Sometimes explaining language and concepts to a 4-year old is difficult. When he asks what a word means, I try to figure out how to explain it using words he already knows.  Last night we were reading his new favorite book called Brain.  He really loves these Smithsonian books with creative titles: Brain. Heart.  Whales.  Storms. Volcanoes. So we were reading the brain book, and in particular the section about the thalamus and the hypothalamus. The text says, “hypo” means “below” in Latin.  So Tommy tells me, “Hey, if my bunk bed was a brain, I sleep on the hypothalamus and the top bunk is the thalamus.” Sometimes I feel like he might be a genius.  So I say “Exactly, very good analogy.” “What’s an analogy?” he asks.  Ummmm.  I think, how do I explain this?  I say, “It’s kind of like when you make two things that are different, like a brain and a bunk bed, seem the same.”  He tells me, “Oh, I get it, it’s like when I fart and brush my Barbie’s hair at the same time?” Yes, that’s exactly what it means.  I’m telling you, genius.

Sometimes I don’t even know why you are still my friend.  I have pushed you to the back of my mind so many times.  I have thought, that’s a great idea, I should write that down and then not done it and then thought what was the really awesome thing I thought of writing about?  Oh Daily Writing, when I was younger I really ignored you, telling myself you’d always be there for me and that you were the kind of friend I could value more when I got more life experience. After all, what would we talk about, me so young, you so demanding of perfection?  I thought, once I graduate college, and I don’t have to study so much, you and I will be tight.  And then suddenly that did happen; we were meeting daily at the laptop over coffee. But now I am back in school, and ignoring you once again.  

It’s not that I don’t have ideas for us to work with.  I think about blog posts and how behind I’ve gotten on my weekly habit.  I think I could do something about Wal-Mart from the perspective of the person who also suspects that store might be evil but still needs to stay in the grocery budget and shops there anyway.  I could write about how America is so inundated with mountains of crap at stores like that and questions why we ever even consider putting something like a glittered plastic pumpkin in our carts.  Or I could write about my old boss who used to say unindated when she meant inundated, and “let’s nip this problem in the butt,” my personal favorite, and how fun that would be to make fun of, but then I remember she got laid off in round 2 this year, and how unkind it would be for me to rip on her, even though she’d probably laugh and say, “Wait, what’d I say?”  I could write about layoffs, and how strange it all is, how we all walk around like scared citizens in a war torn country at first, but how by round 3 you start to think it’s such a normal part of corporate America to get laid off that you could survive it, you just wish they’d tell you early in the morning or late at night, when no one is there.  You ask questions like, What’s the severance package like? or, How much does unemployment pay in Nevada?  The answer is “not much” by the way, in case you’re wondering.  If I got “right sized” though, Daily Writing, you and I might visit more.  Or course, it would be bitter, crappy writing at first, but still.  I could do another post about school, but I’ve got no stories really, I’m just pluggin’ along and freaking out over teaching my 15-minute social studies lesson.  I keep on pondering the farewell post, and I am thinking I just might do it so I could get it over with and only feel the push to write papers and work on my novel, but I’d miss the blog too much.   

My life is complicated and I feel a little bit panicked and uneasy, like when I have too many library books out, or when well, I guess how it feels when you know that layoffs are next Wednesday and you think it could be you as logically as anyone else.  After all, you’re the one who makes stupid jokes in meetings to ease the tension and has a special schedule for school.  They know you don’t want to work here forever, because you told them, you dummy.  If I could somehow win Megabucks and ditch this job of mine I could do it all: school, non-profit newsletter, family commitments, baby showers, birthday parties, grocery shopping, reading to the kids at Greenbrae, homemade Halloween costume of the planet Venus that can fit in a carry-on bag, and that novel that I am dying to finish even if the writers group thinks my main character says fuck too often.  Then I remember a story I could write.  I would start it,” This one time, when I was babysitting…” and my friend Maja would laugh and say, “This one time, at band camp…”  Okay, I was 17 and I was babysitting and the dog died and I didn’t even notice and the mom called me after I got home and I thought something was wrong with the baby but she asked me if I thought the dog was acting funny.  And as she told me the deal, I thought, What kind of person has a dog die 2 feet away from them and not even notice? And will she still call me to babysit because the extra money is nice and it’s an easy job. Especially now with no dog to worry about. That would be a good post, funny, in a sick kind of way, which can be the best type of humor. At least for me.  The writers group wants me to submit something funny and they act like that will be a challenge for me. Just because the main character of my novel killed someone and is in therapy and saying fuck a lot and bordering on anorexic, geez, I mean I can be funny too, you know.  Didn’t they read the post about the time I knocked the guy off the ski lift? Now that was funny. 

Oops, Sorry Daily Writing, I went off on a tangent, which is weird because I never really do that.  What I’m trying to tell you is that all I can do is the best I can do every day, with work, writing, working out, parenting, school and homemade Halloween costumes. And you are always with me, even when it feels like you’re not, when I am ignoring you and taking you for granted and assuming I’ll have plenty of time for you later. Geez, you must hate it when I do that.  Friendship should not include guilt, so I promise to let that go.  Just as soon as I write something.  You and I do seem to get along best when I have time, a pot of coffee, hours to spare, and no distractions, but life is just not like that anymore.   Plus, that would be so boring.

The thing is, when you and I get together, when it‘s good, there is no better feeling in the world.  It’s like the best drug ever, the euphoric kind with no side effects but tons of addiction.  Not that I would know about drugs, this is a mommy blog after all.  I definitely didn’t inhale.  So I appreciate you, Daily Writing, and how you have stuck with me all these years, even when you were ignored, when I have loved you too much, when you yourself knew you were flawed, I do appreciate it.  We’ll get together soon, I promise.

Writers have this annoying problem, if they don’t write their heads go wonky. It’s what keeps us sane, the writing I mean, not the wonky head. So here I am, a student again, and feeling overwhelmed with my life, and not doing the one thing that settles me down.  Here are a few things that have been on my mind, that I don’t have time to put in a full blown, focused post, and that seem less and less interesting the longer I don’t write about them. 

Disney Channel 

Handy Manny:  Is he not the worst handy man ever?  I mean, he never has anything but his tiny toolbox and tool belt. In order to start whatever the job is, he will need of a screw or a piece of wood, and the dude has to go to the hardware store every time.  I mean, stock up on some basics, will ya?  He must get paid by the hour, not the job. And all those people are so thankful, they don’t know he is milking the clock and flirting with that tool shop chick, Kelly, all on their dime. Leave Kelly alone and get to work I say. He might be the only handyman in town, but someone needs to file a complaint to the Better Business Bureau on that guy. 

Facebook 

Facebook is cool for about a minute.  You get to see what all your old high school buddies are doing and how they aged.  And then you are thinking, cool, someone I had freshmen algebra with is eating sushi in Minneapolis right now.  My brain doesn’t need this information. Eat your sushi, but don’t post it on the web, okay?  Or you know, it’s good for you that you won your soccer game, but unless your soccer team is the U.S. National Team, I really don’t care. I was guilty of The Wall triteness too, but I have seen the error of my ways and wish everyone else would just quit playing mafia wars and having cyber pillow fights and go get a life.  Become a bell ringer or volunteer at a shelter or knit a sweater and send it to me or something.  My mind really can’t track who is eating sushi, who is on a party bus dressed like an 80’s rocker, and who catered Martin Scorsese’s daughter’s wedding.  What’s important to me is: who will get kicked of Top Chef and Biggest Loser, okay? Because I am enlightened like that. 

Cultural Artifact Box 

You guys will like this. Class assignment:  Bring a shoebox with 5 items that represent your culture.  First, in case you need it (I did), definition of culture: The totality of socially transmitted behavior patterns, arts, beliefs, institutions, and all other products of human work and thought.  Kind of broad, but okay, put that in a shoebox.  You’ll need to share it with a stranger though, so think about what you bring.  And you can only include one picture. Here are my items:  

1. Cupid, who used to be my little Teddy Bear, given to me by Heather when we were first dating and stolen by Tommy.  Cupid came to the hospital with us when he was born, so he’s been around for a while and got squeezed quite a bit during labor.  He is the perfect representation of my family. 

2. A coffee cup. If coffee can’t represent the culture of my life, I don’t know what can. If Annie Savoy of Bull Durham believes in the church of baseball, I believe in the church of coffee.  So many of my best moments center around the almighty cup of hot.

3. My pizelle cookie recipe.  My childhood Christmas tradition – however screwed up we were we always made pizelles every year, and I still do it at my house, along with tamales and biscotti and sometimes these little caramel shortbread pecan thumbprint dealios that make the holiday 5 pound weight gain possible.

 4. A San Luis Obispo postcard.  My past, my home, my love, me. 

5. Teachings of HH (his holiness, but I just call him HH, because we’re tight like that) the Dalai Lama.  This represents compassion, caring, introspection, kindness and the kind of spirituality that doesn’t focus on judging other people’s lives to make me feel better.  It represents all the good I strive for and sometimes reach.  That’s right, you can call me HH, her holiness.

  Conversations overheard at Six Flags last weekend: 

Mom, can I have a quarter for a gumball?  No, we are trying to save our money!  Tip: don’t go to Six Flags then.  Oops, HH forgot about that whole not judging thing, I’m back on it now, carry on.

 Mother to daughter:  Eat your cotton candy like a lady!  As a grown up lady (stop snorting, I could be a lady, my legs are crossed daintily as I type this, so there), I can’t eat cotton candy without making a big sticky mess.

And at home after I called a princess by the wrong name, again. 

Heather: I can understand Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty because they both have blond hair, but Jasmine is not Arial, okay?  I mean, they don’t even look alike. Add that to the sentences I never thought I’d hear from my girlfriend, but that’s why parenting is fun. 

Friends quote of the day:  Looks like it’s time to change somebody’s nicotine patch.

Weird historical fact:  Did you know that Henry Ford would fire you if you didn’t drive a Ford?

 Okay, I feel sufficiently purged of all of those half ideas, so now maybe my mind will open up to a new blog post, a “big girl” post as my savvy web designer friend calls it. Aw heck, I don’t want to be a big girl, all of my pants are too tight already.

Suddenly my life got very crowded. My brain is filled with unattractive facts of history that make me feel ashamed of our collective past. My work is full of panic over a new program called SAP, and everyone jockeying for their strategic position. I’m not much for corporate jockeying. My home is now one big person, two little people and one small dog more crowded than it was 3 weeks ago. But it’s Fall, football season, and time to bake and make homemade noodles. My history paper is nearly done because I am a super student nerd, and life is still as good as ever. Studying the Great Depression reminds me how lucky I am to have a house to offer, to be able to buy food for my family, and to have a paycheck. And so often I think being surrounded by people is a better option than being alone.

Sometimes when the crowds get to me, I go back in my mind to Angwin, California. I’m at my aunt and uncle’s house, with the beautiful garden, infinity pool, and the perfect guest house that feels like a cabin and retreat. There I am on the bocce ball court, I have a glass of wine in my left hand and the pallino in my right. There is my uncle, giving me advice on how to throw, and behind him is my aunt, smiling behind her own glass of wine. I can smell the citronella in the air, the temperature is perfect, I am barefoot and the dirt court feels so good on my feet. An owl hoots and the score doesn’t matter. The plan for tomorrow is a morning walk, a lot of swimming and a little Pacifico with lime. I am enveloped in a hug of summer, relaxation and love of my family and the people who love me best. I wish the moment could go on forever, but even the memory of it alleviates the crowds in my life and in my head.

Short post, go to your happy place.

First day of school, it’s gonna be grand, and a good breakfast starts with… dark chocolate-covered espresso beans!

Ten years later, it’s all the same really. I don’t feel as old as I look to the 20-year olds in the class, although I did ask my coworker what to wear in order to not look like a “non-trad.”  Then it occurred to me that only a true “non-trad” would even consider asking that question.  So with worries about parking and finding my classroom, and determined to fly under the radar, I headed out for Day 1 of my pursuit of teacher licensure and master’s degree. Outfit: shorts, flip-flops, t-shirt, zip up hoodie.  It’s the best I could do and how I always dress anyway, so it seemed the best choice.  Be yourself, don’t bring your coffee, was the advice I got from my peers.  Hence the espresso beans.  Portable cool kid caffeine, since I don’t drink Amp! Or Monster!  Or whatever that crap the kids like is.  Oops, or you know, something less old-lady sounding.  I don’t go in for the power drinks there Sonny, my ticker can’t take it.

There are a few differences between being a student now vs. then.  I don’t give as much thought to the $5 parking fee.  Back when I was in school as an undergrad, my paycheck covered my rent and bills with about $30/week leftover for food, clothes, movies, etc.  Luckily I worked in a restaurant/bakery where the leftover food was free (I really can live on cherry turnovers and baguettes and be very happy. Fat and happy.), and where the tip jar provided an average of $10-$12 spending money at the end of each shift.  Would I have used half of my cash for parking back then?  No way. Five dollars could buy a Frontier breakfast burrito and fresh-squeezed orange juice, or a latte and green chile bagel at Fred’s. So back then I roller bladed to school to save on parking money. This time I considered parking far away for free and skating, but the traffic and extreme downhill grade of the trip made me opt out of that plan. I thought about death and how much I’d miss my people and leaving the parenting responsibility solely to Heather and how lonely it must be in Heaven with all those do-gooder, God and Peter (isn’t he the saint who lets you in?) suck ups and how sad I’d be once they found out I didn’t really belong and that I was just a good bullshitter and send me to Hell where I really ought to be and where I’m sure people are singing really bad karaoke all the time and the dude in charge (okay, fine, Satan if you want) is making people eat cottage cheese and drink crappy, weak, lukewarm coffee.  I thought about road rash, which I already know from past experience hurts like Hell, and frankly, I shallowly thought about the undesirability of arriving to class all sweaty. Maybe it’s not so shallow, maybe it’s being kind to my fellow classmates. So five dollars seems a good trade off for the alternative above-mentioned options.

On studying: there is no waiting until the last minute, and there will be no all-nighters. It will be a little-snippets-of-time kind of deal, just the same as it is for writing. As far as the all-nighters go, I really hate them and they make me an emotional jerk to be around.  So I am at least for now not planning any of that. For only one class, there most likely won’t be a need for that much studying. I do have two papers to write, and I had the completely nerdy, non-traddy thought that 6-10 pages double-spaced is not enough to say everything I need to say. 

Amidst all my worry about clothes and parking and flying under the radar, I did have a moment, after I was verified to actually be enrolled in the class, of complete excitement that I finally made it here.  It’s like when you are finally getting clicked into the roller coaster after waiting in the long line in the hot sun, and the excitement of the moment surges through your body.  You know, right before you realize that it’s a big mistake and you are way too old to ride something called V2 and you hope you don’t puke or piss your pants or die because the shoulder harness thing pops open when you are 185 feet up. Okay, well, school is nothing like that.  It’s going to be fine.

Ode to Family Resemblance

My mom and I have the exact same feet. I see her feet in my own flip-flop sandaled toes, pinkie toes turned in sideways,as if someone squeezed them into pointy heels for years and years. I see the same sideways pinkies in my son’s tiny tootsies. Ten little toes, all in a wonky row, like Mommy, like Grandma.

Feet might be the only thing Mom and I have in common.

She’s in love with her Singer sewing machine and Butterick patterns; I’m “You’re gonna do what? Sew something? Just buy it already and save some time.” She’s “Hey Honey, I bought you an ice cream maker, you just have to boil cream and vanilla and sugar for a half an hour and keep stirring, keep stirring, don’t forget to stir.” I’m “But Ben and Jerry’s is cheap and they do good work. Very good work.”

She’s Aplets & Cotlets, Chico Sticks and Abba Zabas; I’m Runts and Red Vines and Buttered Popcorn Jelly Bellies.

She’s “The world has gone to shit and I’m gonna die soon. Will you be sad?” I’m “It’s not that bad really. We’ve got coffee. Would you like a cup?”

She’s cream and sugar; I take nothing.

She’s one leg shorter than the other (polio), I’m just short (genetics).

She always thought a girl should wear ruffles and lace and pretty, pretty dresses with un-scabbed knees crossed perfectly and daintily at all times. I thought the best clothes came from my brother’s room, and dresses made playing soccer at recess impossible.

She’s nervous: pace the room, touch everything in my house, read the stuff on my refrigerator, point at the pictures (“Get me a copy.”), can’t sit still, rub-rub-rub the pink, dainty hands with the un-dainty chewed-to-bleeding cuticles against the polyester-covered thigh over and over and over. She’s talk during movies and ask questions but never listen to the answers.

I (sometimes) want to strangle her.

But then I remember that our feet – they are just the same.

One hundred caps in soccer is a huge milestone.  A cap is an international appearance in a soccer game, and it basically means you don’t suck.  Nobody makes it to 100 caps if they are a suckage soccer player.  So when it comes to hitting the 100th post milestone as a blogger, I am feeling pretty much like a non-suckage blogging superstar.  Because whether the posts were good or bad, short or long, they were there, and the number one rule of writing is that you have to show up.  So I feel proud to say that I have shown up weekly on this blog for two years, 100 times. 

Thanks to all of you who come here to read, and thanks to Andrea for making my blog look rad.  We all know that wouldn’t happen if it were me doing it, because I still don’t  load my ipod and am not entirely convinced that my show will tape if the TV is not on.  And ya, tape, not DVR or whatever that is.  

Did you guys know that the 100-episode milestone on a sitcom means it can go to syndication and make money for the actors even when they are not working?  So I am wondering when my syndication comes in.  When does the money start rolling in?  That book deal, is it forthcoming?  

To be honest, lately I have been feeling kind of done here on this blog.  Sometimes I re-read old posts, and I am very happy with what I’ve written, but I am not as inspired for new post ideas as I once was.  School starts next week, and I’m not sure how much time I’ll have for writing, and this poor twomommy is last on the priority list.  When it comes to cerebral pursuits, my work in progress is coming in first, which is good.  I split my novel idea into two separate projects and am focusing on the one that fits more as a YA novel.  I have always felt way less mature than my age in many ways, so YA feels like no real stretch, especially as far as writing dialogue goes.  The other piece, number two of the split, is a psychological thriller. Woman steps on dead man’s hand while hiking on lava beds in New Mexico and then her life starts to unravel.  It’s possible that these two ideas will meld back into one novel that jumps back and forth in time, we’ll see, but in order for it to possibly come back together I had to take it apart.  After my daily pursuits of novel writing, reading the numerous books  that live in various places in the house before they are due back at the library, working out,  and keeping up with agent blogs, cakewrecks, and other fun blogs on my blogliness, my own blog posts seem to be getting pushed to the bottom of the priority list.  And of course, the new season of Top Chef Las Vegas has begun.  Hello, I can’t miss that.  

Lately too I have been feeling apprehensive about posting really personal stuff up here if it relates to other people in my life.  I mean, I don’t care if you all know what a dork I am, but I wonder how the bootie boy would feel about me posting his stories here.  I am a big proponent that your stories are your own, and even though he is only four it feels exploitive at times. 

So my lovely readers, I want to thank you for staying with me through 100. I am so proud to hit this milestone.  It’s very nice to write post number 100.  I am not going to quit the blog, but just will keep on keeping on, hoping for new inspiration, and considering a potential change in format.  And if I create a new, more focused blog, I will let you know.  What?  Me? Focused?  Ya, that’ll be happening.

I am watching Toddlers and Tiaras and thinking I should really do a blog post already but could I just get some inspiration?  The problem is that my plan was to post about my theory that I am allergic to corn.  Or you know, intolerant to it.  But do you know how boring the post is?  This is me:  boo hoo, I can’t eat Red Vines, chewy Sprees, most chocolate, Captain Crunch, chips, ice cream, etc. anymore, poor me.  Seriously, corn is in everything and I am trying to quit without crying like a baby in the cereal aisle at the grocery store.  That’s the gist.  It feels near impossible to quit corn, but Trader Joe’s helps.  I refuse to quit the tamale-making tradition at Christmas, and beyond that, I’m moving on, a happy mostly corn free life.  Good news for you, the reader of this blog, but that’s all I have to say about that. 

After nixing the corn post, I was thinking about sharing the embarrassing moment number 6.  I mean, this one is good but it’s not top 5 material, so I don’t really know if I should go through the deal of explaining, but I will.  Anyway, here is my newest embarrassing moment.  Those who have been reading this blog regularly know from the dork post that I tend to collect embarrassing moments.  Then I rate them in my mind like the Top Ten on the Late Show and share them with every one I know.  So here is number 6:  Tommy has to bring a little crib sheet to school for naptime, and at the end of the week we bring it home and wash it.  So apparently the last time I washed it, I had some of my underwear in the load as well.  Well, you know, fitted sheets tend to grab things.  So when I went to pick Tommy up from school on Monday and I went to get his daily report out of his cubby I found myself thinking,  Why is there a pair of underwear in his cubby?  Whose underwear?  They are too big to be kid underwear.  Oh. My. God.  Those are my underwear.  I am imagining all the kids getting ready for naptime, the sheet being shaken out, the underwear flying, the staring toddlers, and God only knows what Tommy said.  And could it have been a new pair?  Oh, no, it’s that raggedy old pair, because that’s just how things seem to go.  All right, so as far as embarrassing moments go, it’s not as good as knocking someone off a ski lift or walking down an airplane aisle with the toilet paper flapping, but it’s good enough to keep in mind for a party story, or a work meeting that is just boring and awkward.  I like having these stories in my back pocket, so now I’ve got a pretty good one. 

Back to Toddlers and Tiaras.  Not to be all judgey, but what the hell is wrong with these people?  Tanning, chiropractic adjustments, shaving, tons of makeup, spending $1,000 on one dress to be worn one time, totally crazy.  The funny (and sad)  part is the interviews: 

Parent:  “Oh, she just loves it.  She just tells us, Mommy and Daddy, please let me do pageants forever.  So we do.  We do it for her.  It’s her thing, we are just there to be supportive.” 

Child:  “I usually don’t like it. Well, you know, sometimes I like it, you know, if I win. But if I lose I just feel so guilty.  And it’s boring.  But my mom likes it.” 

Ack, gross.  Don’t cry honey, you’ll wreck your makeup.  Seems like this phrase should not be uttered to a 4-year old, but maybe I’m old fashioned.  

I am reading a lot of young adult and middle grade novels.  Do you guys remember Judy Blume?  I reread Blubber over the weekend.  When I read it as a 4th grader I was terrified by how mean kids can be and what was in store for me in junior high.  This time when I reread it I wanted to slap those mean kids around.  The funny thing is, some people never get over that mean stage.  So maybe you should give a copy of Blubber to your mean coworker.  That’ll do it. 

I am out of ideas for now.  But who knows, I might have another good embarrassing story to share soon.  School is starting shortly, that should offer good “non-trad” stories. 

 Two of my friends who have recently started blogging:  Ex-Capades and Two Poods.  Also check out my cool coworker’s blog.

I think without planning to I took a little blogging vacation.  But now I am back to torment you with the trite and trivial. 

I am no longer Mommy, I am Meany Head.  It’s fine, I do not need the young son to be happy with me every minute.  If that was the goal I think we’d be raising Veruca Salt, Jr.  And really, he could be calling me worse things.  I think it’s a testament to our at home militant anti-media policy that he doesn’t come up with worse things to call me.  Heather is Meany Head also. It’s the only name in his arsenal.  Sometimes though, he will just say, “Whatever!”  And now and then he will add whatever it is we are doing to top off his whatever.  This is meant to be adversarial, but really it’s just funny.  Here’s an example:  We had to pull him out of Applebee’s and make him sit in the car because he refused to stop trying to climb on top of the booth wall and land in some senior citizen’s lap (I’ll tell you right now too, she wasn’t one of those old ladies who thinks little kids are precious, she was one of those old ladies who in her day wouldn’t have put up with this sort of thing and had no truck with being patient with our over-sugared and under-napped little dude). It was my turn to sit with him in the car while Heather ate her dinner (yay, it’s so fun eating by yourself!  Luckily Applebee’s puts a nutrition information pamphlet right there on the table, so we at least had something to read, depressing as it was.  Here’s a tip – don’t order sliders. ).  While I was in the car, I took the opportunity to explain the situation and have a lesson moment for the boy.  Ha, I’m so delusional.  It was something along the lines of “if you had chosen to sit in your seat instead of climbing and not listening to us and then kicking Mama on the way out of the restaurant, you’d still be there and not strapped into your car seat where you don’t want to be, blady, blady…”  Lesson ignored.  I was boring even myself with this discussion.  Then he looked at me and said.  “Whatever.” So I picked up the USA Today and started reading and he said, “Fine.  Whatever your newspaper.”  Funny.  I feel like he went from 4-year-old boy to 13-year-old girl overnight. 

So what is our meany-head crime?  We make him eat home-cooked food.  I know, right?  Terrible.  This stemmed in part from last week’s vacation, because the only drama of the trip was the fact that Tommy will only eat about 5 dinners:  quesadilla, chicken & fries, mac & cheese, taquitos, and pork chops.  So while we were on vacation, the boy did not eat much because at various times these foods were not available.  I should mention that the above-listed foods have rules; the number one rule is that they must be made by Heather.  I am trying not to be hurt by the fact that when I made homemade mac and cheese he told me he wanted “the good kind from the box.”  Whatever your mac and cheese. 

Up until now, we have been fighting the good fight and putting different food in front of him at dinner, but after he refuses to eat we offer him one of his five meals or a jelly sandwich.  But under the philosophy of “he won’t starve” and “he’ll eat if he is hungry enough” that has stopped.  We are upping our game.  Oh, it’s tragic in our house.  

A brief history of the week so far: 

Day 1: We explain the new rules.  I can see he doesn’t believe us.  But we have already vowed to BE STRONG!  We are tougher than a 4-year old.  Plus, it’s two against one.  The odds are with us.  He gets fresh bell peppers, sausage, and a whole wheat hot dog bun on his plate.  See, we’re being nice, we’re compromising, we’re not making him eat an actual sausage sandwich with sautéed bells and onions topped with mustard.  He refuses to eat, whines, begs for a quesadilla, gets up and kicks the wall, and then gets put in his room where he throws 45 -minute tantrum, comes out and eats bread and bell peppers.  All that screaming makes you hungry I guess.

Day 2:  We have a long-standing deal with the boy: if he gets all four stamps (good listening and rule-following) in gymnastics he gets a happy meal.  Yay, bribery!   So he earned his stamps.  He is probably hungry from last night.  And he is off the hook on the food plan. 

Day 3:  Worst night yet. I make a pasta dish with chicken, artichokes, sausage.  He starts a pre-emptive I’m not eating that coupled with frustrated screams.  I give him a side of pasta, side of chicken, side of sausage, an artichoke because I am delusional, and a little bit of bread and say something like, “that’s up to you but this is what we are having.”  More screaming.  Good thing we don’t live in an apartment.  He eats bread, but then gets mad again and starts with the Meany Head calling after we say no to the requested quesadilla.  Then he goes to his room and tears his Spongebob border right off the wall.  Ack, I don’t even know what to say after that.  I feel an exorcism might be in order.  I pull the “that hurts my feelings” on him and feel like a putz, as I really hated all the guilt I was raised with and vowed not to do it to my child.  Heather is more practical, she tells him there is no big water park in his future unless he shapes up.  We repeat the mid-tantrum mantras to each other:  “Isn’t it fun?” and “Why do people ever have more than one child?” 

Day 4:  Success!  Steak and mac and cheese, clean plate all the way.  Okay, so we cheated.  But after last night’s horribleness we felt we needed to fix something from his list of 5 edible meals.  You never heard more excitement and good jobs! over dinner in your life.

Day 5:  Tonight:  Chicken and rice. It’s gonna be ugly, I’ll tell you that.  This chicken won’t be breaded and the rice is, well it’s rice, it’s not on his list of acceptable foods.  Ah well, I don’t really want to do the water park anyway… 

My newest crazy food intolerance eating plan: no corn.  Sorry Iowa.  Of course I will report back, because that’s one thing this blog needs is more discussion on food.  Thus far my observation is that corn is in everything. I am surprised the grapes I am eating right now are not injected with corn syrup.

The quest to go back to school for teacher licensure update: the application packet has been sent; fabulous letters of recommendation, pretty good Praxis scores and mediocre essay included.  It turns out that I am not very good at formal essays that request a mere 4 pages on topics as broad as “My Beliefs About Education, Children, and the Role of the Teacher.”  When faced with a question that broad, I tend to freeze, then ramble and meander and ultimately lose my train of thought until I finally just create something slightly crappy after a month of obsessing of the horribleness of the task and then declare: That’s it!  Done! Lame! And … print!  Writing something on a topic that huge in four pages is suffocating.  It’s like trying to knit a sweater from inside a detoxifying herbal wrap.  But I have so much to say!  Only four pages?  Let me do 40 and then why don’t you just give me the certification because I am so damn clever!  Ya, anyway, I got that stupid essay written.  Remind me later to tell about this book I am reading about perfectionism and how debilitating it can be for weirdos like me.  I’ll just say it causes a lot of freezing procrastination.  A lot of “definitely tomorrow I am going to finish that essay.”  I recognize that I will have to get over it if I am going to be a good student.  So the last step, immunization records and a tetanus booster, have been obtained and sent.  By the way, if you are thinking you really should get that tetanus booster but you’ll do it someday, because heck, what are the odds you’ll get tetanus really? you should go to Wikipedia and look up tetanus.  That’ll snap you right into shape.  Bring on the shots, you’ll say.  

So the assumption I have made is that I will be accepted, in part because enrollment is down and the program needs money, and well, obviously because I am an awesome applicant.  So as I prepare to go back to school, which basically means imagining myself there, a new goal is emerging.  No, the goal is not to get good grades or achieve fabulous levels of knowledge, at least that is not the primary mission at the moment.  As I visualize myself hitting the campus, finding my way around, and eventually being back in the classroom, my goal is to not be that girl.  You know the one I’m talking about, don’t you?  The returning student.  The non-traditional student.  The annoying chick that everyone can’t stand. Ya, I’m going to try not to be her.  

Back when I was in school (okay, I just realized that in order to achieve the goal of not being that girl, I cannot start sentences like that, so I am getting it out of my system now and will not use that phrase again, starting…. now!), the first day of class was like a game. I’d see if I could pick out the annoying student.  The student who would be nice enough but would force me to hate her as the semester plodded along. It could be a man or woman, but usually the student was older, oh, say 38 years old, had a “real job” and a child or children.   She had an air of better-than-you-ness and condescension.  There she was, with her canvas Earth Day tote and her coffee mug, talking to the teacher before and after class, taking copious highlighted notes, smiling eagerly, all the books needed for the entire semester stacked on her desk every day, just in case. And whatever topic we were discussing, she had a life experience to share.  Up her hand would shoot, until pretty soon she didn’t even need to indicate that she had something to say, it was assumed and there she’d be, co-teaching as the actual teacher leaned against the desk, waiting, nodding, smiling and probably thinking, every semester I get one of these students.  I’m just too friendly.   And just when you thought you might get away with a reprieve on a test, a push it until the next class kind of a deal, there she’d be saying, “But I was up all night studying, I’m ready, let’s just take it and get it over with!”  I’m actually kind of surprised there aren’t more non-traditional-student-ocides in this country. 

So ya, I am not going to be her.  Is it inevitable though?   I mean, I fit the profile.  My co-worker has told me that I could not be that girl, that I am not like that, but maybe she is just trying to be nice.  She has advised me not to bring a lunch bag (K, I wouldn’t do that, so I think I’m good, but the reminder is appreciated) and to just wear my shorts and flip flops, no dressing up.  Well, listen, I’m the girl who has made “ready to go camping” the new corporate look, so I should be okay there. 

 I think I’ve got it under control:  no lunch bag, no coffee cup, dress crappy, and don’t suck up to the teacher.  Don’t have a story for every lesson.  Essentially, I need to fly under the radar.  But if any of you have other tips, you just let me know.