RAINY SATURDAY MORNINGS...

Are best for doing chores. Especially when it means that softball practice is cancelled and our favorite farmer's market is down due to the deluge. But spirited, recently ungrounded 9-year-olds would heartily disagree.

So instead, as we've had to do so often since they first learned to speak, we've struck a bargain.

For every thank-you card they write, they'll earn 10 minutes of computer time. They've still got cards they haven't written for the play they were in, Christmas gifts, and now birthday gifts, for goodness sakes! I'm now thinking this could severely backfire on me.

For every stack of laundry they put away (properly), they'll earn a half-hour of uninterrupted Mama-nag-free time. This one, clearly, will be more taxing on me.

And for every basketful of toys/books/chincheria they put in its proper place, they'll earn an extra 15 minutes of staying up past their bedtime tonight. :)

As you know, though, saying it and following it through are very often two completely different things. The inevitable catch-22 of the exhausted parent. But I'll let you know how it actually turns out.

In the meantime, what are some ways you ensure you're not the only one working 7 days a week around your house? Please please share. We could use all the help we can get 'round here!

ARE YOU A CLOSETED SNACK BAG ARTIST (TOO)???

I post this knowing that Rhonda's gorgeous little works of snack bag art make my stuff look like a pre-schooler, BUT...

It's fun to play with markers; it makes the boring healthy snacks inside appear to be a little more palatable; and the kids seem to really get a kick out of it.

Are you a closeted snack bag artist, too?  Let's see your stuff!! Post links in the comments so we can praise your inner Picasso. :)

Happy Monday, y'all!

WHAT DOES THE INSIDE OF YOUR PURSE SAY ABOUT YOU??

I change purses. A lot.

I thought briefly about getting one of those Kangaroo Pouch things that are supposed to help you transfer your items quickly and collectively from one purse to the other.  Of course, this assumes all your purses are roughly the same size. And that you don't just toss your things willy-nilly into your bag. And that you actually pay attention to AND utilize those thousand-and-one loops and pockets to keep them all organized.

These. Assumptions. Would. Be. Wrong.

Which is just one more reason not to watch TV at 3am with a credit card within reach because something about the witching hour makes you forget or block out the things you would NEVER EVER find remotely appealing or attractive in the light of day. It's like beer goggles, only without the beer. HSN or QVC goggles, then.  No, really, those trendy top t-shirt wrap things are next on my list.

Luckily, my credit cards were maxed out.  (Whodda thought that'd ever be a positive???)  So, I've really become quite the expert at transferring my must-haves from bag to bag without the assistance of a faux marsupial pouch. And somehow, in this ever-aging mind that can't hardly recall what I had for lunch yesterday, I've developed some sort of muscle memory that magically allows me to never forget my garage door opener, my driving glasses, prescription sunglasses, sunglasses for pretty, and sunglasses specifically to double as a headband, my first aid kit (with the must-have extras of travel tissue, purell, a gigantic sheep of a tampon, and advil, of course), a couple of pens and drawing pads for the boy and at least two or three action figures, rubber balls and coins for spinning on restaurant tables for the girl, a pack of crayons, my King Ranch make-up bag from my sister-in-law, and, of course, my keychain with at least 3 as yet unidentified keys.

But what I've also come to notice during the regular performance of this ritual is that I actually have a few favoritefavoritefavorite things, which is unusual for me, as I've never been one to glom on to favorite foods or colors or objects, for fear that I'd be pigeon-holed or categorized or gifted only green faberge eggs for the rest of my life.  And yes, I do realize that's a whole 'nother discussion for my therapist, so let's just keep movin'.

Despite my efforts to the contrary, however, these little things keep floating to the top of my list, and will always always make it into every single purse, including very tiny evening bags, so I thought I'd share them with you to see how they compare with yours.  And while, no, none of these companies have approached me (yet) for product endorsement, I would like to go on the record as saying I'm always willing to whore myself out for something I love.

So, without further ado...these are a few of my favorite things:

Sexy MotherPucker Lipgloss from Sephora (adore! plus the name is just a bonus!!)	Bath and Body Stress Relief  Hand Lotion (travel size in my truck for red lights and bad traffic)
Roll-on Prada  Infusion d'Iris  (lovelovelovelovelove)	Kensington Portable iPhone Charger  (always charged. seriously.)
Ice Breakers FROST  Breath Mints in Wintercool	L'Oreal Colour Riche  Lip Liner (in a number of shades)
Octopus Hair Clips from The Pulga for $1 a Piece (the BEST for any hair!!!)	Cheapy Cheap NYC or  Wet n Wild Eye Liners  in Blacks and Browns
My Moleskine Mini-Notebook (for writer's block breakthroughs)	And Some Random Bic Pens  (since my son tends to hijack  ALL my good ones)

And that's about it.

You no doubt have noticed the intentional omission of my iPhone from these lists. But I consider this a 5th appendage, a vital organ. It shall not be relegated to accessories. Let's not be silly, rabbit.

Now you.

What are some of your ab-fab favorites that you can't shan't won't live without?? (Pics of the inside of your purse will suffice, as this little project has already taken up half my freakin' morning.)
...

PLEASE, SOMEONE TURN OFF THE NATURE

Sock-hiking Station (to keep the ticks out!!)

Field trip day!!!

Smiley face / frowny face.

Loaded up my truck with boys, bags, and one other mom. Made it to the park without getting lost. Then...noticed I had no service. None.  No uploading pics. No tweeting. No facebooking. No nothing. Just me and them and nature. For HHHOOOUUURRRSSS!!!  And I instantly regretted not having picked up my venti chai before leaving town.

Pre-hike Huddle

As the naturalist begins to explain the plan for the day, literally rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and combing her bedhead hair with her fingers, it becomes very clear that she must've just rolled in about 5 minutes ago. Unable to decide if we were gonna first go down by the lake or up onto the hill, or whether she even had any actual artifacts with her today to show, or whether she was gonna eat or wear her homemade jewelry, I wondered briefly if anyone would really notice if I just took my kid and ditched.

What luck! Owl puke!!!

Not 20 yards into our hike, though, Nelly the Naturalist stops all excitedly because, oh my God, look how serendipitous, a fresh pile of owl puke! Yay!! scream all the third graders. And then, look, kids, another lucky find, a ton of little dead mice heads nearby. Wait, she says, it's because they were IN the owl vomit!! And then, with all eyes on her, she begins to dig into the owl pellet and pry it open. She brings it up to her nose and inhales deeply. "Ooooh," she says, and all 26 kids take two steps closer.  All 12 parents take 3 steps back.

And Mice Carcasses Inside!!

Another 10 yards and lo and behold, our sharp-as-a-tack guide misses the turnoff for our trail. Yay! Let's put her in charge of leading our children thru poison oak and rattlesnakes!!

How is it, again, that I do not own a flask?

At the top of the hill, she explains to us that the Ohlone people used tulle to make their dome homes because it was flexible, a good insulator, and bouyant. Great info, right? Yeah, except that without taking a breath, she then points to a domed concrete enclosure at the top of the other hill, says something about sewer, and then about football stadiums.

Ohlone dome hut
made from tulle

Everyone looks completely confused. My son, especially, having particular difficulty envisioning Lucas Oil Stadium made entirely out of sewer-laden tulle.  But their teacher immediately shook her head and with quick teacher-to-student gestures, stealthily explained that the two had nothing to do with the other.

All the kids smiled and nodded. Gertie the Guide, completely oblivious, just kept right on trucking.

Taking a turn down the hill and towards the lake, Naturalist Nancy stops and squats. The children descend upon her. I can barely hear what she's saying from beneath the pile of third grader appendages, but she appears to be putting something in her mouth, and a few of the kids nearest her also seem to be chewing something (gum, as it later turned out).

'Shroooooooms, dude!

Two things cross my mind at this point: 1) my child better not be putting anything in his mouth that was growing in the middle of this trail, and 2) she never washed her hands after the owl puke thing.

As she begins to explain the nutritional aspects of mushrooms, which she unnervingly continues to refer to as "'shrooms," one of the kids asks her how people back then knew which ones were poisonous. Rather than provide the obvious answer that when someone died, that's how you knew that one was poisonous, she instead launches into a whole diatribe about how THE Coyote told them.  With arms swirling in the sky, she sing-songs about the great spirits who created the world, and how there are Animal People all around us, her eyes wistfully searching the trees and valleys.  I looked around at the terrified parents, wide-eyed and mouths agape, and was just about to interrupt when Nature Girl finally comes back from her 60's reverie and says, "Soooo that's another answer to your question, Eva, where was the beginning?"

"Ummm..." says Eva.

"Ok, let's keep moving," says Oblivious Olive.

The dazed and confused followed Sleepy Scenic Sue around another corner and down another trail. And just as we were about to step down towards the lake, one of the kids points to a pile on the ground and yells, "Owl pellets!" They all rush in, bend down, and are just about to touch it when our naturalist luckily snaps out of her nature zone just in time to stop them from picking up and shoving into their faces what was actually mountain lion poo.

Find of the day: a dead crawfish

So we tromp off around the muddy shoreline where single-file-please means absolutely nothing to anyone, when suddenly the third graders are all squealing and congregating again. Why are the grown ups always the last to know? By the time we get over to them, they're passing around a dead crawfish that Chago found and claimed, like it's gold, and they're all giggling at the smell of it and making jokes that only 8-year-olds and, apparently, state park naturalists, get.

Once we finally make it up to the education center, and I'm looking desperately towards the sky for the rain clouds we'd been promised, she pulls out a bunch of recreated artifacts for the kids to touch and feel. Every few seconds, she runs her hands thru her hair, looking a lot like Gene Wilder and more than a little flustered by the presence of so many children, as though she had just looked up and they'd suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Chago as a tree

"Oh, look," she says, pointing to the top of a nearby tree. Her face is instantly awash with regret. All 26 children get up from where they'd been quietly seated and run over to where she is, encircling her like Lord of the Flies as they ooh and ahh over the tiny little blackbird whose name I didn't catch between her exasperated sighs.

Did she not know she was working with 8-year-olds today, I wondered? Did our real guide call in sick?

one of the bezillion versions of 3rd grade tag

But then it was time to picnic, which was truly the best part of the day. We all pulled out our no-waste lunches, spread out our blankets and munched under the sun. And for the first time since we've been here I noticed how beautiful this space is. It wasn't hard to imagine the Ohlone people living here. It's a perfect little self-sustaining valley. Rolling grassy hills covered with mature oak trees. A lake that, although sadly depleted right now, could easily have been filled with all manner of fish and wildlife and laughing children.

But then, with the sun on my face and the slightest cool breeze in my hair, just as I was beginning to imagine how lovely a very large glass of syrah and a generous charcuterie and cheese plate would be, we moved into Ohlone games and activities, which, among other things, resulted in a surprising little lesson about how peeing on deerhide can make it soft enough to rub against your cheek.

Uh...yeah...thanks for that one.

Ohlone "dice" game

Spearing the rolling hole game

HAVE YOU SEEN WHAT I'VE DONE TO MY LIPS?!?!

Came across a pair of leftover red wax lips from the Halloween loot stashed up in my pantry this morning as I was searching for some condensed milk to try on top of fresh avocados (damn Pinterest!).

This is what easily distracted looks like. And no, my children weren't even home yet.

MEAN BOYS ARE NOTHING LIKE REGINA GEORGE!!

"Hey, Bubba, it's time to go!" I yell from the bottom of the playground after school one day.

I see him look over at me, hang his head, and begin the long, slow, bridesmaid descent down the stairs.

Oh, great, I immediately think. What's he done now?

Step.

Maybe he just had a few too many blurt outs in Science again.

Step.

Maybe he just didn't eat his lunch again.

Step.

Maybe he just got busted saying a bad word and sent to the office where they held him until DCFS came because what kind of parent would let their child speak that way and they're just waiting for me in the parking lot...

Step.

And then...he started crying. Sobbing. Right there into my chest. Not picking up his arms to hug me, though, because, don'tcha know, that's the universal crybaby/mama's boy sign (apparently), and he, of course, is neither. So he just stands there. Like a wilted Qtip. Sob, sob, sob.

"Baby...what's wrong?" I implore him, desperately restraining my initial instinct to swoop him up into my arms, rock him back and forth, and smother him with kisses.

Heave, sob, gasp, gasp, gasp.

"Bubba, are you okay?" I take his cheeks into my hands. "Are you hurt?"

He shakes his head slowly. I kneel down in front of him, resisting the urge to envelope him like a giant mama bear. And I wait, anxiously, til his eyes finally meet mine.

Then the story spilled out -- in long run-on sentences -- with no punctuation -- and no apparent ending, but it slowly became painfully clear what had happened to my darling 7 lb 10 oz baby jesus.

Evidently, his two best buds had recently been giving him the cold shoulder. Without reason. Without explanation.  And worse, they'd told him they really didn't wanna be his friend anymore.  At the same time, another kinda sorta buddy he's been playing with during his aftercare program off and on had been getting a little physical with him -- in an 8-yr-old, mean boy kinda way.  In his head, though, these were two very distinct problems.

As the story unfolded, however, the middle of which contained a sidebar about his walking up to the 3 of them and asking to join their reindeer game; they, of course, all promptly refused; he walked away dejected and confused; and mama began to suspect that maybe, just maybe, they might be related.

But the fact was he was crushed. Truly crushed. And there's nothing, really nothing worse than seeing your child heartbroken. And for Santiago to be so affected by something...Chago...the king of oblivious...the roll-with-it kid...the whatever-is-my-middle-name boy...I mean, this had to be really significant.  And meaningful.  And, therefore, important to me.  So he sulked about it all weekend. And he pouted.  And he moped.  And we put together a plan to address both issues separately in the hopes that doing so would resolve the central issue entirely.

As I talked through it with him, I gently led him here and there, but really tried to let him figure out on his own how he wanted to handle this.  My job was to mediate, I kept reminding myself...no...even less...it was to project manage this.  To break it down into pieces. Help him prioritize.  Offer him alternatives.  And then ultimately support his decision for resolution.

Oh, my Lord, that's a lot of butting out that was required of me.

What he decided to do then was just so text-book there was no way it would or could work.  But both his Mommy and I agreed that he was doing not only the right thing, but a really brave thing.  That it demonstrated how important his friendships were to him that he was willing to take this bull by the horns.  That we were proud of him for his decision and were behind him 100%.

Secretly, I chewed off all my nails and pulled out a few clumps of hair.

The next day back from school, we anxiously asked him how things turned out, both of us at the edge of our seats.  In his usual Chago-ese way, he nonchalantly said everything was fine.

"Fine?!?!" we said.

But as it turns out, it totally was. He spoke to his buddies first, explained that he didn't like kid #3 because he'd been (apparently!!) punching on Chago in a I'm-short-for-my-age-and-am-overcompensating-by-being-a-jerk sorta way.  Chago hadn't told anyone previously. When he voluntarily stopped playing with Punchy Monkey, kid #3 told Chago's best buddies that it was Chago who was being mean to him. Because he's smaller and seemingly weaker, the boys sided with him and ousted Chago. Once Chago explained it all, they were the three muskateers again.

Part 1, complete.

The very next day, he approached Punchy Puncherson and told him to stop hitting him or he'd have to either rat on him and get him sent to the principal, or hit him back and they'd both be in trouble, but either way he wasn't gonna take it anymore.  He very cleverly left out the part where one or both of us might have offered to...er...intervene on his behalf.

And that was it. He took care of it all.

Part 2, complete.

A few days later, he said he was glad he'd handled it on his own, and that it made him feel better about his friends that they listened to his side of the story and understood.

BONUS!

And then...poof!! Absolutely NO residual effects. The whole thing was completely over in 48 hours. And it's as though nothing. ever. happened.

Man, what I would give to be a boy sometimes.

YES, I FOLLOWED MY DAUGHTER'S 1ST BUS FIELD TRIP

I did.

I admit it.

I've had anxiety all week. Haven't slept the last two nights.  And had nightmares last night that woke me up with cold sweats.

So, yes, of course, I totally tried to play it off this morning.

Tried to make it seem like it was no big deal, like I wasn't about to erupt into a bawling volcano of fear and don't-let-my-baby-grow-up.

But she woke up in such a good mood. All on her own. And she never does -- either. At least not during the week.  It was all she could talk about over breakfast and on the way to school.  Finally, as we parked in the lot, I turned off the truck and turned my body all the way around to face them.  I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Come home exactly as you're leaving here."

"What?" she said.

And I could feel my throat closing and my eyes welling up.

"Be good. Be safe. Be smart. Look around you. Be aware. Don't follow anyone anywhere, no matter what they say or what they offer. Stay within arm's reach of your teacher. And come home to me exactly as you are right now. Do you understand me?"

"Are you okay, Mom?" she asked.

"Repeat what I just said," I demanded.

She complied -- in between eye rolls.

"Repeat my phone number," I said.

And she did -- to the tune of Jingle Bells, just as I'd taught them on their first day of preschool.

Ugh..............

And then I ducked around the corner and watched from afar as they loaded up her 3rd grade class in the bright yellow bus, all jumpy and smiles and not babyish in the least.

And then, yes, I followed -- for just a few blocks -- before I could no longer justify my paranoia, turned around, and headed back to the school where I waited until I saw the bus pull back into the parking lot and her beautiful little face emerged once again.

Safe and sound.

And much too grown up for this Mama. :(

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.
...