ARE YOU DOING THE 30 DAYS OF GOOD CHALLENGE?

So, in this politically charged year, when it's getting harder and harder to remember what it actually means to be a patriot, what really constitutes a citizen, and what a community is truly made of, we decided to sign up for 30 DAYS OF GOOD.  Have you heard of it?

We so loved our Good Deeds Advent Calendar from December that we wanted it continue for as long as possible.

And by we, of course, I mean me.

What I didn't want, though, was for it to become a chore, for it to be something the monsters saw as boring and tiresome, and for it to be more work for me than for them.  But you'd be shocked to know how difficult it is to find a source of random but unique and fun daily good deed ideas.  Even in the bottomless internets.

As it happens, the month of February is about citizenship at GOOD, which I find particularly poignant being that it's also Black History Month.  For our first challenge, GOOD CITIZENSHIP TASK #1, we were asked to learn the history of our neighborhood.

Ugh and blah, is pretty much what I thought, as we live in a primarily upper middle class, primarily white, primarily conservative little bedroom community.

Blah, blah, blah.

But the juice...ah, the juice was right there beneath the surface. :)

This area, evidently, first belonged to a vast and thriving subdivision of a tribe of Ohlone Native Americans.  The Coastoans, as they were referred to, were a cooperative, not competitive, coastal people. They had very strong family ties, and grieved deaths with wails and expressive demonstrations of emotion.

Years later, a large land grant was sold to a very prominent Mexican soldier for $400,000, who eventually gambled away portions of his enormous rancho bit by bit, and returned to Chile, penniless and distraught, where he lived out the remainder of his days with his family.

Wealthy European settlers then took over the area. The missions came through and the Native Americans were either converted to Catholicism or ostracized. The Spanish and a few affluent New England families built up the canyons and valleys and hills, and have remained and thrived in the area.

Both Wikipedia and My Hometown Website provided a wealth of easily accessible, easily digestible info. The kids and I are now on a trek to visit some of the first homes preserved by the historical society.

So, okay. This. Was. Awesome.

And I feel just a little bit closer to the land around me, beneath me, than I did two days ago.  It still doesn't make me love my neighbors any more, but maybe that task'll come further along this month. :)

---

Maybe y'all can sign up for the 30 DAYS OF GOOD Challenge, too, and share some of your stories with us. We'd love to hear a little about the history of your hometowns, and maybe shrink the size of our neighborhoods at the same time. Go on now, and do some good. :)

CAN YOU MEET THE MEATLESS MONDAY MONSTER CHALLENGE???

Mama's Chalupas Famosos


(olive oil fried mini-corn tortillas,
vegetarian refried beans,
spinach, tomatoes, avocadoes,
and cilantro)

Ok, enough, people! I'm sicksicksick of hearing how many pills my whole family is taking to manage their high blood pressure, and high cholesterol, and heart disease, and Lord knows what else.

And, yes, of course I get that most people don't wanna give up their meat completely.  And I get that vegetarians, in general, get a bad wrap.  And I get that vegans are pretty much a punchline. I get it, I do.  I'm from Texas, too. I love my ribs, and burgers, and fajitas, and menudo, and tamales, and bacon, and chorizo (mmm...) as much as the next girl.

But we're trying.

And...

Sometimes one little change...

Just one small, almost imperceptible change, like...

Taking the stairs instead of the elevator or escalator when you go to the mall...

Or taking the kids for a walk around the block instead of a trip to the ice cream shop...

Or switching your ice cream to fat-free frozen yogurt...

Or cutting out [gasp!] caffeine...

Can end up making a HUGE difference in the long run.  And by long run I mean, of course, your LIFE, for crissakes, or the life of your mother or father or brother or sister.

So, in this new year, this year of the dragon, this year of great change and new energy and amazing progress, we challenge you to join us and pledge that every Monday for the next, um, 49 Mondays (is that right?) will be meatless.  Completely.  No cheating. 'Til the end of the year.

And, yes, I can already hear you bitching about how boring that's gonna be, and how awful everything is gonna taste, and how all you can think of to eat is salad.  But I promise you, it won't. If you just give it a chance -- give yourself a chance -- it really really won't.

We've posted a ton of yummy meals, many of which were completely plant-based, on our food site: The Monsters' Insides, so you can see for yourself.

But to make it even easier for you, if you'll just click here, there are a ton of regular Monday dinner menus all laid out for you on a website called, what else, Meatless Monday (thanks, Project Open Hand, for the great recommendation), so you don't even have to think.  And, yes, there are breakfast and lunch ones, too.

So, no, it's not a really big change, but it's a really significant step, and the difference it could make could be, without trying to sound too overly melodramatic, life-altering.

So...whadaya say? Don'tcha wanna be a Meatless Monday Monster, too? :)  I'd love it if you'd post your Meatless Monday dishes here so we can get through this one together.

YES, I DO! (click here to pledge)
...

AND IN THIS EPISODE OF "WHAT'S IN THAT BASKET???"

Cleaning up downstairs this morning.  We have a basket into which all non-downstairs items are supposed to go so that they can be toted upstairs (theoretically) once a day and get put away.

So...this morning we've got:

- a peace scarf
- a houndstooth fedora
- a silver sparkly headband
- an old advanced white karate belt
- an aqua A&F hoodie
- a mini bop-it
- a Puss 'n Boots DSi game
- a wolf mask
- orange glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth
- and a Chicken Little book

What in the world were they playing yesterday??!? Seriously. This is worse than the bottom of my purse. And I didn't think there could BE anything worse than the bottom of my purse.

But, wow, the stories these daily bottom-of-the-stairs collections could tell. Maybe I need to start a children's book series called At The Bottom of The Stairs.  And then write a 200-word flash fiction story based on the contents of the basket as they rotate daily.  It's like a keyword randomizer. For the Amish.

Hmmm...I might actually be onto something here...

HE MADE THE BEE, PEOPLE! THE BEEEEEEEEEE!!!

So, he comes home last week and casually says that he passed a spelling bee test at school and has been selected as one of his 5 class representatives.

Wait. WHAT?!

What spelling bee?  Like, THE School Spelling Bee, all in title caps kinda spelling bee???

Yes, he replies nonchalantly, which is the way he replies to most things I find thrilling and awesome.

And then I read the crumpled piece of paper he pulls from the bottom of his backpack that explains how, yes, in fact, there was a competition within each class. Each student got an opportunity to spell words from the list that came home a few weeks ago (also found crumpled at the bottom of his backpack), and 5 students were selected from each class.

He was one of them.

These semi-finalists now have to go on to compete against all the other 3rd grade class representatives, from which only 8 will be selected to move on to the finalist round.

And, holy c-o-w, batman, we couldn't have been more proud!

And then...last night...he lost his sheet of spelling words somewhere between here and his Mommy's place.  For the competition -- TODAY.  Lost.  Just like that.

In my head I'd already strung him upside down by his toenails outside our second-story window.  This isn't just any old competition, boy! It's THE BEE, for crissakes!!!! THE BEEEEE!!! What in the world could you be thinking?!?!

But we played it cool, like it was no big deal, and agreed that it was his responsibility, and he now had to be accountable for his actions -- or inaction, as it were.  But inside, I was crushed.  Just crushed.

All my hopes and dreams for him to become a world-famous speller, to win the Nobel Prize for Spelling, to find the cure for cancer...through spelling, of course...were just gone, all g-o-n-e.

There he is, front row, second from left,
no doubt hoping he'll get to spell "vomit" or "flatulence"

And today...the semi-finals. On the way to school, he mentioned that he was a little nervous. And right then and there, I knew I couldn't go.  My excitement was just bubbling on the surface.  The tension was palpable.  The anticipation killing me.  And we hadn't even parked the truck yet.

So, I came home.  And started piddling around the house.  Looking up at the clock every few seconds.  8:30 came and went.  Surely he would've called if he hadn't made it. I...er...He would've been utterly distraught -- curled into a fetal position in the office. They certainly would've called by now for me to come get him.

Except for the fact that he's oblivious to things like that and pretty much lets everything roll right off his back.

Except for that. Dammit.

And then the texts* started coming in...and...

OHMYGODHEMADEIT!!!!!

So, next week all grades compete against one other. 3rd, 4th, and 5th.  And I will gag myself, wear dark shades, and stand outside the door, but, by God, I will be there for this one!

On to the school-wide finals, people...and then...the WORLD!!! Bwahahahahahaha! :)

---

*Big big big thanks to Rhonda and Antonella, whose little geniuses also made it to the Bee finals, for providing me with play-by-play updates and the photos above as I sat at home biting my nails to the beds.

WE GOT A THREE-FER TODAY, FOLKS!!

It's Pearl Harbor Day, Letter Writing Day, and day 7 of our Good Deeds Advent Calendar.

The good deed for the day was...to write a letter to a soldier. :)

WIN! WIN! WIN!

I don't know if I was just being overly diligent in my planning the good deeds based on the days of the calendar or if I just got really really lucky. Hmm...let's just go with the former.

So, we spent our breakfast talking about the kids' great-grandfathers, grandfather, uncles and cousins, who have all served in our military.  We talked about the troops coming home by Christmas. We talked about the wounded soldiers at Walter Reed. And we talked about bravery, and courage, and patriotism.  

Then they debated the kinds of pictures that were appropriate to draw on the back of the card, not knowing which soldier might receive their card -- could be male or female, could celebrate Christmas or Hannukah or Kwanzaa or nothing at all, could be currently fighting or maybe already wounded in a hospital or never have seen a fight at all, could have family and friends waiting for them or not, could miss being home or not, could be older or younger, highly educated or fresh off the streets.  There really was no telling.

And they sat there, with their pen in hand, unsure of where to begin. Unsure of how to be so generic and still make it personal.  How do you make it mean something specific when it could mean any number of things to so many different people?

So, what's the common denominator, they kept asking.  

Turns out, the common denominator is YOU, I finally realized.  YOU are grateful for the work they do.  YOU are happy they help provide you the wonderful life you live. YOU are in awe of their bravery and selfless service and strength.  YOU are proud to say you're American.  And YOU want them to know they are appreciated and never forgotten.

And after finally sorting out the incorrect address issue making its way through Facebook (i.e., don't send mail directly to Walter Reed Hospital), we were able to finish our letters this morning, stamp 'em, and pop 'em in the mailbox to:

HOLIDAY MAIL FOR HEROES
PO BOX 5456
CAPITOL HEIGHTS, MD 20791-5456

FYI --- they have to be postmarked by this Friday, Dec 9th if you hope for them to actually reach a soldier before Christmas.

Thank you for all you do, who you are, and what you represent.  We remember.
...

THE GOOD DEEDS ADVENT CALENDAR

I love the idea of an advent calendar. The kids are already obsessively counting the days til Christmas, so the calendar just gives us a method for masking that compulsion and legitimizing our...er...their holiday madness.

One of the many things I don't like about the store-bought calendars, though, is that they're all chock-full of treats, mostly chocolates, and not even good chocolates at that.

Numbered stickers applied and
good deeds taped to the back of ornaments

But it's not just the unnecessary over-abundance of processed sugar that gets me on this one. Oh, noooooo...that would be too easy.  It's the idea of giving treats to children who already really have everything they could possibly want or need.

It's the fact that the holiday season, a time during which we're supposed to be emphasizing and re-instilling the concepts of gratitude and generosity and giving, is being counted down to the biggest children's gimme-gimme-gimme day of the whole friggin' year by a calendar that only reinforces that sense of entitlement and unearned rewards on a DAILY basis.  And it's just beyond my understanding. Or acceptance.

Our final finished product! 

And yes, I do realize there are other advent calendars out there, but while we do teach our children about the various religions and the true meaning of Christmas, and that the underlying meaning of the word "advent" in this instance is actually about the coming of Christ, I don't really wanna be lectured and preached to every single morning through the month of December by a self-righteous calendar.  (I much prefer to be bullied and guilted into a false sense of happiness and contentment by the overcommercialization of spirituality provided by the magical ratio of the number of light bulbs on my house to the number of bows under my tree.)

The garland and ornaments was quicker and
easier for me than the traditional cardboard calendar,
but that's always an option, too

So, anyway...thanks to a friend who posted about a good deeds advent calendar on Facebook, I immediately became obsessed with incorporating this new tradition into our holiday events.  I say immediately because it was December 1st that it occurred to me -- with only 4 hours before I'd have to pick the monsters up from school.

So with zero time and just under $30 between Michael's and The Dollar Store, here's what I did:

• half-priced garland for $8
• plastic ornaments at 4-for-a-dollar
• ornament hooks
• numbered stickers

One of Saia's "notes to a sibling" :)

Then I searched all over the internet for 25 good deed ideas that kids could do without making it feel like a chore, but also not so easy that they wouldn't require any effort at all.  It was a surprisingly difficult task.

But then I found some fantastic stuff!  Some great examples were, "write 3 kind notes to your sibling and hide them around the house in places they'll find them."  And "bring in a neighbor's waste bins" (which, of course, you have to then time with the garbage collection days). But some were as simple as "hold the door open for everyone behind you today" or "smile and say hello to every single person you pass by today." (For a full list of the 25 good deeds I selected for this year's calendar, CLICK HERE.)

Completed good deeds are piled in a bowl

So far, every morning they've remembered about the calendar and asked to see what that day's good deed was going to be without my having to mention it.  

And no, it hasn't suddenly made the whole world a better place.  

And it hasn't even made our own little household tantrum-free, yelling-free, or tattling-free.

But...I'm hopeful. That a little tiny bit of the message, a realization that they have to contribute to and appreciate the world around them, that there's more to the season than just getting, and that random acts of kindness can and should be incorporated pretty easily into your everyday life with little to no effort sinks in.

And sticks.

...

THE ONE LESSON I HOPE THEY NEVER EVER LEARN

I feel so inexplicably emotional today.

I can't pinpoint it, but it just hurts. Everywhere.

I woke up this morning and immediately turned on the news. The flashback of that action transported me instantaneously back to the morning of 9/11/01.

And I burst into tears right there on my bedroom floor this morning.

The weight of it was just so unreal. Because I didn't know anyone personally who lost their lives or their loved one that day.  But re-watching those planes... slice through the towers...like warm cake...

And all day long, every movie on every cable channel had something to do with 9/11 or New York or war...

And even at the Cowboys/Jets tonight, moments after Lady Antebellum sang the National Anthem, the entire crowd of 80,000 began chanting U-S-A, U-S-A...

And then, of course, there were CNN and MSNBC, and their constant continuous ceaseless coverage of the Anniversary Celebration, recapping the events of that day, interviewing the people noted as "footnotes" in the 9/11 Commission Report (including the airline agents who actually checked in the terrorists, the flight controller who confirmed the first hijacking was in progress, the F-16 fighter pilot deployed to find and intercept American flight 11, the person who gave the 1st-ever national emergency order to cancel all flights and ground all planes).

I felt shaken all day.

And then at some point, a bone-chilling clip of the 9/11 Hearings just rattled me to the core.

Thank God for the passengers of Flight 93, they kept saying.  Because the FAA had refused -- paralyzed, it seems -- to inform pilots in the air of further potential hijackings.  And then...then came THE question asked by the Commission of the airforce general in charge at the time of the attacks: "Assuming all communication would have worked out the way it should have, would it have been physically possible to intercept either the first plane that hit the first tower, the 2nd plane that hit the 2nd tower, or the 3rd plane that hit the Pentagon?"

And the answer, qualified by, "You're assuming the FAA would've communicated their knowledge of the hijackings as soon as they knew?"

"Yes, we could've shot them down."

I can't stop thinking about that. What a different world this would be today.

And all day long I've felt obsessed and overwhelmed with gratitude and sadness.  I can't seem to get my fill of every possible minute, of every conversation, of every suspicious notion, of every first moment of recognition, of every photo, of every sound byte, of every single individual memory and story.

When Former Counterterrorism czar, Richard Clarke, got up in front of the Commission, all by himself, flanked only by the media and the victims' family members, and finally took accountability for the failures of our government to protect its' people, I broke down again.

At one point this morning, I did try to explain the significance of the day to the monsters.  We talked about 9/11 again, about the hunt for Bin Laden again, and about the memorial and what it means to family and friends and even complete strangers to have a place to go pay their respects.  And they were listening, and nodding, and trying to show me that they understood what I was saying, that I was somehow deeply affected by all this, and that I expected some reverence from them -- for the moment in time, for the lives lost, for the forever scar it left on so many.

But they're eight.  And they don't really get it.  Not really.  And I can't really explain it.  Not the way I mean to.  And suddenly I get how my grandmother must've felt whenever she tried talking about Pearl Harbor to us kids.  And how my mother must've felt every time she tried to explain how the Vietnam War affected so many on so many different levels.  And here we are now.  And this is ours.  Our war.  Although it's never really been designated as such.  And so they'll never ever get it. Not really. Not from that place that knots up your belly and chokes up your tears.

At least not until it happens during their lifetime.

And I can only hope and pray that that's one lesson they never ever have to learn.
...

WE BE JIFFY POPPIN'

After a long and terribly exhausting day of the boy's playdate way over at a friend's house, which subsequently left Saia and I to our own devices, which inevitably and pretty quickly devolved right into the watching of an all day Restaurant: Impossible marathon, which totally necessitated the munching of every last scrumptious bit of garlic spinach dip and fresh salsa picante from the farmers' market yesterday, we then rounded out our awesomely lazy Sunday with a double dose of Jiffy Poppin' Goodness.

And just in case you've, you know, never actually made Jiffy Pop yourselves, here are the monsters to personally help you navigate that tenuous labyrinth. You're welcome.

Step 1: Stare Intensely... Step 2: Stab it With a Sharp Object...
Step 3: Devour...
Times Two.

THE SPY KIDS STINK-O-RAMA: A REVIEW, OF SORTS

So, for their last movie night before becoming 3rd graders, the monsters chose, of course, the new Spy Kids movie, All The Time In The World in 4D.

The 4-D was, ostensibly, smell-o-vision, whose concept, yes I'll admit, intrigued me enough to spend the small mortgage payment for a family of 4 on a Friday night.

And yes, I actually really did think they were gonna pump strange and offensive odors into the theatre, much like Vegas casinos pump in oxygen. And because I had to work myself up to that idea, and kinda gagging at the very thought, I was pleasantly surprised to find that would not be the case.

Instead, however, shoved underneath our tickets were 4 sheets of paper with the numbers 1-8 on them. At various times throughout the movie, some benign, some not so...er...appealing, you were to scratch off the number flashing on the screen and sniff the appropriate scent.  That is, if you could find it, of course, because it's a movie theater after all, and, hello, pretty dark.

So, all obvious nasty scratch-n-sniff jokes aside, let's jump right into how very much this sucked big hairy dirty rotten eggs.

The storyline was ridiculous, if you can even call it a line. It was more like chicken scratch, as the writing clearly consisted of only two objectives: 1) highlight at every opportunity a potential smell-o-vision moment and really really really...really push this horrifically bad marketing ploy that we've sunk all this money into and now must somehow make work by sheer faith alone, and 2) see how many times you can use the word "time" in one hour-and-a-half period. Ready? Go.

But wait! It gets worse.

Because the scratch-n-sniff was a huge NON-stinking FAIL!!!  Not a one of the numbers smelled like anything at all recognizable, and even less than that, they all smelled like the previous one.  The kids were done with them after the third one failed to produce the dirty diaper smell the screen insinuated.  I, being the diligent reporter I am, scratched every. single. stupid. one.

So, my official recommendation: if you must go (because sometimes there's just no winning those battles), go to a drive-in and take yourself a little flask.

Two very enthusiastic thumbs down!!

COMPLICATING SIMPLE THINGS: GETTING BACK INTO ROUTINE

Four pages. That's all. I only gave them 4 pages of activity sheets to work on tonight.

School starts next Monday. We started our wake up schedule this morning and our bedtime schedule this evening.  But getting them to work through four (super easy -- like two grade levels below where they're at) pages was almost as difficult as it was potty training them. At the same time. For that week when they both ran around with no pants.

I mean, there was yelling. Actual yelling. And tears, even.  And tantrum throwing that I don't think I even saw when they were three.  And tirades regarding personal freedoms and self-expression that were dripping with so much sarcasm and pure disdain as to make any smartass proud cringe.

But they did it.

They pouted. Did a few problems. Crumpled a few pages.

They shouted. Did a few more problems. Made giant Xs across the whole page.

They time-outed.  Did the rest of the problems. Got them reviewed, corrected, and re-did them with such ire that they went through 3 pencils from popping the leads because they were pressing down so hard.

But they did it.

It took us TWO AND A HALF HOURS (!!!) to get through those four silly little pages. So let me just put it out there, folks. If you haven't yet started your kiddos back on a homework/activity book schedule yet before school starts, DO. IT. NOW. Because it's really really frowned upon to take your kids to school with a margarita in your hand at 8 o'clock in the morning.
...

BOY VS FOOD - THE LEANING TOWER OF PIZZA

So, my kids think the TV only shows the news (aka, The Today Show), cartoons, football and hockey, and cooking shows.  Once they discover that the Favorites List was actually programmed by me, I'm screwed.  

Until then, however...

Heavily inspired by my latest summer TV crush, Adam of Man vs Food on the Travel Channel, Santiago took it upon himself to start his own series...

BOY VS FOOD: 

Episode 1 - The Leaning Tower of Pizza

"So, Mama," he says after he watched the replay. "I really didn't win, did I?" And he bows his head a little. "I didn't swallow it all in time."

"I know," I agree. It happens to the best of us.

"So, I guess we should do it all over again so I can do it right," he suggests reluctantly.

"But there's no more pizza," I say.

"Oh," he perks up, "well, then...can you just include a little note at the end of the video that tells everyone that...in this episode...food actually won?"

"Sure, baby," I smile.

"And if they don't read that part," he adds, "...oh well, at least I tried to be honest."
...

MAMA LADY IS DEFEATED ONCE AGAIN BY STUPENDOUS MAN'S OVERPOWERING MALAPROPISMS

"...and now comes Stupendous Man, lover of liberty, foe of tyranny!"

Tromp. Tromp. Tromp.

"Bubba, are you wearing shoes in the house?" I yell from the kitchen.

"...with stupendous hearing, Stupendous Man hears a cry from a distant alleyway...only Stupendous Man can save the day!!!"

Tromp. Tromp. Tromp.

"Chaguito, shoes off," I say again.

Tromp. Tromp. Tromp.

"Mom," she sing-songs from the kitchen table, "...he's got his rainboots on," his sister rats.

"Santiago Gaél." I hands-on-hips him. "Now."

"Ah," he says, his index finger raised high into the air, "...just as I suspected, foiled by my evil arch nemesis, Mom Lady and her ever-nosy sidekick, Sister Girl!!"

"March, Stupendous Man. Shoes in the garage please."

Three minutes later, he walks back into the kitchen in just his white t-shirt and boxers.

"Whoa. What happened, Stupendous Man? Whatcha doin' in your chones?" I ask.

"Well, as you know, by day, I'm just Mild-Mannered Playboy Santiago."

And then I don't really know what happened next because I think I passed out from the laughter.
...

ON BEING A BOY...WITH A MAGNIFYING GLASS...AND SUNSHINE

At least no ants were harmed in the writing of this post (that I'm aware of).

But several years ago, in efforts to "toughen up" what I mistook for a way-too-sensitive, easy target for bullies, skinnier-than-the-average-bear, more-creative-than-athletic son of two women with a sister and two female dogs, I went out and bought a whole shelf full of those crazy survival books about how to escape a rhino attack, and a handful of those overly generalized, completely discriminatory, gender narrowminded, everything-a-boy-should-know books.  I know. I KNOW! I was having a rough year.

Anyway, the books, which hardly even got thumbed through back then (except by me because, let's face it, they're actually really REALLY cool!), have mostly just been gathering dust...until this past year, that is, when our little monster determined that if there were books about things lying around the house, then that was clearly giving implicit permission to do and try anything in them.

So so so much smarter than me, he is.

And so today, his mommy toted him along to the hardware store, where he evidently spied a $2.50 magnifying glass at the check-out stand, finagled an early allowance, and sprouted chest hair and peachfuzz before he even got home.

The seared leaves...and fried twigs...and the tiny tip of his sister's pinky nail...really never stood a chance.

Huh, I think for a second, maybe I'm underestimating the impact of testosterone after all.

Pouting and jealous and clearly disgruntled, Saia calls out, "Dibs!" well in advance of any subsequent trip to the hardware store, or really, anywhere remotely in the vicinity, as she begins to count out her savings and plots her revenge.

At which point, we just both look at one another and say, "They're just like YOU!"
...

MAMA, WHAT MAKES THE KIDS IN THE SPECIAL CLASS, SPECIAL?

When I was in school, the classes were called "Special Ed."  Everyone knew that's where the slower kids were. Most everyone made fun of them on some level or another, even though we all inherently knew we shouldn't.  They were the punchlines of jokes, just like blacks and fags and fat people were.

It's hard to swallow. That I grew up that way.  That I was that way, even remotely.  That I contributed or participated or allowed any of that to happen in any way, shape, or form.  Ever.  But I did.  I know I did, much to my mother's horror, I'm sure, when she reads this post (sorry, Mom).  And it's not that I never said anything, or took a stand, or shut someone down -- because I know, for a fact, that I did.  But not every single time.  And that's just not enough. So now, of course, I'm bound and determined not to see my kids go down that same shaky path.  Often, I realize, overcompensating to a fault.

If I try to think back to 7th grade, which is when I think I first took notice of it, that's about all I remember.  I didn't know then -- and still don't know -- exactly what that meant.  What happened behind those closed doors of the portable building not even attached to the regular classrooms?  Who were the teachers that took on that position, and why? How many kids were actually in there? How were they taught? What did they learn? Were they just moving along at a slower pace than the rest of us, or were they having to teach them a completely different curriculum? And where are they now?

And because I still don't know the answers to any of those questions (and can't even tell you why I didn't ask these questions then), when my kids asked me what made the "special kids in Room 12" at their school so special, I was a little gobsmacked.

I mean, is "special" even the right term? Doesn't it, by definition, single out a group of people as superior in some way? Because then I'm stuck with trying to explain to my own children, who are special in their own right, that they're actually not considered to be "special kids."

In my time, we still used the word "retarded," but not the way it's being used by teens now, to call something out as ridiculous or stupid, often interchangeable with the phrase, "that's so gay" (but that's another post).  We used it, specifically, to refer to those kids who weren't in our regular classes, who were different, who required additional attention and special kinds of teachers.

Although they hadn't yet heard the term "retarded," I wanted to be the one to broach the subject with them before it suddenly appeared on the playground -- most likely inappropriately.  And also because the terms that were apparently already being thrown around by others, like "crazies" and "dummies," just had to be stopped. And no, I wasn't trying to exchange one for the other, but it seemed like the most logical place to start.

In Saia's class currently, there's one child who seems to have some pretty significant behavioral issues. From what Saia has told me, the teacher and principal are pretty on top of it, and manage it well enough so that it's not hugely disruptive to the class.  Last year, Santiago had a similar situation in his class, but she was much more disruptive. But both of them brought up these specific children because, evidently, they had been wondering all on their own why these girls weren't in Room 12, too.

So then I got myself all bogged down in this very generalized explanation about what disabled, handicapped, physically-/mentally-/behaviorally-challenged, retarded, special needs, and different all meant.  And I found it almost impossible to not use the words "normal" or "regular" when trying to differentiate.  And I was just stumbling...awkwardly and ignorantly stumbling all over the damn place.

And I'm staring at them, trying to judge from their faces whether or not I was getting through.  Whether or not this topic, which I apparently have all sorts of latent biased feelings and guilt over, was making any sense to them at all.  Whether I was doing more harm than good in trying to overexplain, trying to paint all sides of an incomplete picture, trying to give them historical reference points from which to draw on while attempting to instill in them a sense of comfort that this is just one more aspect of living and learning that we must embrace and promote and protect. That above all, they must be compassionate, considerate, and emotionally aware people.  That the world has too many followers and not enough good leaders.  That the way they acted, the way they responded to situations, the things they said or sometimes didn't say could really influence and affect someone else.  That we're all just dominoes...ripples in the water...grains of sand...

I was clearly drowning beneath a deluge of synonyms and metaphors, analogies and parables, and strangled by the over-reaching arms of political correctness. It was a fucking mess.

When I was finally done brain-dumping everything I could about what little I knew, I asked them what they would say the next time they heard someone tell them or tell someone else that the Room 12 kids were dumb or crazy.  Without a moment's hesitation, Saia said, not even looking up from her drawing, "I'd say that they're just a group of kids that learn and act a little differently from the rest of us, that you should introduce yourself and get to know them if you're so curious, and that if you can't say something nice about someone, you shouldn't say anything at all."

"Yeah," Santiago agrees nonchalantly,"....me, too."
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