I ask your indulgence of what are sure to be bumpy transitions between paragraphs.
How does anyone get a toddler to eat healthy green foods? Or even yellow or red ones, for that matter. Baby V will only eat cheese, macaroni and cheese, and the occasional piece of fruit (with cheese is a plus). And chocolate. I gave her M&Ms during our flight home from Colorado, and since my girl is a precocious talker, she remembers what “chocolate” is and asks for it by name.
Today was a rainy, gray Monday. I adore this kind of weather. I was made to live in Seattle or Dublin. We rarely get this kind of delightful dreariness in Southern California, so I cherish it when it does happen. Sunshine bums me out. Nothing puts a scowl on my face like the sun shining on it.
My students are the opposite. Everything I did and said today was met with whiney, “Do we HAVE to?” looks and heavy, long-suffering sighs. Apparently, my students feel they should NOT be expected to work or pay attention under the following conditions: when it’s raining, when it’s Friday, when it’s a minimum day or an assembly day, or some other non-typical schedule day, when it’s Monday, when it’s Tuesday after a three-day weekend, and when it’s the first fifteen minutes of class or the last fifteen minutes of class.
Good to know. I need to revise my lesson plan book. You see, I left work on Friday afternoon with the White Board Configuration prepared for Monday (for you non-teachers, that means I had an agenda, learning objectives, state standards, and a “Do Now” activity all posted on my board in my perfectly neat “teacher” printing, using various colors, natch). I had the “Do Now” activity posted on the main board, ready to be copied. My lesson was planned for the day, my materials gathered, and my desk tidied. I made sure that I could walk in first thing Monday morning and begin teaching. Heck, I could even have started my lesson from the hall as I walked in the door.
Were my students equally prepared? As Will Smith would say in every one of his movies, “Oh HELL, naw!”
When I inquired, quite exasperated, why no one was doing anything I asked, one girl replied, “It’s MONDAY,” as though I were mentally ill.
Now that Odie and I are back to doing the same job again, we struggle to “rah, rah, rah” for each other. Some days, the best we can do is agree that we’re lucky to have jobs and decide that we will be grateful for that.
The whole Odie family is on antibiotics for ear infections this week. What? Sorry, I thought I heard you say something. Yeah, it’s been like that.
One of my sisters is arriving this Friday from Greece. I haven’t seen her in three years. When she moved to the island with her Greek husband, my niece was nine months old. And they thought California was the worst place they could live economically. My sister has never met Baby V. I wasn’t even pregnant yet when she left. She is coming home with her daughter, my niece, and they are staying for the whole winter! Hello, Disneyland with all three cousins!!! (I’m not a fan of excessive punctuation, but each girl deserves her own exclamation point). Of course, this weekend I also planned our one and only camping trip of the year AND my friend Sara is coming down from Northern California with her baby whom I’ve never met, and I also scheduled a breakfast with THEM! Nothing happens in this family for weeks, and then it all hits on one weekend.
I peed on a stick today and found out I’m not pregnant. I’m like Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde on this issue, and you’re probably like, “What the WHAT?” We’ve decided we’re just going to go for it. Life is meant to be lived, and to me that means family. I know I will regret not having a second child, or at least not trying. Odie and I have had very well-timed, careless whoopie these past two months, and no positive pregnancy tests. It’s been a long time since I got pregnant, and at my age, every year counts. What hurts a little is that if I were unable to conceive a second time, Odie would be thrilled. So, either way, one out of two of us will be happy. And that ain’t bad.
Some of you are wondering if I have any scathing commentary for Kelle Hampton’s blog. Not really. What could I possibly criticize about the Down Syndrome Buddy Walk? Except this: why “rock stars”? When I think of rock stars, I think of alcoholic narcissists with substance abuse problems. I think of Keith Richards talking about how he doesn’t remember much, and how he feels “embarrassment and shame” when reminded that he took his dick out at the party and wrapped a five dollar bill around it. Yeah, ya think? Rock stars are a troubled lot, generally. Yes, there are exceptions, but for the most part, they don’t conjure up images of fuzzy headed little babies. Except the ones they fathered out-of-wedlock with groupies. I know there is that expression, “I’m a rock star!” and I have similar criticism of the expression. You are? You’re a temperamental, spoiled, marginally talented front-man with rage issues? Bummer. I’ve read that it helps some people to chant this silently or out loud to themselves “I’m a rock star, I’m a rock star.” How about “I’m a Supreme Court Justice”?
The other associated expression, “Party like a rock star” is meant to refer to binge drinking and drug-taking likely to result in an ER visit where you get your stomach pumped full of charcoal. Not pretty.
And finally, Miz Hampton regales us with her husband’s theory that deja vu happens when you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to do in life. Something like the Universe giving you the big “thumbs up” sign. If that’s true, then my life’s purpose was to be sitting in my chair on Friday night, watching “Medium” and grading vocabulary tests. That’s so depressing.
Maybe it’s the Robitussin DM talking, but I can’t get enough of the show “Parenthood,” mostly because of Peter Krause. I was such a fan of “Six Feet Under,” I wept until my eyes were swollen shut when (SPOILER ALERT) Nate Fisher died. This is not hyperbole. I was a wreck. If Baby V had been a boy, I had every intention of naming my son Nate. On the season premiere of “Dexter,” I was so happy to see Michael C. Hall back in a funeral home, I cried.
“Parenthood” is a terrific show, but I would make two big changes. Monica Potter is a terrible casting choice. She’s WAY too blonde. No one with her kind of stress would be able to keep up a dye job like that. You have to be on those roots every two weeks. The chick from “Gilmore Girls” is a fine enough actress, but her character is annoying. I don’t like the way she’s written. And YES, I realize I just criticized the woman playing Peter Krause’s wife and the woman dating him in real life, and I tell you that has NOTHING to do with it. I had real and legitimate reasons for hating “Brenda” and “Lisa” on SFU as well. THEY WEREN’T RIGHT FOR MY NATE!
Sorry, I’m getting a little shrill.
I’ll just leave you with this: Is it really so hard to capitalize “I”?