Worry

I was sitting at my desk, working. So much to do but suddenly feeling capable, like everything was going to work out. Until this nagging worry came back to twist my stomach.

And I thought to myself, "I know I have something to worry about, but I can't remember what it is."

And then my head itched and I remembered I had been exposed to lice.

I hate lice. I know from personal experience what a bother they are. When I was a kid I got treated for lice every time I came back from the jungle. My mom would mix vaseline and kerosene together and rub it through my hair. You had to wear it all morning before you could wash it out, and you stank. I've had it with my own kids and the thought of dealing with those little critters stresses me out.

Still, I thought it was ridiculous to be worried about something so apparently unremarkable that a person could forget.

I thought of the friend I'd run into the day before. I hadn't seen her in awhile and she told me, "I've been dealing with the whole breast cancer thing."

Thinking of her I felt very happy that my worry was simply about the possibility of lice.

Of course today, I've been overly grateful that the itching appears to have been psychosomatic.

Lemon Cake

This is the last piece of lemon cake.

I made it a week ago for friends, put it on a cake plate and displayed it dusted with powdered sugar. We ate pieces drizzled with lemon glaze and berries and cream and coffee. It was a happy evening. Only half a cake was left at the end.

It sat, under the glass dome all week, slowly piece by piece slivered away. Maia and I ate it while we planned a mystery dinner she wants to do with her grandmother, while we watched “Smash,” while I obsessed over the best prices for our family vacation.

All week it’s made me happy looking at that lemon cake, so yellow, so elegant, so tasty. Yes, I am one of those. Food makes me happy. Not in large quantities, but in succulent servings. Flavor enjoyed in suspended moments of pleasure.

The sight of a lemon cake waiting, drenched, soaking in the sweet tanginess of lemon glaze -- how could I not be happy?

The last piece of lemon cake. I ate it today.

The educational value of the "The Simpsons

My kids have been watching The Simpsons for several years now. It's not always appropriate, but it's always funny, often educational and sometimes even "educational." We limited them to one show per day, not because of time but we just figured that was enough "education" for one day.

I'm sure more than a few thesis have been written about The Simpsons and their commentary on culture, politics etc. -- and my kids are the stellar examples of that Simpson influence. They've seen most of the episodes by now covering references from Nixon's Watergate to Shakespeare. Often, in the middle of a dinner table conversation we turn to explain something to the kids and they say "oh, we know."
"Really?" I'm always surprised. "Where did you hear about that?"
"The Simpsons."
It's an invariable answer -- I've heard it so much I'd roll my eyes if I wasn't so impressed with how complete the education is. Granted it's a superficial, humorous version of events or works, but what they know works like a hangar for the rest of what they learn on those subjects. It means they can sit at the dinner table and not be lost around adult conversation. I'm convinced it makes them more savvy in their understanding of our culture.

The other day Maia rattled of a speech from Macbeth. "Where did you learn that?" I asked.
"The Simpsons," she said. I rolled my eyes. "Well, I heard some of it on The Simpsons, and then I found it online and memorized it."

And isn't that the best thing an educator can hope for? When students learn enough on a subject to so thoroughly peak their interest, that they go out and deepen their understanding on their own.

These hands

Sometimes, when Chongo is asked what career he wants to pursue, he answers, "a surgeon."

This would be a fine occupation to have, but Chongo says it in jest, not (yet?!) being an ambitious enough student to be looking down the road at all those extra years of study.

But when Chongo says he wants to be a surgeon, I think of one thing: his hands.

Chongo can do the most intricate, minute sculpting with those hands. Like this piece he created out of "green stuff."

But he is ornery. So when I go to take a picture of him working he does this:


And then he replaces himself with his alter ego.

Do they let ornery monkeys be surgeons these days?

When people ask him where he's going to college he says, "Stanford." If he ever becomes a surgeon who went to Stanford, no one will be more surprised than his mother. But with those hands, he could do anything.

Sense of humor?

On Facebook an acquaintance of mine posted something cute her four-year-old had said and then commented, "I don't know where she got her sense of humor from."

Really? I don't think your little cutie was being clever.

They way I see it, most kids don't make clever comments to be funny, they make cute comments that turn out to be funny. In fact part of what makes their comments so hilarious is the earnestness they're spoken with. They see life in such fresh ways that we adults are often surprised into laughter. And kids learn from that laughter. I've seen the eyes light up when they realize they said something funny, and I've also seen frustration set in when they see their words aren't being taken seriously.

Not that kids don't try to be funny -- they often do, and most of it we endure with a polite laugh or enjoy because of the general silly, cuteness. But has it ever struck your humor radar? I can almost guarantee if you ask a kid to make up a joke it will include the word "poop" and I'm guessing that's because that word always gets a laugh from their playmates.

With both my kids, cleverness began to develop in about 4th grade. I have no statistics or research on the subject, but I've come to believe that real sense of humor -- starting to see the irony in the world -- begins about age 9 or 10.

There was one possible exception in my experience. I'm not certain, but my five-year-old nephew said something once that might not follow my theory. We were in the car on vacation together. Chongo was going on about how he'd eat any kind of burrito, he liked them all. My nephew was questioning him ala Green Eggs and Ham.

Nephew: Would you eat a chicken burrito?
Chongo: I love chicken burritos.
Nephew: Would you eat a bean burrito?
Chongo: Every kind of bean burrito.
Nephew: Would you eat a cow burrito?
Chongo: I love steak burritos. Mix in some potatoes and cheeese and onions, yum.
Nephew: Would you eat a vegetable burrito?
Chongo: Any kind of burrito. There isn't a burrito I don't like.
Nephew: Would you eat a butt burrito?

His comment stopped the conversation in its tracks and made us all laugh. Granted it had the word "butt" -- a classic kid word used to get a laugh -- but the timing, the way it took the conversation to a humorous level, the puncturing of Chongo's inflating balloon of hubris. I'd almost call it clever.

Was my nephew clever? When do you think the age of humor begins?

The end... and the beginning

Today ended another school year. Funny how our little world revolves around that sun. Our calendars defined by that revolution.

And then summer arrives, and time,
suddenly,
stops.

Everything stops spinning. Evenings are not pressured by homework and projects and making dinner just so I can get lunches ready for tomorrow. Getting to bed is not followed by the words "on time." In fact "on time" is a phrase that begins to disappear from our vocabulary... or in our house the phrase "... or your going to be late."

What a sweet night this first night of summer is. It's seven o'clock, the shadows are growing longer and the light is making the ripe oranges glow. I'm waiting for the parrots to fly squawking across the sky to tell me it's dinner time.

All this, until Monday when Maia begins summer school at too damn early am. At least we'll have August (and part of July)...

What do you love about the beginning of summer?

Community Service

It's the time of year for choosing classes for next year's high school schedule. Chongo has been avoiding any honors or AP classes, convinced he might have to work harder than he wants to get an A.

But I keep pressing the issue. There's one honors class that, rumor has it, is really the same as the regular class. The only difference is that students have to complete 20 hours of community service during the year.

Community service is a deal breaker for Chongo. If this is true, he's definitely not taking the honors class.

"Why?" asks the volunteer happy mom.

"Community service is actually a punishment courts give to people who have broken the law?" he answers. "Why would I want to do that?"

I'm dumbfounded about that one.... But I'm working on a response, and I assure you it won't include "it's a good thing to do" or "colleges care."

Tradition

I attended two promotions last week. Maia had her sixth grade promotion and Chongo finished up eighth grade. Both were flawless and smooth (my kids had come home sunburned from their hours of rehearsing), and neither was unbearably long or boring. It was in fact a lovely, meaningful transition, marking the end of one school and the beginning of another. And I was reminded of how important these traditions are, that it's worth the clothes shopping and the hour spent on the hair and the rush to be on time and orderly.

We live in a world where change is an everyday occurrence. We change jobs, schools, churches, spouses, neighborhoods, friends, wardrobes and cars far more often than our fore bearers did. Psychologists say change creates stress for most people, and if that's true we are getting more and more stressed out as a culture. But there are some traditions that honor these times of transition, because we know that it's important to celebrate and embrace change. To take time out to recognize that our lives are in flux, and that we feel a great deal at these moments. To say goodbye, to cry a little, and to let our stomachs flutter with anticipation at the new.

In our family we have been walking down to our local school for nine years. On the last day of school the 6th grade teachers led their kids through the school to say goodbye to the places and people they had spent the better part of their lives with. As a family, we sadly say goodbye to those days and the community we experienced at our neighborhood school. But we also welcome the new opportunities, the challenge of middle school and high school.

And there was one more ceremony. Chongo had a church party for the eighth grade graduates. The youth leaders presented each eighth grader with a journal spoke about each of them with words that affirmed what they saw in them and appreciated about each of them.

In each of these transition ceremonies I felt the right-ness, the beauty of honoring this passage in my kids lives. In those moments I could not imagine any better place to be.

Grades

Chongo got a 93% on his last math test. Exciting news in our house since his math grade has been dogging him this year. It's 8th grade Algebra and he needs an A or B to take Geometry next year. We're in the car when he tells me this and I raise my hand, "High Five!"

"Mom, don't high five me."

"Why?"

"It hurts me. It hurts me inside." The rascal, he's teasing me.

"I'm happy for you," I say. "What should I do to celebrate?"

"How about $5?" he suggests. Right. I'm not paying for test scores. I already pay for semester grades and at $20 per A and $5 per B sometimes it costs me a chunk.

"Consider it a donation to the the "Cause for a Better Chongo." We both laugh out loud at this and he starts to riff on an ad for his new cause.

Inside myself I celebrate his sense of humor. Today I like it even better than A's on math tests.