she's just saying...

We're all cry cry around here

Seriously, I wasn't crying. It was allergies.

Henry graduated from elementary school today. Three different fifth grades lined up and celebrated the occasion with an anthem, valedictorians, diplomas, and of course the requisite music video.

I got there in time to thank the administrators and Henry's special ed counselor, check the lost and found bin and get a seat in the gym. Tina and I were a little taken aback by the usual overly-involved parents who pushed in front of the rest of the audience to get the critical photos, encouraging their kids to grandstand and pose. It's the fifth grade. Really. Kinda setting these kids up to be really obnoxious later on.

Though I'll admit I'm overly emotional these days, it was this weekend's late-blooming pollen that caused my red, drippy eyes. We're all sniffling, sneezing, itching and rubbing our eyes around here. Calling Dr. Benedryl.

Henry won "most improved student" in his class. Voted on by the other students and teachers. I'm kind of  proud, but it's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? Anyway, on to the next phase. Puberty and middle school. Can't wait!

Did your principal play the electric guitar? No, mine neither.

Multi-tasking while doing nothing

Our school year was just cut by two days as of immediately, and it just hit me that I need to produce year-end gifts for Henry's wonderful teachers by Tuesday a.m. The great Mr. G. will probably get a giftcard with a personal note. Miss T., who's been Henry's advocate, cheerleader, biggest fan and confidante, needs something extra-special. So of course I picked up the needles and cast on. Goal: finish a market string bag in the next two days.

I picked pattern, yarn and needles already on hand and am knitting furiously while watching the World Cup.  That background whining horn sound during the game is driving me crazy though, so I'm watching the game on mute and listening to the Phillies/Red Sox game on the computer while knitting a lace pattern at the same time. I can't attest to the final result.

(It's a vuvuzela and according to Wikopedia is "associated with permanent noise-induced hearing loss, cited as a possible safety risk when spectators can't hear evacuation announcements, and potentially spreads colds and flu germs on a greater scale than coughing or shouting.") Not the pleasant summer murmur of baseball, for sure. More like an approaching swarm of killer bees.

Anyway, everything's on hold while I finish this project. Parents out there, weigh in on year-end teacher gifts: pro or con?  Suggestions?  Favorites? Discuss, while I knit on.

 

It's not a Wheaties box, yet...

The line for autographs starts at the right.

PS: That's Jen's girl, Chloe, with the Mona Lisa smile in the back.

Just a little something to nosh

Whew. Busy weekend doing nothing. A new friend came to visit - more on that to come if the stars align. Meanwhile, Henry keeps growing. And eating. Here's this morning's order:

Courses from the foreground back:

Buttermilk biscuit with country sausage gravy (notice the apple was not touched),

Two eggs sunny-side up with two pieces of bacon

Topped off by a huge pancake, with a scoop of butter and half cup of syrup.

The waiter placed it all in front of him and declared: "Mission: Eat!"

And he did. He started slowing down by the second egg and the last half of the pancake, but since that one pancake equaled three normal ones, we decided it was Mission Accomplished.

The wheels on the bus

In certain authoritative regimes when citizens feel wronged by the authorities their only recourse is to speak out publicly, in the hopes that others will take up the cause. This is my polemic about Mr. Bill, the Bus Driver.

It's no secret that Henry has trouble making the bus in the morning. Many days see him running down the block, backpack and coat flying, racing to catch the bus while the kids cheer him on. He usually manages to reach the door just before the driver pulls away. Today was no different, though this morning the bus driver wouldn’t let him on. He drove down the next block, stopped at the stop sign where he could have opened the door, but didn’t. The bus, chased by Henry, then crossed busy 14th St. and headed off. Henry, through some mad racing skillz, made it to the next stop where the bus driver just shook his head and drove on. The kids on the bus were shouting and trying to get the driver to stop. They drove/ran another hundred yards, when the bus driver pulled ahead and left Henry in his exhaust. Exhausted Henry was, and returned home defeated and in tears.

The driver’s behavior was ridiculous, unsafe, and downright cruel. This driver is said to have a mean streak, evidenced by the neighborhood kids complaining, boycotting the bus, and even crying about having to ride it (I won’t name victims’ names here). I’d had enough, called the Bus Barn to register my concern, and got no satisfaction. I was lectured about Henry getting to the bus on time and how this driver says the kids love him. “He always shows me things the kids give him, nice notes and stuff,” his supervisor said. (Hmmm. Why has he felt he has to produce evidence? Is it because there have been other complaints?) I asked for his name in order to follow up further, and was told it was Bill. “Bill what?” I asked. “We don’t give out their last names.” Reminds me when the police covered their badges during the Watts riots. But I tend to be dramatic.

I believe in the public school bus system. Riding the bus is an important part of public school. It teaches socialization and allows every child access to school whether their parents can drive them or not, and is part of our tax support. Plus, I hate to join the endless morning line of SUVs with moms on cellphones, coffee in one hand, idling in front of the school drop-off zone, coddling their privileged kids who don’t want to ride the bus. (Why, yes, I do have strong feelings about that.) Not to mention it makes me late for work.

We were hoping to just get through the end of the school year and leave Mr. Bill behind, but it turns out that he’ll be Henry’s driver in middle school as well. Luckily, middle school is only a mile and a half away, so Henry can ride his bike. We’ll get studded snow wheels for the winter.

Edited to add: I know, Henry has to learn to get to the bus on time and that there are consequences to his poor decisions. I'm not condoning the bus driver "enabling" his being late. Henry will learn from this incident, but unfortunately he'll also learn that adults can be cruel.

Most amazing home appliance ever

Henry's Uncle Steve, known to loyal readers as YrBigBro, sent Henry an amazing device that should profoundly influence the direction of our lives from now into the distant future.

Behold: The Muffin and Egg Maker!

It toasts the English muffin AND cooks the egg and even heats a sausage patty ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Brilliant, yes? Whoever invented this is a genius. I've even experimented with adding a little cheese to the egg cup and it works great. Instant egg mcmuffin!

This will radically improve our mornings and Henry's breakfast diet, which will help him concentrate better in school thus getting higher grades, getting accepted to a top school and earning the means to support his dear old mother in her impending old age. Wow. All from a little toaster. Isn't America great?!?

(For family unity I should note that the original toaster idea came from Dr. Sister who sent one to Steve who then sent another one to us. Thank you, family!)

 

Eastward Ho, the wagons...

One of Henry's more entertaining homework projects last year was to plan out what he'd pack in a covered wagon to cross the Oregon Trail. Each kid was assigned a character, with or without family in tow, and told how many pounds they could carry. There were a few mandatories and the rest they had to figure out based on a list of random items and weights. We had a good time debating how many boots and axes and bedrolls to stuff in. Henry's pig ended up riding in the wagon with the family and he had to ditch the grandfather clock at the last minute to fit in a side of beef, I recall. Tough choices, really.

Today we're back at it, packing up the [station] wagon and setting out for the southeast in the morning. First we head north over the mountain passes to Portland town, then onto the big silver bird to Austin, Texas, to visit MyBigBro, known to this blog's readers as YrBigBro.

Preparing for an expedition is always an ordeal around here. As usual, it all starts with laundry. Organizing Flash, cats, fish, mail and Henry somehow always falls to me, with Henry in charge of  movies, Hot Wheels and snacks. Kennels and neighbors are lined up, litter boxes are cleaned, plants watered, a variety of electrical gadgets are charged and loaded, and of course there are the knitting projects to plan out. My standard method is to pack everything, take half of it out then stuff most of it back in while dragging the bags to the car.

Along with missives by Pony Express and the Wells Fargo wagon, I'll be blogging, tweeting, texting and foursquaring as we go. Wish us godspeed and pray that we don't fall afoul of injuns, typhus, runaway oxen or the one-pound Cinnabons in the San Jose airport. We're hitting the trail. Yee-haw!

Those inscrutable south asians

Remember this post? No, of course you don't - I think only three of you were reading this blog back then.

Anyway, Henry is now deep into his voice-over career, or as much as he can be in Bend. He's been recording an ongoing series for an Indian physical fitness computer course, or something like that. The script is being provided by an unnamed client directly from India.

Here are some random lines from today's script:

"This is nice grass, but I would like to go swimming to improve my muscular endurance."

"Hey kid, I can help you make some fitness equipment. All you need is this one gallon bottle of bleach."

"There is nothing like the element of dangerous toxins."

"There is nothing like the smell of chemicals in the morning."

I am not kidding you. What exactly are they teaching those kids?

Guns don't kill people; joysticks kill people.

(I don't think joysticks exist anymore, but you get my drift)

Like any good liberal mom, I always declared that we would never have toy guns in the house, and we haven't so far. Henry has shown no interest in guns. Either that's a personality trait or from a lack of gun-shooting testosterone in the house, but it's been an easy rule to keep.

Of course it's easy to follow when you're talking about replica guns and rifles -- clearly banned. But what about water guns? Nerf guns? It's a slippery slope. And it gets slipperier when you add video games to the mix.

I always loftily decreed that Henry couldn't play shooter games, the ones where you win by killing the most enemies. Clear enough, I thought. But then Henry started testing the definition. OK, no gun games, but what about shooting down evil alien monsters with lasers? Karate games, games where the Hulk drops people off buildings, samurai sword-fighting? And if those are OK, then why aren't shooter games? 

I came up with some lame excuses like sword-fighting is more of an athletic challenge, but we're talking video games, not re-creations in the park. (Bend can't be the only town that has teen boys dressed up in capes playing with fake swords in the park, can it?) Or this reason: shooter games glorify war and killing. Hmmm. Luckily, he's not interested in those games, except for the fact that since they're not allowed, they clearly must be cool.

11 years ago, in a mini-mall far, far away...

Today's our "Gotcha Day" as they say in adoption circles, so I'm republishing this post from last year.

Where babies come from: between Domino's and the dry cleaners

Ten Eleven years ago today, in a non-descript office in a non-descript mini-mall in Humble, Texas, a social worker placed a little baby in my arms. I stared down at him staring up at me. I recall my first thoughts were: "You've got so much hair!" followed by "You're so dark!" followed by "I can't believe they're giving me this baby!"  I'm sure Henry was thinking the same things, as he looked astonished, frankly.

My big brother Steve and I had driven from Austin to Houston that morning to "Go Get Henry!" as Steve's map was titled. I had warned him about the religiosity of the Texas adoption agency and he was prepared for whatever came up. (Another couple I knew were invited to pray before they received their child.) We met with the director, who commented on how wonderful it was that my brother lived in Texas and was able to accompany me. My brother, who is an imposing character with a deep voice, proclaimed loudly: "It was meant to be!" Satisfied I was acceptable, she closed the deal. I handed over a check and they handed over Henry.

They let us leave, baby in arms (I was expecting alarms to sound) and we walked off into our life together.

Blech.

Nooo! I caught my dear son's cold. I tried hard to avoid his swirling germ cloud, but what can you expect living with an outgoing and demonstrative 10-yr-old, hacking all over the place and leaving a trail of used tissues?

I really rarely get sick. I do get the big stuff: two sinus operations, glaucoma, broken foot a few years ago, food poisoning last spring, migraine here and there. To compensate for those, I've never had the flu, don't get colds, no stomach viruses. So I consider myself quite healthy. Henry's the same. Get this: he's NEVER had an ear infection or thrown up from illness. That may be a record for the Bend-La Pine School District. But we now have this annoying little cold.

On the plus side: I'm curled up on the couch, watching football, knitting and drinking tea with honey, lemon and bourbon with cats in my lap and Henry waiting on me. It could be worse.

No photo today, unless you want to see a mountain of tissues. Probably not.

The Naked Tree

Well, we hauled in the tree finally. We held a vote and it was 2-0 against walking down the three blocks to the tree lot and carrying our tree home like we did last year. Hey, it's 4 below! So we wimped out and drove.

The same guy was there selling trees, which pleased Henry who added him to our Christmas tradition narrative. Henry had a tree picked out from driving by the lot every day on the school bus, but it turned out to be a Noble costing $50. So we went to the rear of the lot and got a Doug fir for $25.

It's so cold that the tree was all closed up and let off a brisk cold draft once we got it home and put up. It's now opening up and shedding wildly. It smells really weird - Henry said it's like an orange, and to me it's a little like a sulfurous natural gas smell. The primary reason I get a tree is for the wonderfully evocative scent, so this is a major bummer so far. Hopefully it will get in line and smell the way it's supposed to.

I love to have a tree in the house. First without lights - just a natural tree there in the corner. Then with the lights on, then all the ornaments. I love to sit in the dark next to the lit tree, sipping eggnog with something in it and enjoying the soft glow.

The lighting and trimming are scheduled for this weekend. This tree is so bushy and dense that it might be hard to decorate. The ornaments will look like they're stuck to it with velcro. Maybe I'll just leave it au naturale this year. More time to knit! If you look closely you can see the cats in their customary position each time we get a Christmas tree. Not sure what they're waiting for but they sit there all day...

Business trip: knitting opportunity!

The Museum gang is headed to Portland for some work events requiring major wardrobe: cocktail party, business meetings, casual work, formal reception and banquet plus the usual 7 hours round-trip in the car. 

Only a few days, but around here every trip is an event. It all starts with laundry. Then there's homework organization; assigning cats and mail to neighbors; packing for me, dog and child; dog to kennel; child to friends: everything requires a plan. Sometimes I envy neighbor X: when he travels he just waters the plants and locks the door.

Plus, I have to plan my knitting strategy: what presents I can knit that 1. aren't destined for anyone on the trip,  3. can be knit in the car and 3. don't need major pattern concentration. Sounds like socks to me.

Odds of these being done by Christmas: 0-5%.

It's your birthday! Take another vicodin!

I can pinpoint the moment birthdays ceased to be exciting. November 13, 2007, when I turned 51.

My fiftieth was fantastic, actually: an all-nighter at a club in San Francisco followed by a tour of the wine country from a little inn in Calistoga. My (younger) boyfriend didn't freak out about my turning fifty (at least not that weekend) and my gal pals took me out for a wonderful dinner and celebration.

51 was unmemorable - I think Henry and I went to Red Robin. And last year on my 52nd I had a migraine and went to bed.

That brings us to this year. It started with an argument and tears about homework (Henry cried too). My eye is blood-filled (sorry), swollen and bruised and I'm spending the rest of the day in bed. Don't worry, I'm not alone: my cats and dog are happily lying on top of me.

But it's really not all bad. A friend came by with flowers, and she and other friends are bringing over dinner tonight. My facebook wall and blog comments are filled with best wishes, another compelling example of the power of social media. And best of all, the entire nursing and office staff at my eye doctor's entered the exam room this morning, sang Happy Birthday and presented me with a brownie and candle.

As my sweet doc said: "We feel like you're part of the family." Hmmm... Is that a good thing?

Potatoes? For me? You shouldn't have!

I do so know what a chicken gizzard is!

The preteen years have started, for reals.

This morning I emerged from my boudoir and heard Henry talking on the phone, at about 7:30 am. Who the heck are you talking to? I asked. Turns out he called in to the radio station he listens to on his clock radio, one of those inane entertaining local morning shows. Seems they were discussing what a gizzard was (scintillating!) and asked people to call in with their answers.

Henry, never shy, immediately picked up the phone and got on air. Here's the rough transcript:

"Hi there, what's your name?"

"Henry."

"So Henry, what's a gizzard?"

"Um, it's that red thing chickens wear, on their chins."

"Oh, is that what it is? How do you know this - are you a chicken farmer?"

"No, my mom's the vice president of the High Desert Museum."

Outed on air! Though it doesn't say much for the Museum that I supposedly called that red thing a gizzard. Sheesh, everyone knows that's a wattle.

Covered in steamed milk and Yeti fur

Quick - what's that a picture of?

A yeti in a snowstorm!

We've got yeti on the brain right now, as Henry decided (on Sunday night) that was what he was going to be on Halloween. Not Friday night or even Saturday, when I had time to go out and round up yeti paraphernalia. But if life weren't like a sit-com, who would read blogs?

Luckily Joanne's Fabrics had perfect hairy white fabric, and on sale! After considering and rejecting the hot glue gun or spray mount, I decided I had to bite the bullet and sew. Now, I hate to use my sewing machine, so this was truly an act of motherly sacrifice. Plus, once it's out and set up, I have some hemming I can do.

Meanwhile, at the same time, Mr. G's fifth-grade class was assigned an independent (read: parent-produced) project which involved a speech, audio visual aids and samples of "Our family's favorite snack." Since Chardonnay and olives were probably inappropriate, we settled on Italian vanilla steamed milk, which Henry gets me to make if he gets up before the expresso machine cools.

So, this morning had me sewing up the last seams of the Yeti costume while steaming hot milk for 32. And of course, I was wearing black velvet head to toe for my annual kitty cat costume. The long white fur shed everywhere, the steamer wand popped off spraying sticky milk everywhere, and I was swearing and yelling and generally starting the day off with a (hairy) splash.

How was your morning?

Parents' Night or Town Hall Meeting?

Our brand-spanking-new school

Last week or so (the days all blend), Henry's 5th grade teacher held a Meet the Teacher parents' night at which he reviewed his background, his teaching approach, the class expectations, etc. All was good until it came to the parents' turn to ask questions. This upper-middle-class professional achiever crowd is tough.

(Cute kid aside: the other day someone asked Henry whether he liked his new teacher and Henry replied: "Yeah! He's got a lot of energy!" Highest praise indeed.)

This teacher is an experienced, smart, personable, dedicated guy and he uses a well-honed system to get the most from his students. Plus he's funny and popular with the kids. And has a lot of energy. What's not to love?  However, the tone of the parents' questioning kinda surprised me. They all seemed to come with a dull ax to grind. For example:

"How do you plan to prepare my student to enter the Advanced International Baccalaureate program [in a local high school]?" (Did I mention this is fifth grade?)

"Why is the school using Macs when 90% of business uses PCs? Do you plan to teach them both systems?"

"What is this CNN.com student news channel they're being exposed to?" "How do we know it's appropriate?" "What's its bias?"

"How are you going to teach the students to not trust what the news media tells them?" (this last from a staunch neo-conservative tea-party type)

"When you say 'we assess our students' progress and help them achieve from their starting level' who is that "we"? Is that you? How do you plan to assign their levels?"

"If the kids choose their own reading, how do you know my kid is not slacking and reading something too elementary for her level?"

And so on. I think Mr. G was taken aback, and finally asked a bit plaintively:

"Doesn't anyone want to talk about birthday parties?"

Aliens in the Classroom

So I'm in my room, folding endless piles of laundry, when Henry bursts in with this announcement:

"Mom! A green person showed up today! She said: 'Don't recycle the lemonade cartons!' "

And then he runs off.

A helpful voice from the cosmos? A cryptic warning?

What's really going on in that new school? I wonder...

The last week of summer

This post was written last Sunday.

Henry is 10, going on 16. He's a true night-owl and can sleep in til 11 am easily. So reentry into the school routine makes for a living hell over here.

I decided to wake them (Gavin here still) at 8 am this morning to get them slowly acclimated to an early wake-up and hopefully an earlier bedtime.

"Thanks for ruining my summer!" Henry said as he dragged himself into the bathroom.

Then I made him clean up his room big-time, which was quite painful and included yelling.

"This is the worst summer ever!" he complained as he pulled out filthy, dusty socks from under the bed.

Then I pushed onward, going through his clothes drawers to see what still fit. I made him hold a few things up (no chance of getting him to try them on) as the discard pile grew.

"I hate clothes!" he cried.

Then I showed him that I had sorted all underwear and matched all matchable socks.

"You're the best mom ever!" he said as he flung his arms around me.

I'm really looking forward to the teen years...

Produce and the City

[Note that I used the word "city" in the title of this post. I've been informed that Bend does indeed have an escalator; therefore by my own definition it is a city.]

I love farmers' markets. Who doesn't love farmers' markets?  However, I'm very happy these days that I don't need to go to the Bend Farmers' Market any more. (correct possessive apostrophe of a plural noun there.) There's the small matter of parking, for one thing; getting there on time, waiting in lines, dodging the shiny happy families and so forth. Just saying.

The reason I don't have to go you-know-where is that a farm stand has opened two blocks from the house.

And it's a great farm stand.

Tomatoes that taste like my dad's eaten right there in his garden.

  Big fat and little donut peaches.

 

Local berries, herbs, beans, potatoes, onions, beets, corn delivered daily right from the field. etc. It's thrilling.

And it's really local.

The best part? I can send Henry down with a backpack and a grocery list. I'm telling you, after nine years of doing it all myself, I'm finally reaping some payback. And it's character-building too.

This is Adam from Richard's. Tell him Melissa sent you.