What I Learned In School:Coming of Age As the Cold War Ends

Kindergarten:
Girls who play with blocks get marriage proposals. (Sorry Jason, I just wasn't ready to commit.)

First Grade:
The Justice System is flawed. Punching boys gets you in trouble, even if they did look down your shirt.

Second Grade:
Set the bar lower, and you'll get reward spots on a giraffe. Next time, to SECURE my spot, I 'll be sure to demonstrate how to make onion dip for the class, instead of writing and illustrating my own poem.

Third Grade:
While gluing cotton balls to a plate that will form the face of Santa Claus, the teacher informs us that he doesn't really exist. Thanks for clearing that up; I'm a better person today for knowing the truth.

Fourth Grade:
Nine Year olds can predict the results of an election. (Reagan beat Mondale in our class election.)

Fifth Grade:
An Act of God,(Hurricane Gloria), can ensure up to two whole weeks of no school. God is Great.

Sixth Grade:
Don't play Spin the Bottle with ugly people.

Seventh Grade:
Leave me alone; I'm trying to figure out this Rubik's Cube.

Eighth Grade:
Bad things happen when you soak your hair in lemon juice, slather on baby oil, and sun bathe.

Ninth Grade:
I am the hottest thing since sliced bread.

Tenth Grade:
Boys are evil. Thanks to Rave (super hold) hairspray, my hair defies gravity, and stays in place, even in tornadoes.

Eleventh Grade:
A person can fail a road test three times and still get a driver's license in NY state.

Twelfth Grade: Did this year happen? ....Um, ... Oh, -Took extensive course at Taco Bell.

College, Undergraduate:
Complete Works of Shakespeare, USED: $135. 99......Watching your English professor dramatically act out excerpts of Hamlet with a heavy Indian accent: PRICELESS.

College, Graduate Degree:
Diploma= PAY RAISE!

Oh, Was I supposed to remember the curriculum?

Don't Wake Mama Bear

Childbirth changes a woman on so many levels. I think when I had my first born, there was something from the hospital lab marked "experimental" mixed into my Epidural. I suspect the misplaced serum had something to do with cloning grisly bears. It seems that, when I feel the need to protect my children, I suddenly change, physically. My skin gets hot under the collar, my hair bristles, and I can feel my face stiffen. This is something I can not control, and it usually is accompanied by an irrational urge to destroy the cause of the threat, whatever or whomever that may be.

The first time I notice this strange change is on the playground at the beach. Big Brother is about two years old, and he is playing on the deck of a giant wooden boat. An older boy approaches him and makes a joke about his clothes. He's dressed in a one-piece, spandex Buzz Lightyear bathing suit to protect his fair skin from sunburn. I watch my cub defend himself from a distance. "This is my cool baby suit!" he exclaims, offended for the first time in his short life. Up until this point, no one had ever questioned his "coolness." Of course, the mispronunciation of the word bathing suit only makes the older boy laugh harder, and before my brain realizes what my legs are doing, I've moved myself into the older boy's personal space. "How old do you think this child is? Huh?" I leer at him. Backing away from this crazy woman in the sand, the bully shrugs. "He's two! How old are you, like, ten?! Leave him alone!" I growl. As the boy runs away, my claws retract back into my sleeves and the precariously bushy black fur that's spreading on my back disappears. That's when I realize, I just forced a confrontation with a child. Nice going, Mommy.

Really, this inconvenient transformation only takes place once in a blue moon, or in today's case, occasionally during a sunny morning. I decide it is in big brother’s best interest to remove him from a special class that will be a self-contained model for the next six years of his education. My husband receives a smug attitude from the building leader when requesting this change. "We want our son's transition to be smooth...You need to be welcoming and warm to my wife tomorrow when she arrives with him. I really don't want to bail her out of prison." I don't think they realize Mama Bear's on her way to their camp ground.


What a warm welcome I receive! First I have to show my driver's license to reach the main office from the front doors of the building. After searching for someone who is supposed to meet me and help us with the class adjustment, I explain to the secretary that I'm escorting big brother down to the new classroom myself. Then the building leader comes out of her office. "We have a policy that parents can not walk through the halls," she announces. My hair bristles, my muscles tighten, and I start feeling the fur spread across my skin. Luckily, I do not smell M&M's in her pocket, so I'm able to slow down my mutation. Forcing a smile, I repeat myself, calmly. "I am walking my son to his new classroom, saying goodbye, and greeting his new teacher." A staring contest ensues. Meanwhile, I'm flashing back to last April when big brother was hospitalized with pneumonia. I was glued to a plastic green hospital chair for three days, praying in the middle of the night that his fever would break. This person is not going to walk away smugly with my son. I think this all is communicated somehow, non-verbally, or maybe some of my fur starts to show, because Mama Bear wins, and no blood is shed. Walking back to my mini-van, I return to my previous state as just another ordinary mom.

Meet Mrs. Dread

I'm sitting in the cafeteria in the middle of a Kindergarten Orientation meeting, and I can't hear a word the principal is saying. It's not because of the crowd of rude parents who are talking over her, but rather, my disturbance is due to the negative feng shui that exists in the room. The principal is standing underneath an awning made to resemble a tropical hut. Giant wooden letters sit on top of its roof. The letters spell out: "NACK HUT." It seems that sometime during the cafeteria mayhem of the school year, the "S" in "SNACK" keeled over, and no one ever bothered to revive it. I'm wondering, "How could this building leader speak under a broken sign?" It's driving me insane. While her mouth forms sounds into the microphone, the anal voice in my head is screaming: "Fix the S!" Before my brain realizes what my legs are doing, I have risen from my seat. I approach the principal in the middle of her speech. Pulling up a chair and stepping up on to it, I ask her to excuse me for just a moment. Confused and slightly alarmed, she pauses, microphone in hand, to stare at me and asks, curtly, what I'm doing. I pick up the fallen letter and return it to its proper location, forming the word: SNACK. "There! Now you can continue," I tell her. The room is silent. I sit back down, smiling. I'm finally relieved. Big brother pipes up from his seat, "Nice job, mommy! Now all the children will understand where to go to get their snacks!" A peal of laughter follows from the parents, and some clap. Making eye contact with the principal I shrug and apologize. "That word was driving me crazy. Now I can actually listen to you....Um, Sorry."

Reflecting on this action, I realize this may not have been the most positive way to introduce myself to the faculty and administrators of my child's school. However, that misspelling made for a very bad presentation, and a truly sad sign. I felt compelled to intervene.

In B.C. times, (Before Children), when I was employed as a teacher, I sometimes encountered "difficult" parents. I called them Mr. or Mrs. Dread behind their backs, of course. There were many reasons why I dreaded dealing with them, but often, I thought these particular adults were pushy, and overly judgemental. I swore I would never become a Mrs. Dread.

I guess the old adage is true: "Never say never." I recall this dusty promise as I'm dialing the number of my child's principal. School hasn't started yet, and it's big brother's first day...of kindergarten. I explain that I have concerns and questions about an optional enrichment program that my son is enrolled in. This may be obnoxious of me, but so what! Reader, who else will advocate for the academic success of my children?

My fear and doubt in the school district mounts during the first week. Big brother gets bullied on the playground, and when he asks an adult for help, he is told to "go play." I only feel more concerned when the teacher sends home notes riddled with grammar mistakes. I send in a note, then call her directly and voice my concerns. I decide to give big brother extra projects once a week to help enrich his learning. All the while, I feel like I've been possessed by Mrs. Dread.

This behavior is not like me. I understand that no one is perfect. However, everyone can shoot for excellence. When I was a new teacher I was so nervous, I forgot how to spell word "hamburger." I wrote it like this on the black board: HANDBURGER. Of course I looked dumb, and a kid corrected me. I can relate to the pressures of being a teacher, but as a parent, I feel frustrated. I expect those who are entrusted with my child's academic success to strive to be excellent at what they do, just as I did when I went home from work and secretly checked the spelling of "hamburger" in the dictionary. I never put a hand in a burger again.

By Friday the teacher is responding with extra notes on big brother's progress, and she has worked his enrichment projects into her curriculum. I look into the mirror and realize, the horrible transformation is complete. This is what giving birth has done to me. I am Mrs. Dread, and it turns out that, as Martha Stewart would say, "It's a good thing."

“Excellence can be obtained if you:...care more than others think is wise;...risk more than others think is safe;...dream more than others think is practical;...expect more than others think is possible.” - Unknown

Mommy's First Lesson of the New School Year

Big Brother is skating across the wood floor in his new school sneakers. I ask him to stop because he's about to fall on his face. "But Mommy, I'm fast. Faster than a Jesus Christ Lizard." I get mad. "What did you say?" I ask in a stern voice. He repeats himself, innocently. I go into a lecture about respecting the name of Jesus. "No, but Mommy, there is a lizard called the Jesus Christ Lizard and I learned all about him on the National Geographic website. Intrigued, and half-disbelieving, I ask him to show me. He does.
"Oh," I say, "MY BAD."

(Please shut off the play list at the bottom of this blog to hear the video.)

Survival of the Sweetest

Here is a picture of a disgustingly huge spider that built its web across the outside of my kitchen sliding glass doors last night. This morning, in a state of grogginess which typically causes me to pour orange juice in my cereal and return the milk to the cupboard, I forget about this horrific creature and attempt to put out the garbage by way of that entrance, walking right into the abandoned web. Hell Hound looks on, head tilted in a state of canine curiosity. Luckily, the spider has disappeared, probably having overheard my plans to destroy it with hair spray. Nevertheless, my screaming jig is inevitable, which I'm sure wakes all the neighbors, the live ones, anyway.

The dead ones are already up, I'm sure, since their landscapers were running weed wackers at 6 a.m. in the cemetery next door. "The dead neighbors are sooooo rude!" I complain to my husband at breakfast after having taken two showers. "Don't they care that I also like to rest in peace at 6 a.m. on Saturday?" Milk Man shrugs and crunches, sips his coffee, and rattles the newspaper. He's engulfed in the latest national crisis. Chris Russo is leaving the radio show, Mike and the Mad Dog on WFAN. I pull the paper down and lean into his face, asking "Will radio ever be the same?" He does not think my sarcasm is funny. "No, it probably won't," he mumbles, putting his coffee mug down and abruptly exiting the kitchen. I'm emptying the dishwasher and laughing. "Are you seriously upset about this?" No answer. "Wow, SO sensitive," I think aloud. "This is a dog-eat-dog kind of world, Milk Man, I guess Mad Dog had to move on." No answer.

Milk Man can be very sensitive at times, and so can I. This quality is definitely evident in the gene pool of our children, which troubles me as we approach their first days of school. They are very nice little people, and some kids can be cruel and aggressive. This is a fear that every mother must let go of, I suppose, as it is beyond the realm of control.

The princess enters the kitchen in her plastic shoes. "AHHHHH! I see the icky spider in the glass. Maybe smash it, Mama." Her older brother protests. "NOOO! Its brothers will be sad if you kill it. Mommy, just move it with my bug box."

Did I mention big brother LOVES bugs? He turns to the princess. "Just because something is ugly doesn't mean you should smash it." She thinks for a moment, then reluctantly agrees. After all, big brother knows everything.

My husband is standing in the doorway, smirking at me as I face my fears and relocate the giant spider in big brother's bug box. I think I'm breaking out into a sweat as we parade to the back of the yard with the creature, so it can safely find its "brothers," and avoid the jaws of Hell Hound.

I bet spiders teach their children the meaning of the phrase "Survival of the Fittest," but this bugger just got lucky today. It tacked itself to the door of two wonderfully sensitive children. I'll save one million ugly bugs if it means my kids stay this sweet forever.

I Survived the "Death Conversation"

I'm sitting at the breakfast table eating my Cheerios, enjoying the sludge of gossip in the NY Post's Page Six magazine, totally unprepared for the incoming conversation with big brother, when he glides into the kitchen in his Heely sneakers. "Mama, Did you know that there are people who are dead behind our fence?" I was wondering when he was going to figure that out. We live next door to an old cemetery. I shake my head in a "Yes," but keep reading. The next question really grabs my attention. "And Mommy, do you know that you and me and everybody dies?" I look up at him with a mouth full of cereal, at a loss for words. Big brother senses that I look alarmed. It's not because he's telling me something I don't already know, but rather, I'm not ready to discuss death with him before 7 a.m. on a random Thursday morning.
He leans into my face. "Don't worry Mama. You don't need your body when you die; you're a spirit."
"Really?!" I play dumb. "Tell me more about that." His tone is joyful and matter-of-fact. "Well, at Bible Camp yesterday we learned that Jesus gives us the power to live forever and ever. So, Mama, don't be scared." Big brother looks over my shoulder at the T.V. "Gotta go, Mama, Yo, Gaba, Gaba is on." He slides out of the room on his Heelys. I pick up Page Six again. In between crunches I think,"Well, that was easy."

School's Over: Mommy, Look What I Learned!

Today is the last day of preschool for big brother. I wish I had the camera with me when I pick him up at dismissal. He's hugging his best friend, Thomas. They bump schoolbags and do their secret backwards wave goodbye. In the car, big brother looks pensive. From her car seat, Snow White notices and leans into his face, shouting, "What you thinkin' about, brother?"

"Just my very best friend, Thomas. We decided to never forget each other and always be friends, even though we'll be in different schools next September." Snow White pauses. "Oh, just like me and my friend Aurora."

"Who's Aurora?" I ask, surprised. "She's just a beautiful mermaid friend in my mind, Mama," Snow White casually replies.

We celebrate by going through the Wendy's drive thru. At the kitchen table, big brother is struggling to finish french fries. He has his eye on the chocolate shake that came free with his meal.

"Mama, My stomach is full to the top," he complains.

I play devil's advocate just for kicks. "Well, that's too bad. I guess there's no room for that chocolate shake."

"BURP!" Big brother covers his mouth, muffling a laugh; Snow White has fallen off her chair, giggling.

"What are you doing? That's not nice!" I say.

"Sorry Mama. I'm just making some room in my stomach for the dessert. Burping adds room so you can fit more food into your body."

"Where did you hear that?" I wonder out loud.

Big brother pauses from sipping his shake. "I learned it at Pre-School."