K.

Caroline had very beautifully copied the sentence, “The man has keys” across the bottom of the page as instructed. Above the sentence she had, very thoroughly, brought the story to life with her own illustration. Standing gingerbread-man-posed above her written piece was, indeed, a man holding keys in his right hand. He also had a bad comb-over atop his head and a great big smile.

And we know without a doubt that this was a man, as opposed to a woman, or even a boy, as he was not only drawn completely and 100% buck-naked, but anatomically correct as well. Yes, indisputably a post-pubescent man with 10 fingers, 10 toes, all other appropriate appendages and hair growth, and a bellybutton.

And keys, of course.

But when others might have greeted me arm-in-arm with SRS upon seeing such art, Mrs. MyHero did not question or judge. She had simply smiled at me after school Friday as she scooted Caroline (and her backpack filled with hand-drawn soft porn) into my arms, knowing quite a surprise awaited me for the weekend.

So my 5-year-old, quite graphic, artist is welcomed back to school each new day. And for that, among many other things, I am extremely thankful.

Enjoy a week filled with gratitude and loaded with laughter.

Hail to the Chief

The following was obtained by the Oxygen Network. It is a copy of the most recent stump speech Julie has been delivering before school every morning for the past seven years, which is almost as long as the 2008 Presidential Election has been going on.


“Good morning darling children whom I adore and couldn’t wait to jump out of bed and cater to today! What could I make you for breakfast on this beautiful morning? [Engages the audience early, earns their trust]

“We’re out of that.

“That too.

“I’m going to the store later.

“No, not Fruit Loops. How about Fiber One? [Health Care Reform]

“[To the senior member] Careful, the milk’s pretty full, why don’t I pour--- Get a towel. [Homeland Security]

“A wet one.

“Wring it out first.

“So it doesn’t dribble across the--- [Forces a smile] Never mind. I’ll get it, you get dressed.

“No, I’m not mad.

“[To the oft-neglected middle child] I don’t know, I’m not the one who took them off your feet last night. Did you check under your bed?

“[To Luke 6-Pack] Of course you can go on the field trip.

“Four dollars and twenty-five cents? Today??

“Give me the permission slip and go dig 17 quarters out of Dad’s change jar. [Re-distribution of wealth]

“[To the youngest – and most passionate – constituent] That is a great collection, but I’m not sure you should bring a handful of dead ladybugs for show-and-tell. See if there’s a toy you could bring.

“Did you check for your shoes in the bathroom?

“Please stop crying, I’m not mad at you for spilling. [Compassionate Conservative] Are you wearing mascara?

“Buddy, those are nickels. [No Child Left Behind] Quarters are the big ones that are bumpy on the outside.

“Did you leave your shoes out by the swing set?

“Sweetie, the Barbie Condo won’t fit in your backpack. [Addresses the mortgage crisis]

“Please stop crying, your mascara is running. In fact, why don’t you wash it off? Back in my day, we didn’t wear mascara until eighth grade. [Not true. Julie was in seventh grade. See FactCheck.org.]

“Honey, I’m not in charge of your shoes. Did you try the car?

“…14, 15, 16… This one’s a Chuck E. Cheese token. Are there any more quarters? [Free Trade]

“That’s better, now you look more like an 11-year-old girl. Go eat your Fiber One.

“No, you can’t bring matches to Kindergarten. [Weapons of Mass Destruction]

“Why were your shoes in Luke’s closet? [Deregulation]

“Great job, bud. Here’s your permission slip. Put the baggie full of change in your backpack and give it to your teacher as soon as you get there. [Regulation]

“Sure, you can take your Barbie toothbrush. Just remember to bring it back home after show-and-tell.

“Can you please start putting your shoes where they belong? [Change is Coming]

“No, sorry, it’s 55 degrees outside. We’re walking. [Energy Independence]

“[Strong finish as she exits] You’ve got your library books? You’re ready for your spelling test? You have jackets? Got your lunch? Let me give you a hug. Seriously, none of your friends are watching.”


She kisses four babies on their heads and walks back to party headquarters while the chant “Twelve More Years!” resonates. Another crowd-pleaser, we must say. And, like usual, she wasn’t even wearing any lipstick.

Tribute To Ellie

I figured summer was ending soon when Luke got sponsored for his 25th time, officially becoming a true Guitar Hero. Caroline has worn her crayons down to stubs and Amelia has memorized every episode of iCarly. Ellie has nearly finished digging a large hole she plans to use as a tornado shelter in the empty lot behind us, and I’ve almost filled in the tan line from my new swimsuit. Yes, it’s been a pretty productive summer at our house. And now a new chapter of our lives is about to begin.

Tomorrow I will send my baby to Kindergarten. My eleven-year career as a stay-at-home mom to children too young to go to school, where I excelled at leading sing-a-longs in the drive-thru lane and herding cats through the Target parking lot, will officially end. No one will be home with me during the week to ask me for a drink or a snack….or a ball of twine, a blowtorch, and fingernail polish for “a project”. My house, for 7 hours, 180 days each year, will be quiet. Folks, there is a God.

But the tear I (may or may not) shed as Caroline marches through the Kindergarten doors to her unsuspecting teacher won’t be the only one to roll down my cheek. For I will also watch my oldest baby, Ellie, walk into school as a 6th-grader. (I’ll also watch my 2nd and 4th graders make their way into the building, but let’s be honest. Those really aren’t milestones. I’ve had those before, and they’ve lost their novelty. No offense, Luke and Amelia.)

Remember 6th grade? Being the big kid on the elementary school campus? Kindergarteners were puny. Fifth-graders were wanna-be’s. Reagan was president.

The 6th-graders ride the wave of privilege that comes with age all year long. They are the leaders of the school, the most senior members of the student body. Today’s 6th-graders know how to burn their own CD’s, can identify each Jonas Brother, and learn about Reagan during history lessons. Some even carry cell phones. And now I’ve got one of those --- though without the cell phone, MUCH to her dismay.

How she got to this point is a mystery to me. I remember her first day of Kindergarten. Amelia was 3, Luke was 1, Caroline was in the works, and I spent the whole day curled up on Ellie’s bed clutching her teddy bear. She fell asleep on the way home from school that afternoon; turned out it had been an exhausting day for both of us.

Since then she’s made Science Fair, Parent-Teacher Conference, and School Carnival part of our annual vocabulary. She gave an Oscar-worthy presentation on the Chinook Indians a couple years ago. She created a slide show using PowerPoint and had the good sense to store it on a jump drive (whatever that is) right before our computer crashed last spring.

She says she is too old for dresses and loves her new haircut with layers and bangs. She suckered my mom into buying her mascara and Dave and I into buying her a stand-up bass. And she can’t wait to learn to play it, even though it’s twice as big as she is.

We've taught her about the birds and the bees, Santa Claus, and the fine are of TP-ing --- in that order. She’s taught us patience and love and got us hooked on American Idol.

And now she’s about to step into the world of 6th grade. I’m just not sure how she got to be this old, considering I’ve hardly aged. I realize there is much, much more to come, and I look forward to it all. But for now I will simply watch in awe as Ellie, like she has done her whole life, blazes this new path for our family. I know she has all the tools she needs to do it well. I just hope I do too.