Visions of kindergarten past - skills that last

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Dec. 9, 2011


Last week I was going to divulge some particularly stupid things I had done when my youngest daughter was in kindergarten. Somehow, I wound up talking about alarm clocks. Rabbit trails have always been a problem for me.


I won’t repeat myself, although that is the language my children comprehend best. At home, I speak to them in “Repetitionese,” which sounds just like English tossed into your washer during its most vicious spin cycle. Many women might relate, relying on this language to communicate with their male counterparts. The variant used in speaking with children is that it requires a different dialect: “Louderandlouderplease.” So often, my youngest son, who at the ripe age of 6.5 years is now dispensing advice to me, looks wounded when I have been shouting somewhere in the vicinity of his eardrum. He claims he is sensitive to loud sounds. Exactly. That’s why I have to resort to them. None of the kinder and quieter sounds I use ever register. He’s not sensitive to those.


Why don’t you just run to your refrigerator where put up my column from last week, and we will continue from there. What? You don’t save them? Fine. Check the bottom of the birdcage, then, or check the older posts on this blog.


First-Day-of-School-Eve bustled with preparatory activities for the four school veterans: a senior, a sophomore, a 7th grader, and a 4th grader. But for my baby girl starting kindergarten, it would be her really, truly, first ever, day of school. I had a remnant two-year-old baby boy to keep me company at home to make sure I didn’t suddenly start enjoying myself by experiencing any sweet solitude after the school-bound stampede.


I had a small mountain of school paperwork requiring enough signatures to qualify me for the ambassadorship of a small nation, and those were piled up, in reserve for that first week of school. But late that night before the first school day, I decided to take a casual peek.


When I saw the kindergarten packet, my casual attitude drained faster than a paycheck on Friday. I nearly choked. There were three projects that needed to be submitted on the first day of school. There was also a detailed form in which the parent could describe, at length, the child’s strengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes, down to the preferred brand of toilet paper.


Okay. I made up the part about the toilet paper.


I checked the clock. It was already 11:30 pm. I controlled my impulse to run upstairs and yank a five-year-old out of bed to complete the giant paper doll representation of herself. Sometimes I’m just reasonable that way.


Instead, I would wake her up early when the older kids got up at 6 am. She could do the work then, and I would sit over her like a loving and concerned hawk. Why would this, my daughter’s first day of kindergarten, be a complete repeat of my entire childhood, doing those awful science fair posters in stenciled letters all night, just before the science fair? Generation Procrastination.


The next morning, I hovered over a sleepy child as we glued on parts to make an ethnic paper doll with big, big eyes and some yarn hair. I think the finishing touch was a piece of Indian-looking fabric that we stapled on as part of the dress. Only the forms that were critical for the first day were done. Nobody had to run to catch the bus that first day. Days two through 180 are a different matter entirely.


At day’s end, the kindergartener had a full and appreciative audience. How was the first day of school? How were the kids? How were the teachers? As her stories emerged, we heard about circle time or story time - whatever you call it when the children sit quietly to listen to someone read. Ah, here’s a skill we should introduce to debating politicians. Let’s have them sit crisscross-applesauce style in their snazzy suits, and be quiet while the other person speaks. Revolutionary idea, isn’t it? At any rate, my daughter apparently fell asleep in this comfy position.


All eyes turned to me. Mom? This was my exit cue: time to make dinner.


Overall, we had a wonderful year, but I was amazed and at times overwhelmed by the amount of work this kindergarten class entailed. When I described (okay, I might have been complaining then) the writing practice, book reports, weather reports, and weekend homework packets in the class, an acquaintance asked if my child was in private school. Turns out, her own college graduate had had Mrs. Stright for kindergarten!


Mrs. Mary Stright, with her quick laugh and patient determination, along with her sparkly-eyed aide, Mrs. June Penn, have been teaching that class for ages. She still receives graduation announcements, wedding invitations, and even birth announcements (hopefully, in that order!) from her former students. She recently received a copy of a paper a college freshman wrote, citing the importance of repetition and good writing skills learned from her formative class.


I didn’t always think so then – (I had envisioned writing a column entitled “Kindergarten is Killing Me”) - but I count ourselves fortunate to have had a child under their tutelage. These ladies are an amazing and effective team, and are held in highest esteem, as all truly great teachers should be.

The alarming thing about kindergarten

Published in The Fauquier Times Democrat (Weekend Edition) on Dec. 2, 2011


A few years ago, when my youngest daughter was in Mrs. Stright’s kindergarten class at C.M. Bradley Elementary School, I did several stupid things. Fortunately, my daughter was able to pass the course despite being handicapped by parental ineptitude. Mrs. Mary Stright and her wonderful aide Mrs. June Penn continue to talk to me. In exchange for all the empty containers of oatmeal that my husband eats through for his heart-healthy breakfasts for them to use in their kindergarten craft projects, they smile kindly at me and never mention “those” episodes.


In case your child hasn’t had the privilege of being taught by someone who is so perfectly suited to his or her profession, I should let you know that Mrs. Stright runs a very academic and focused classroom. In spite of that, though, these two amazing ladies fill that room and “their” children with love and warmth and compassion, right along with those weekly book reports, weather reports, and homework.


Like any good parent, when we went to the Meet the Teacher night, I had paid attention to all the important details. Was my child dressed adorably? Check. Did my child look adorable? Check. Were the charm and cuteness factors conspicuously present? Check. Fine, we were ready to trot down to the school, where I would shake hands, stroll about the classroom and look importantly at everything. Then, I would ask a few pressing questions about phonics versus whole language learning to camouflage the real concerns on my checklist. (I wasn’t this way with the first, experimental child we had, but this was my fifth, my baby girl.)


When I collected all the papers and forms, I plopped them onto the pile of forms that were required for the other four children who were also in Fauquier County Schools that year. Something about signing all those forms makes me feel like an old Soviet bureaucrat. At any rate, when you are filling up forms for multiple children, you begin to feel old. I usually save those forms for the first few days of school, right after I have dashed about collecting obscure art and stationery supplies that teachers specifically request only after classes begin. This would be just after you’ve canvassed every discount and department store for the mountain of generic items that ARE on the list.


The night before school, the children were exceptionally excited, and ultra-prepared. Their lunches were packed; their clothes were picked out, and they had even gone to bed at some decent hour so the next morning you won’t experience what you will every other school day morning: As if you are trying to resurrect the dead, whose alarm clocks, right next to their heads, blare and beep incessantly until they disturb you, the non-school-aged adult, from your own desperately needed repose.


Amazingly, the obnoxious alarm clock does nothing to even suggest to one teen that he needs to wake up. Where these clocks get the audacity to add “alarm” to their names, I don’t know. I think all we have in this boy’s room is a Might-you-like-to-wake-up-now-your-royal-highness? Suggestion Clock. It never wakes His Majesty up, but it does manage to beckon the servant, yours truly, from down the hall to come running into the room to blast on the lights and demand that he silence the clock. Where repetitive auditory suggestions fail, visual assaults (in the form of bright lights) usually prevail.


I know of alarm clocks with clever designs that eject some sort of key. The alarmee is forced to arise, retrieve the piece, and then fit it back into the clock in some complicated way before the darned thing will shut off its alarm. That is fine for the advanced waker, the type who leaps out of bed, hurriedly shuts off the alarm, and then slumps back into bed to catch a few more minutes (or, oops, hours) of unintended shut-eye. Such a device is no good for the child who is failing Awakening 101. This child needs remediation to get to the point of acknowledging the existence of the alarm.


Now that I’m completely off topic, here’s my gift idea for this young man. It’s an alarm clock that includes a spinning and flashing disco ball suspended in a block-and-tackle arrangement. The disco ball will begin to descend (slowly and gently, of course – this IS my precious child we’re talking about), directly over the child’s head. Let’s incorporate some advanced, military heat-seeking device to make sure the disco ball finds its mark. In addition, this alarm clock needs to include searchlights that locate and aim directly at the eyelids while the ball descends. Surely, we have the biotechnology to do this. If these won’t do the trick, it should release a lovely, laminar flow of ice water. That way, every school day after the first exciting one, it will bring forth a message filled with lights and not exactly warm, but flowing feelings that say, “Merry Christmas, with love, from Mom. Now, WAKE UP!”


May I get back to kindergarten next week? Thanks – I’ll set my alarm as a reminder.

The Radio Commentary

This aired twice on WAMU 88.5 FM on October 31st, 2011.  Thanks to Eldred for taking me to the station to record this.

I am trying to post the link of my Halloween commentary that aired on WAMU 88.5 FM on October 31st.  This is an experiment.

I know, nothing like being in season.  Hey, I'm just trying to match the weather! --- Vineeta

http://wamu.org/news/11/10/30/halloween_commentary_the_guilt_of_the_candy

Keeping up with the Joneses, or just your own keys and glasses

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Nov. 11, 2011

Every year, when I worked outside the home, I either lost a set of keys, a pair of prescription glasses, or bounced a check.  Last year, I nearly lost my husband to a heart attack.  I think I prefer losing keys, glasses, and my sense of balance on the checking account. 

Someone must have read my thoughts.  So far this school year, I’ve lost a pair of sunglasses.  Oh, and I can’t find my little two-dollar, two-year planner that I used to keep in my purse.  I’m used to having no clue as to what I’m doing, but now, I have no clue when I’m doing it either.  All this, and I’m not even working.  Not really.

I have my phone number in that little planner, so if any honest and kind souls find it, they can call me.  It won’t be like that time my husband and I were newlyweds in college and I dropped the checkbook on my way into the behemoth of a second-hand car we had.  I never saw the checkbook again, though we searched and searched for it and called all the lost and founds.  We wised up and reported the lost checks to our bank so they wouldn’t process any that came through.

A couple of weeks later, we were getting threatening letters from a pizza chain, saying that our check for about $16 failed to clear, and we owed them for that big pizza they had delivered to us, dated the very night I had dropped the checkbook. 

Perfect!  All we had to do was figure out where the pizza was delivered, and we could track down the budding (and well-fed) writer (of forged checks).  I was intrigued by the detective work that lay ahead of us.  Unfortunately, while the pizza company didn’t mind harassing us for $ 16, they did not share my enthusiasm for the detective work we could have done together.  They refused to track down the receipts and the associated data at their headquarters, so we never solved that mystery.  The pizza company decided to let us off the hook for the missing dough.

I could use some detective work now, since I can’t locate either the planner or the sunglasses.  In a way, it is as frightening as it is comforting to think that I have mislaid these things in the house itself.  If it’s lost somewhere in my own home, I may never find it. 

I got defensive when my husband, very kindly and innocently, suggested I just go ahead and buy another pair of sunglasses to replace the ones I had lost.  “Lost?  What do you mean, ‘lost’?” I protested.  “They’re around here somewhere – they’re only misplaced.”  You can’t just throw the term “lost” around, because it has a finality that says, “Never to be found.”  “Misplaced,” that way, is much kinder.  It is a temporary condition.  Even if you don’t have the item, at least you have the hope that you will find it, or it will find you.  Regardless, the sunglasses and the planner have not yet shown up.  I think they are in cahoots – planning something shady, probably. 

At any rate, this just looks bad, because now my husband’s going to think he is right.  It is not just annoying when your spouse or significant other turns out to be right about things; it sets a bad precedent.

Admit it.  There is an undercurrent in most every relationship, whether between spouses, parent-child, or business-to-business that the other person is not quite as smart and savvy as you are.  Sure, they might have more “papers” than you, but when it comes to street smarts, you know, deep down, you are better equipped. 

Now if you could just keep that equipment on you, it would help your case.  A lot.

Banking on my husband

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Nov. 4, 2011

“We had better cut back on our expenses,” my husband said the other day.  I agreed with him completely, which in itself is astonishing, considering we have been married over 25 years…to each other…consecutively.  (It is important to add qualifiers nowadays, as some couples like to sum up their experience.)

If you are as suspicious as I am of people who claim to have perfect marriages, I would also be circumspect about how quickly two polar opposites could agree.  We agree readily and completely because each of us knows it’s the other person’s fault.

I have cost a good bit this semester, with tuition and books for the course to pursue a provisional teaching license through EducateVA.

I am sure he is the one creating the extra expenditures, (not that I would want it any other way).  Just ask Mailman Mike.  He brings so many packages that he may as well swap that postal uniform for a padded red suit.  But get this: my husband has been ordering books and used electronics equipment to make a teaching lab for our children.  What would I do without this man and his interests?

Don’t think his interests wane because they seem to change: he simply cycles through them like seasonal clothing.  Every topic requires more books and gadgets and equipment.  Whatever intrigues him, he pursues wholeheartedly.  I’m just thankful his interest is not other women.

I did have a bit of a scare in that department a couple of summers ago, though.  My husband had gone to India for a couple of weeks.  I was attending to long-neglected tasks after my first school year of working outside the home.  Balancing the checkbook was like an abandoned child.  I squeezed my eyes and hoped it would turn out okay.  At least, no one had been hurt, as far as I knew.

I kept revisiting the numbers.  Weird.  There had been a single cash withdrawal of $ 600 one Friday evening.  I know I have a bad memory, but had my husband lavished me with jewelry or a computer that I selfishly and absent-mindedly could not recall?  Noooo. 

I found the debit on our account online, but could bring up no details or images.  I called my husband in India.  They are 10.5 hours ahead, but we needed to talk. “No,” he said.  He had not withdrawn $600 a couple of months ago. 

“You’re sure, right?” I ask him, with voice faltering, because I don’t want to look like a moron running to the bank to find out that, oh, incidentally, your husband has had a joint account here with someone else for the past five years.  Don’t worry; she takes care of all the financial details on that account too, and they were just running a bit low.  And have you seen that adorable new baby?

I know you’re going to say I’m being silly.  What was going on back then?  Was it when the Governor of South Carolina was on a supposed hike?  Was it when news was breaking out about The Terminator’s spawn?  Was it when John Edwards was trying to distance himself from a new little being?  Or was it during the deterioration of “Jon & Kate plus Eight” - a show I have never seen, but been accosted by its associated headlines nonetheless when online checking email or in line checking out groceries?

I got myself to the bank, pronto.  After some searching, the customer service agent apologized.  The mystery had a simple explanation - disturbingly simple, actually. 

One Friday evening, at a bank branch elsewhere in the county, a man with a name very similar to my husband’s went through the drive-through to make a withdrawal from his own, legitimate account.  I won’t tell you what that man’s name is, because it is not his fault that the teller had earwax plugging his ears, misinterpreted what he said, and stupidly did not check ID while doling out half a dozen Ben Franklins and debiting our account.

The solution took all of five minutes.  The bank went into Similar-Sounding Man’s account, dipped its hands in and pulled out the $ 600 he had long ago spent and plopped it back into our account.  It’s weird, but I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for SSM, and hoped he had had that buffer built in.  Perhaps he takes better care of his finances than I do.  At the bank, the numbers seem so abstract.  It doesn’t even feel like money then.  In the store is when those numbers have meaning and become real. 

The solution was quick and painless.  I was somewhat annoyed with this faceless teller (the bank had data to know who it was) and with all the stupid scenarios that had played out in my mind.  Mostly, though, I was relieved by the simplicity of the explanation. 

I could be happy again.  I’m not so sure if the same could be said of Similar-Sounding Man or for that teller.

October is/was Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition, Oct. 7, 2011

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about breasts. If you are male, I don’t need to hear you chiming in with something helpful like, “Yeah, me too.” If you’re even thinking that while you’re reading this, that’s probably sexual harassment, buddy. And my calling you buddy when your name isn’t even Bud is also harassment of some sort. Let’s stop harassing each other and continue. Shall we?

Last week I got a call from our friend on the West Coast. She had recently had a single mastectomy. Things went smoothly. The morning after surgery, she was home with the only real source of irritation being the drainage and discharge. To the alarm of her friends, she was up and answering her phone. You see, she is 83 years old. You’re right; that’s not a typo – that’s 83 as in octogenarian, not 38. Her husband is 80.


We’ve been friends with this couple since we met in California almost twenty years ago. We became friends despite our age difference, or perhaps because of it. I’m not afraid of aging, because there’s only one alternative, but I’m hoping you noticed there is an age difference.


In the ten years since we each departed the Golden State, we’ve only seen them once when they stopped to visit us in Ohio along a cross-country trip to see friends and family. Her husband attended his 60th class reunion in Kentucky just a couple of summers ago. The class has dwindled to about half of its size, but it’s amazing how they’ve kept in touch over the decades, even without the aid of computers and Facebook.


Our families were close, spending many an enjoyable evening and holiday together. She made the most amazing homemade Christmas ornaments and treats, and our young kids adored them. I loved to hear the tales from their youth. I have a deep and sudden longing to see them.


She relayed to me that when she was but a girl, her aunt after whom she was named, had also had a mastectomy. Or at least that’s what she thinks had happened. “You didn’t talk about a lot of things back then.” The aunt had often appeared to be in pain and had always seemed a fragile person.


I’m glad we can talk about all sorts of things nowadays. Not everything is necessarily appropriate in every context, but it gives us a newfound freedom of access, inquiry, and information. William Stewart Halsted, a professor of surgery at Johns Hopkins University, first performed a radical mastectomy in 1891 as life-saving operation for breast cancer patients. Before that time, breast cancer was not only a death sentence, but it also relegated the sufferer to a virtual quarantine because the stench and discharge associated with the disease made them pariahs.


Halsted was ”an almost excruciatingly slow, meticulous surgeon known for his gentle handling of tissue at a time when bloody slashing, and no thought of germs, were more common…” (Source: http://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/about/history/history5.html.) Incidentally, Halsted also introduced the use of rubber gloves in surgery. It was not so much for keeping the surgical site germ-free, but to save the hands of the nurse he later married. Caroline Hampton suffered from rashes as a result of washing with mercuric chloride. Halsted contacted Goodyear to make a thin pair of gloves, and it soon became the rage.


I heard a report that when the Susan G. Komen Foundation began its awareness campaign, there were many women who could not bring themselves to put the pen to paper to sign any petitions. The stigma attached to breast cancer made the stakes too high for them to have their names associated with the disease or its cure. We have come a long way. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. We have a long way to go yet.


Last month, I finally got my buns (and other parts) into Fauquier Hospital for my first mammogram. Yes, they give women a free one on the year of their fortieth birthday, but somehow I didn’t get around to it even five years ago. I’m tempted to say I should have gone in earlier, because it was a smashing good time. But in truth, it was just plain smashing, even though very temporarily. My technician was absolutely wonderful. She didn’t make me feel self-conscious at all, and I kept jabbering away about the wonders of modern medicine and William Halsted.


Anyway, the images indicate I need to go in for a repeat exam, more thorough, with an ultrasound this time. I guess that makes up for all the years I skipped going in. I’m not afraid…yet. Best of all, I’m not afraid or ashamed to talk about it.

A fond farewell…sort of

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend Edition, 09/30/2011
September 30th was the last day of National Library Month. How did I miss mentioning that all month long? I have it on good authority, however, that you are still allowed to visit your local library, and your card will work, even after September ends. I have a little sad and selfish news in regard to what (rather, “who”) will not work at our library very soon, though.


Last night, I popped into our local Warrenton branch and was met with that unmistakable English greeting, “Oh, hallo, Love!” If you’ve visited there any time in the past 25 years, you know exactly which librarian I’m speaking of. She’s tall and slender and striking. (“Tall” is a relative term for me. As far as I’m concerned, if you’ve crossed 5’3”, you’re tall.)


In just two weeks, Jenny Lyons is no longer going to be there to greet and help us. This is in no way meant to demean or dismiss any of her colleagues, all of whom are wonderful ladies who always offer a smile and some help. (Correct me if I’m wrong, but I haven’t seen any men working there.) If you thought the library was the place to be hushing and shushing yourself, you have been deprived. You need to engage one of these ladies in a conversation.


In today’s highly mobile society, it is amazing to find someone who has not only lived in the same area, but also worked in the same place, for a quarter of a century. I didn’t get the full history last night, but horses and English saddles brought her to this area from England. Stop being goofy. I never implied that she rode on a horse here all the way from the seat of the British Empire. Seriously, your humor is getting down to the elementary school cafeteria level. Regardless, we’ve established that she has been here and been faithfully and cheerfully serving at the library all these years.


But now, Jenny has got some silly notion of retiring into her head. She says it’s time to let someone new have a chance.


Someone new? Someone new? What if this someone new doesn’t greet me as if I were the most special person to have walked through the doors all day? It may be too late to forward this urgent note to the Director, but I think she should carefully consider a few things before bringing in a new hire. Is there some way Maria Del Rosso could sneak in a question or two onto the employment application form?


Applicant takes tea in the:


a) morning b) midmorning c) noon d) mid-afternoon e) at tea time f) just before bed g) all of the above.


Two weeks is (someone will gleefully correct me to say “Two weeks are” but I’m treating this as one unit, so ha!):


a) the time between paychecks b) a fortnight c) annual vacation time for most working adults, except those who live in Europe and Asia, where two weeks is only sufficient time off of work to begin planning the other six weeks of actual vacation time


A boot is:


a) something you put on your foot b) something you wish you could apply to your child’s rump on occasion, when they can’t seem to get moving c) what the colonists refer to as “the trunk” of their awful motor vehicles


Okay, I can see where these might get sticky. But you get my meaning. Also, could they have the new librarian practice that wonderful greeting and try to exude love to everyone around?


Here’s a little secret: I didn’t even know her name until yesterday. She confessed she didn’t know mine, either. She calls everyone “Love” or “My Dear.” All these years, we have been greeting and gushing over each other like old schoolmates. Don’t get me wrong; I do know lots of our librarians by name, even though trying to subtly hone in on their nametags dangling down at the end of the chain makes you feel a little uncouth.


It’s going to be hard to have someone fill Jenny Lyons’ shoes. What will hers be doing? A “spot” of traveling now and then, and she’s also thinking of helping with rescued dogs in her corner of Fauquier County. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s going to be some reading in there too. Librarians do seem to be addicted to books. Hopefully, she will wander back into our branch now and then to feed her habit.


Jenny, we’ll miss you and your wonderful smile, but we wish you all the best in your retirement. Cheerio!

October is a happening month

Published in the Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Sep. 23, 2011

Wednesday, my husband took the day off to drive me into Washington, D.C. to the recording studio of WAMU 88.5 FM, http://www.wamu.org/. This station plays my favorite source of news from NPR, National Public Radio http://www.npr.org/.


I realize it’s risky to tell you what I listen to. Someone on Facebook commented that NPR stands for “Never Praise Republicans” so they prefer not to listen. For me, it’s not about the politics; it’s a window on the world with in-depth coverage. Watching the news on television, sometimes you have to wonder what got more coverage: the anchorwoman’s hair, face, and wardrobe, or the news? With radio, early in the morning, right in your kitchen or in your car, you can travel to a village halfway across the world. You can hear the voices of the locals and learn of their triumphs and travails. Granted, you have no pictures, but that’s where the reporter’s words and your mind collaborate together.


I read aloud my commentary on Halloween. It was brief. You know I’m not, by nature, brief. But they have an editor who can slash better than Freddy Krueger and Congress put together. So my humorous attempts have been limited to two-and-a-half minutes, which is a quick 150 seconds. For those seconds, my husband took a whole day off. Each minute that I’ll be on the air, he devoted an hour of driving time.


Plus, with his time management techniques, we got there with about an hour and a half to spare. It’s a good thing he accompanied me, because we don’t view time management in the same way. For me, that amount of free time could have equaled putting dinner into the slow cooker and dashing about the house to change the bed sheets, seconds before leaving in panic and disarray. Weirdly, the urge for me to do those things when there is no deadline is not as great. For him, it’s all a matter of setting priorities.


The night before, as we were finishing up with dinner and the disarray of dishes, and homework papers, my husband very coolly set up a big microphone, chair, and headset connected to the speakers in the living room for me to do a few practice runs. It was like a scene out of “The King’s Speech.” Once again, you might be horrified, but we thought it was such an exceptional movie, that all of our kids have seen it. We just had the little discussion about what words are not considered appropriate first.


In reading it aloud, I was initially slow, deliberate, and hesitant and then, as I sensed the time crunch, rushed through the delivery. (I think this is how I operate in life in general.)


“No, Mom. That doesn’t even sound like you,” my thirteen-year-old son objected. My husband suggested that our son, a natural orator, have a go at the read-through. (He is the one who used to continue his soliloquies, even when left alone in the bathroom during potty training.) I had to add that little tidbit in, just in case he’s getting too big for his boots. As Niles delivered the script, his hands developed a life of their own. They automatically twirled, outstretched, and performed all manner of gesticulations while his eyebrows danced up and down on his forehead. You could see his suppressed smile as he delivered my tongue-in-cheek words. Ordinarily, it can be a little annoying to be in the same room with someone who is obviously more gifted or talented (are they the same thing?) than you are – especially if they are younger. But not now. You cannot feel anything but pride when you are outshined by any child, and more so when it is your own. Can there be any joy greater than this?


I’ll let you know when the commentary is supposed to air and how you can hear it if you and your radio refuse to travel to WAMU, 88.5 FM. I only wish you could have heard Niles deliver it. That kid is a natural.


Two other quick notes: if you don’t have plans for next weekend, you do now. Learning Tree Farms in Delaplane is hosting its Annual Picnic on Sunday, October 2nd from 11 am until 4 pm. Everything is absolutely free: food (from 12:30 – 2:30), hayrides, kite flying, fishing, reenactments from the Civil War, artillery range, face-painting, a hay bale maze, and live music. We went last year and got to meet owner Mary Collins as she handed out t-shirts (also free). I hope to meet her other half, David Collins, this year. I can’t think of a better way to bring in the fall. Visit their website, http://www.learningtreefarms.com/ or call 540-364-0484 for more information.


Also, I’ll be speaking at the Forum for Women at Lord Fairfax Community College on Saturday, October 8th. It’s hosted by Fauquier Women. Call Marsha Melkonian at 540-270-5434, or visit their website at http://www.fauquierwomen.org/. The event runs from 8:30 am until 2:30 pm, and there will be a vendor fair concurrent with the seminars. Pre-registration is $10 including breakfast and a boxed lunch. Hope to see you there!

Words, words, words…what are a few words?

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition 9/16/2011

“It’s not that I mind refilling your prescriptions,” I said to my husband as I speed-dialed the pharmacy. His medications were aligned before me like candidates hoping to be re-elected. “I just want you to see how easy it is to do. That way, if something happens to me, you can still keep up with your medications.”

“Vin,” my husband began in that way that always leaves me wondering, even after 25 years, how serious he’s being, “if something happens to you, I will just crawl into the coffin, right next to you.” At the risk of sounding morbid, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.

He’s telling me that, despite his efficiency and time management techniques (which are very noble except when he tries to apply them to me), in spite of his extensive reading and numerous hobbies, his wizardry with computers, and his unequivocally superior intellect, he doesn’t feel qualified to handle life without me. Just a few words - sometimes, that’s all it takes to make a sad and silly person happy. (I do accept flowers and candy too, of course.)


I was elated for days. I waste time. I procrastinate. I live in clutter. I’m not a great housekeeper or cook. Of course, I have my good points, but they happen to be buried in the clutter at the moment.


My husband is not a man of flowery speech. He has a Ph.D. in physics. Need I say more? If he wants to tell you something directly, he just does.

Many readers have asked about him since his massive heart attack in November. He is doing really, really well. Thank you for your concern and prayers. My husband’s cholesterol levels are superb and he has lost 45 pounds. But nowadays my husband constantly mentions how easy it is to lose weight – not in a bad, hinting sort of way. You have to remember that as a scientist, he is simply making observations and stating facts. Repeatedly.

Scientists love to repeat things. They are all about doing experiments and repeated trials. Listening to him repeat himself is becoming a trial for me. While he has been shedding pounds, I have been finding them and trying them on for size: A bigger size.

But don’t feel bad. He’s talking about calories consumed versus calories expended – it’s so beautifully simple, you see. He usually does this when we are walking up the hill together, which is a good thing, because don’t expect me to be walking and talking. I guess, when it comes to calories, I’m just a conservative spender. I’m banking them away in case times (or I) ever get too lean. He claims I don’t need to lose any weight, even though the weight charts say differently. He likes my plumpness, but I’m not sure if I want to be mistaken for a prime roaster hen. But I’m not afraid; if I thought he wanted me to lose pounds, he’d just say so, directly.

Sometimes I think he’s too direct.

When we lived in California, we had an unmarried couple for neighbors. With them lived the man’s teenaged daughter, because her mother – I can’t say if she had ever been his wife - had been killed in a car accident when the girl was just four years old. On alternate weekends, his elementary-school-aged son would visit. That boy’s mother – I’m not sure if she was the man’s wife, ex-wife, or had never been his wife – lived in another town nearby. I hope you were able to follow that. I’m sorry; it’s a little complicated without names.

Let me make clear that despite the complications, we liked our neighbors. I would often help the teen with her math homework. She would often help me out by “playing” with our young daughters and managed to get them to clean their room in the process. We had dinner together.

The woman who was our neighbor was beautiful and kind. She sewed matching sunflower outfits for my girls and made me a maternity dress when I was expecting my first son. Whenever she saw me looking frazzled, she would invite my daughters over. Upon their return, they always sported something new that she had “thrown together” – in duplicate, of course. Maybe it was a tiara with a veil. Once it was a long tutu. You know the kind? You have to beg and bargain with your daughters to remove these before bathing, bedtime, and public excursions. Otherwise, they wore those tutus so much they might as well have been tattoos. How could you not like this woman?

Anyway, as the teen grew older, she moved away to live with her mother’s relatives, and then ended up cohabiting with some unsavory character. At least, that’s what I gathered from the lamentations of our neighbors that day as they stood outside wringing their hands. “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said, sympathizing.
My husband was more direct – too direct. “Well, where do you think she learned this from?” Ouch.

Now you see why his few words thrilled me so much the other day.

Remembering our lives one decade ago

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend on September 9, 2011


Is there any question whatsoever of what is on the collective mind of our nation this week? Is there any doubt where our hearts linger and lie? The anguish and dismay, and for many, the bitterness and anger are as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.


In a moment, in several long, slow motion moments on that sobering morning of September 11, 2001, our lives and our iconic landscape were utterly devastated. That was a decade ago: ten long years, gone in a flash. Where have they gone, and what have we done?


Don’t we all remember that stunned silence? The watching in horror as the events unfolded and as one was foiled. Whether or not we were there or lost a loved one or feared losing a loved one, we were all affected. Our hearts were one in grief and in courage. We were united as a nation. We were not Anything-Americans then. We were under attack. We were hurting. We were helping each other. We were one.


All of us, those who are old enough to remember, know just where we were and what we were doing when we got the news. Those images are indelibly etched in our minds.


When I visit the elementary school to have lunch with my youngest children, I look at our bustling and chatty young population. Very few of these children were born on September 11, 2001. Yet, they have all been touched in some way or the other.


A classmate of my son tells me his dad is in the military and that he will have to go far, far away in just a few days. This child is in second grade. It makes me wonder about the children a world away. What have their lives been? What has the entirety of their existence and experience been? And what will they grow up thinking and believing?


An innocence has been lost. Once gone, it can never be reclaimed. Just longed for, and wept over. We are older and wiser and more cautious. We are more guarded. Do we love as easily and trust as much? Or do we do more so now, knowing that life is but moments linked together. At any point, those links can be broken. So we hang on to each moment, and we live life fully.


Ten years ago, we were newcomers to a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. It was September 11th, and the only significance it had for me then, early that morning, was that the next day was my birthday.


I had only the four children then, and the thought of turning 35 made me feel old. After the day’s tragedies unfolded, there was no thought of silly birthdays. There was the eeriness of those silent skies for days afterward. There were the scenes of plumes of dust and ash and terrified people running through the streets.


There was only the sudden and sobering realization that we have no guarantee of anything. We ought to embrace the day – today is the only day we have, and even that, we don’t know fully.


I look back ten years ago, and wonder how I was so foolish as to feel that old age, parading as the number 35, was encroaching upon me. Even though it’s trite, it’s true: Today is the youngest we’re ever going to be. For the young people who can’t wait to grow up, it’s a consolation. For those of us trying to cling to our former figures and fresher faces, it should make us joyful. Today, we are younger than we will ever be. Today we are alive. Today. That’s what we have. That’s all we have. Let us make the most of it.

Let us not forget, but let us forgive, and move forward. Let us bring healing to those with hurting hearts. Let us honor the memories of all who lost their lives on that horrifying day and in those days that followed, and in the many years since.


Tomorrow, should our Maker allow us to dwell here on His footstool for another day, will be new and fresh and bright with hope and promise. Let us be a part of that. Lord, let us be peacemakers.

A Rough and Rocky Start to the School Year

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, September 2, 2011

Yesterday, I earned a dollar. It was from my own child. He is six years old.

I have offered to drive any children who miss the morning bus – specifically, my own offspring - to school. Just because I’m posing as a writer, doesn’t mean I can afford to work for nothing. I have to charge something. When you don’t want a behavior to be repeated, you have to inflict some form of pain or discomfort on the offending party. This pain varies from person to person. For some, it is being deprived of the next good thing, whether it is a social activity, some form of junk food, or just plain old money.

I have threatened to charge a dollar per ride. So far, I have earned three dollars. Two are from a repeat customer. You guessed it; the little guy is my big spender.

The first week of school was rough, by anyone’s standards. There were some unsettling things, like an earthquake on the second day of school, leading to an evacuation that brought students home without their backpacks or belongings. Midweek was a day off for students so officials could ensure facilities were safe. By the weekend, there was the threat of a hurricane. Not your typical first week.

In light of this, I should be a little patient with my children and make allowances, but look where patience got me. I don’t even get an allowance either.

The first week concluded with me driving the two youngest to school, and me with $ 2 more in my pocket. It served as an effective deterrent for the one child. The next morning, she was dressed and ready, had her backpack on, with the loaded lunch bag clamped to her bag, and breakfast well settled into her belly, all with about 35 minutes to spare. Could she just go ahead and walk up the hill, now, she wanted to know. She didn’t want to run the risk of running late. Meanwhile, the little brother was stumbling about in his pajamas, claiming he just needed to stretch out on the sofa for a few more minutes.

She, on the other hand, was not going to engage in this sort of risky behavior. She was not going to endanger her dollar. She was giving herself enough time, half an hour, to cover the space of five houses. I believe that even if she were suddenly transformed into a mollusk along the way, she would have had enough time to snail up the hill and make it back for a quick goodbye hug. But still, it’s noble. She learned. Unfortunately, the other child did not.

The whole problem with the other child is that I don’t understand his psychology. He would rather pay the dollar and have the extra time with Mom. Huh?

As flattering as it is to have people I don’t yet know come up and introduce themselves to me and tell me how much they love reading this column (thank you, Ginger Schrank for your sweet, kind words!), it is far more flattering when it comes from someone who actually has to live with you and put up with all of your shortcomings. See that picture of mine? It’s always smiling. See me? I’m not.

Sometimes I yell. I have to, because I live with children, and I don’t have that effortless philosophy of people who can get children to do whatever they need them to do by speaking in hushed tones all the time. The only times I used hushed tones are when I have gone hoarse with yelling. Frankly, this hissing-whisper-control seems like the skill set possessed by a snake charmer. The other reason that I have to yell is because no one has purchased me that bullhorn or even the megaphone yet. (My husband keeps threatening to buy one for me to improve the efficiency of our household.)

So, I am overall terribly flattered that this child is having some separation anxiety. It’s sick and selfish, I know. But he’s my baby. Who else is going to be interested in sticking by my side? And how long will it last, anyway?

It’s young children who actually like the company of their parents. I don’t want to paint older children out to be some sort of evil villains. If you have them, then you will already know that for yourselves. Just kidding. Older children are the ones who have discovered other things and other people who are more entertaining than we are, which is a little bruising to our egos.

And I guess his separation anxiety is understandable. It’s a long day to be away. We spent the last two years traveling and going to school together – the first year in Reston, and last year to Vint Hill. No wonder this waving goodbye to board the giant yellow school bus is a strange model for him.
 He’s still small and he’s still young. If I blink my eyes, it will be gone. And so will he.

Then, I will be the one peeling out the dollars to try to get in a little bonding time. I think I’ll stop charging a fee for now.

Remembrances from the other earthquake zone

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Aug. 26, 2011

I have recently met more readers than I dared to suspect I had. Thank you for stopping me. I love meeting you, because our dialogue is so often one-sided. When you stop me at the post office, pool, grocery store, school, or even at the polling station, it leaves me ebullient. The only time I ask that you don’t stop me is if you are an officer of the law - in the line of duty.

Who can forget our earthquake last week? We lived in Northern California for nine years, and I don’t recall one. But when I was sent on a weeklong business trip from Long Island, New York, to Los Angeles, we experienced one then.


My husband, being a creature of higher intelligence, always accompanied me on business trips. We had a single toddler in tow. When he had business trips to exquisite destinations, I was always the idiot who felt compelled to stay at work. Then, I would suffer pangs of jealousy and regret as he described sunken tubs of black marble in posh hotels. I know. You didn’t think they let scientists out of the lab, right? He was serving as an expert DNA witness in court.


When I started my life of stay-at-home-dom (which equates to martyrdom for some), I longed for another such opportunity to escape, but it never seemed to appear. Or perhaps, my husband, being the creature of higher intelligence, never let on to such opportunities.


There was the one trip to Santa Barbara when the three kids and I tagged along. It was a gorgeous holiday, despite my being newly pregnant, and the youngest, a two-year-old boy, insisting on wearing a girl’s bathing suit to the beach. He was having none of this trunk exposure stuff. We acquiesced, realizing we couldn’t get to the beach otherwise. We coached our girls, then five and seven, not to hint as to gender of their sibling. We didn’t know anyone there. What would it matter?


It is the same liberating anonymity as when you go camping, know no one, and feel fine walking around with Einstein’s hairdo. Who will know? Who will care? Perhaps this is also the danger with out interactions online. It is easy to become too friendly with people we have never met – “e-quaintances,” I believe they are called. Who will know? Who will care? Trust me, someone or Someone knows and cares.


We had barely set foot on the beach, when our second daughter squealed, “Hey! Why is he wearing a girl’s bathing suit? He’s a boy!” She then dashed about, delightedly repeating this to random, arbitrary strangers. It was the nineties’ version of sending out a public tweet. She’s in college now, and surprisingly, she isn’t pursuing journalism.


When we went to rent the quadricycle, the girls were thrilled. Each child had to be helmeted, which seemed a simple enough business. The two girls donned their headgear. The man went through his entire inventory of children’s helmets, but our little XY shrieked the moment any helmet approached his head. We couldn’t get that thing near him. It was like an invisible force field around his body that inflicted pain or an electric shock every time the helmet approached him. So, he retaliated by inflicting pain on us, in the form of piercing screams and embarrassing public tantrums.


This is why I avoid any joining in of eye rolling at stores when someone’s child is having a fit. I realize that we all think we are smarter and more astute than the inept parent who doesn’t understand proper parenting techniques the way we do or did, whether we have children or not. But some kids are just different. Way different, and we need to be as thankful for them as we are for the ones who help us believe we are sane and competent.


The shrieking and body writhing never stopped until I walked, defeated, back to the hotel room with the creature still struggling, and got out his sister’s bright pink bike helmet (odd, why HAD we packed that for the trip?), and put it on him. Putting that helmet on him was like the tranquilizer dart hitting home on a charging rogue elephant. Ah, peace. All was well with the world. I trudged back to the quadricycle, fatigued and annoyed. If this was peace, it was a disgusted sort of peace.


If I recall, my husband had to do all the pedaling for the whole family. He fixed me with accusatory glares. Me, the mother of the contented boy who could finally be calmed by that glaring pink helmet. The girls were oblivious to our tension. (It’s so nice when they are young.) They gleefully enjoyed the fruits of their father’s labor and delighted in everything the beach had to offer.

Maybe that’s why this was the only business trip I was invited on as a stay-at-home mom. And maybe that’s why we never experienced earthquakes as Californians. We always seemed to have our own built-in version, right at home.

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N at the end of summertime

Published in the Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on August 19, 2011

Who said summer could be over? I’ve barely nicked our list of summer projects. True, we can walk through the garage now, and there have been sightings of our basement floor, but where did the time go?

Sunday night we returned from a quick, three-day getaway into the mountains. We’ve barely begun our summer fun. How can it be time for school?


We had relatives visit for eleven days, made a single day trip to New Jersey for my nephew’s graduation and my cousin’s 50th birthday, took the kids to the swimming pool at the WARF several times, drove into DC to the Natural History Museum, and saw Luray Caverns again, but did I ever play a game of chess with my sons? Did I get around to a simple sewing project with my youngest daughter? Have I read a book?

This year, I did things backwards. Since I normally do things so slowly or late that it may as well be backwards, this should have approached the domain of the double negative and set me straight, but it hasn’t. I took the children school supply shopping early. (Of course, you read that column.) With that out of the way, I could start thinking about planning a vacation.

With the threat of summer ebbing and school washing in, we had only one weekend available. Unfortunately, our eldest daughter had signed up for the GRE on that one magical weekend, so it was going to be a lonely trip: just the seven of us and our shelter dog.

I realized then that planning a vacation actually takes a little time, effort, and of course, planning. I’ve even heard about businesses that do this for you! You’d have to wonder about our sense of family vacations. We have a few preferences: It needs to be within driving distance. Please don’t make it too physically taxing. I’m in no shape to be hiking up some mountain, and I’m a little nervous of water, so don’t expect me to be snorkeling around somewhere. It should have some educational value beyond learning that I’m in no shape to be hiking or snorkeling. It should include museum and/or zoo visits. If I get to be the driver to our lovely, life-long learning vacation resort, we will also intensify the experience by listening to an audio book in the car.

Think of normal life as the ant that is outdoors enjoying the sunshine, and vacation as being the ant enjoying the sunshine under a magnifying glass. Perhaps there is a reason we keep our vacations short. Maybe standardized testing is less painful than a vacation with the Ribeiro Family.

I’m thinking that our vacations worked better when the children were closer to one age group, instead of being sprawled across the decades from entering elementary school to legal adults. Isn’t it irritating how children insist upon growing up? The true beauty of childhood is that it takes so very little to please a child. A young child can be happy with the smallest things: kicking pebbles together, rolling around and laughing on the carpet, or trying to catch toads and butterflies. These things can delight the heart of a small child.

We traveled with three teenagers.

These teens had wanted to go to the beach. Or was it everyone that was in a rebellious mood? They had already seen and remembered, in excruciating detail, our visit several years ago to the Frontier Culture Museum in Staunton, Virginia. I tried to remind them about our compressed, 40-hour vacation to Virginia Beach last year, which, incidentally, is perhaps the best vacation we’ve taken. If we applied the same logic, they had already “been there, done that” with the sand and the waves. Why should they want to go again (and again)? Apparently, the flavor of the beach does not wear out the way the flavor of a museum does. The older, more sophisticated, and more jaded hearts are a little harder to delight.

Some of the more mutinous of our group awoke late on the morning of departure, and hadn’t packed a single thing for themselves. By contrast, the two youngest had been packed up for a week. (We will not hold it against the six-year-old that he forgot to pack any shirts. After all, he had packed everything else that mattered: a toothbrush, underwear, shorts, pajamas, and his stuffed dinosaur and a pocket-sized fighter jet.)

The older children approached my amazing vacation plans with the enthusiasm of criminals heading to the gallows. Come to think of it, they were acting like criminals that should have been heading to the gallows. One thoughtful soul helpfully offered, an hour before departure, to stay at home and finish summer assignments. This new plan could lighten the load on the car, open up more space for baggage, alleviate concerns about pet care, and reduce our carbon footprint.

I offered my carbon footprint.

Remind me on our next vacation to the mountains to bring along a bucket of sand and a pail of water for those who are missing the beach.

Doing the dirty deed

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, August 12th, 2011

Someone once said, “You haven’t really lived until you’ve had to collect your child’s stool sample.” Okay, no one said that, but this thought occurred to me once when I was amidst this unsavory act. Rest assured, it was for medical purposes. I don’t have the time, energy, space, or desire to be a hobby collector. Besides, saving up potential coprolite (literally, “dung stone”) would not be on my list.


Indeed, the sordid act is stomach turning. While engaged in the deed, this single-sentence complaint wafted through my mind. It could be the kernel of a column, because writing a weekly column is like being a professional complainer, except you don’t derive a living off of this exceptional ability. That’s not a complaint, just an observation.


Do you know what happens whenever I complain about things, even mentally? The things I complain about get worse. I know I sound like a superstitious scaredy-cat. Perhaps it is a weakness in my faith, but it happens often enough to be uncanny. I feel like that Skinnerian rat (or cat) that has developed the habit of turning around thrice before pressing the food lever because that’s how it worked the first twelve times.


I once had to take a child’s specimen. It’s one thing to keep your child’s medals and trophies – maybe the refrigerator artwork, or even those obnoxious yarn and Popsicle stick crafts they produce. But collecting stool samples is something else entirely. Poised with one of those scientific, tubular containers with the tiny spoon conveniently attached in the lid, you try desperately to disassociate this astute little medical device to its kin, the tiny ice cream sample spoon. Ew. This was not what you wanted to collect from your darling. The thought of samples has been forever tainted.


The moment I thought what a disgusting endeavor it was, how relieved I was (stop hunting for puns) that it was over, and how happy I should be if I never had to do this again, I found myself conscripted for the task of collecting, not a single specimen, but an entire supply for a general, 72-hour study.


Mathematical translation: “Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any stools? Yes, Mom, yes, Mom: Three days’ full.”


Notice how this task once again falls into the maternal domain? The maternal domain continues to expand like an unwilling oil slick: traditionally confined to the home to cook, clean, and train the children, we are now bringing in incomes, chauffeuring, managing finances, networking, arranging (or doing) car maintenance, and, yes, collecting medical samples.


So it was that events conspired against me. I would need to keep the child’s dietary log for three days, and then continue logging for another three days, during which time I was collecting that child’s…well, logs.


Excuse my crudeness. Since I debased myself and wrote about finding boogers on the walls of my home like an archaeologist discovering cave paintings, I find stooping to the topic of stools fairly tolerable. Next week, I might describe myself in a bathing suit.


Hence, I have collected everything for three days. EVERYTHING. I’m not going to name the child involved, because a little embarrassment, my children can tolerate. After all, they live with me. But this would be asking too much. It would also be telling too much.


Those with children in diapers might be rolling their eyes. They might be thinking they have already collected many months’ worth. True, you might be exposed to this on a daily basis. You might be disposing of it, but you aren’t collecting it. No one has told you to keep those nasty diapers refrigerated. As repulsive as I find the term “ew” to be, I will have to use it again. Ew. My refrigerator has been violated. I could complain, but I’m not going there. Instead, I’ll be glad we live in the era of modern medicine, refrigerators, and plastic. Especially plastic.


I used to think my husband’s refrigerating worms left over from a fishing trip was a little nasty and disturbing. I would dodge that shelf with the bagged, Styrofoam container of dirt and its nearly dormant wriggling contents. Now, finding worms in the fridge would be, comparatively, very desirable.


This morning, as soon as I click “SEND” to my editor, I am headed down to the UVA Hospital with this cargo, because their lab is one of the few that sends samples to the Mayo Clinic.


Should I keep the samples on ice for the 70-mile drive to Charlottesville? I could compensate for all the shopping trips when I’ve reused canvas bags: I’d go with a disposable cooler.

If I skip the cooler, I might have to speed. What would I say if I got pulled over? “Officer, I’m on an urgent medical mission, and with all due respect, I can’t take this crap from you.” Because, despite my exasperated pleas to my children that I can’t take any more crap from them, apparently, I can. And I do.

School supply shopping: DONE!

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on Aug. 5, 2011

I don’t want to shock you, but we are finished with the infamous, annual August ritual: school supply shopping. I know, I know. Had I waited until this weekend, it would all have been tax-free, but there is downsizing and desperation in the bureaucratic atmosphere. Should I deprive our government of a few tax dollars? I’m not ruffled by giving them ten dollars. At least I’m done shopping.


If I had needed to pinch pennies, I would have waited. But I can justify my extravagance. I am neither flying around the world nor running off on cruises nor buying expensive designer clothing. On the other hand, neither am I standing with a tin cup in hand along with the woeful dangling placard on my chest, so I feel it’s okay to have “indulged” in shopping earlier than usual. Waiting, for a procrastinator like me, can have its pitfalls.

I might have put off the trip indefinitely. Then, I would be dashing through the aisles at the same time as every other school year: The night before school starts. Going shopping the night before school is pretty much a bad idea. You are left to wander the aisles that look like they’ve been mobbed. They are strewn with spilled book covers. College-ruled papers are found in inappropriate relationships with the much younger wide-ruled set, tossed about in mislabeled boxes. This forces you to read each label as opposed to grabbing reams or composition books and tossing them, carefree, into the cart.

Shopping late leaves you to discover that those big, huge, bins of supplies aren’t actually filled from the ground up. They have a false cardboard bottom that is about thigh-high. You are going to be seeing way too many of these bare white cardboard bottoms than should legally be allowed. Last-second shopping leaves you squinting in the artificial night-shopper’s brightness well past the children’s bedtime. Invariably, there is some other procrastinator in the store who is carting around an unhappy and overtired toddler who cannot stop howling. This intensifies your painful experience. You want to howl too.

So this year, I have decided to forgo the pain that has tainted my perspective on shopping. I loathe shopping. I dread shopping. But shopping is a necessary evil, especially when you do not possess the skills and patience of a prairie settler.

I took the children shopping early because I had an idea of such sheer brilliance that I am now filled with fear and self-doubt. I turned over the lists as well as the chore of buying school supplies to each respective child. (Even the not-so-respective ones, for that matter.) I gave each child a cash allotment of thirty dollars. They were free to spend all of it or none of it, but their backpacks needed to be loaded with all the necessities. The thrifty could keep the surplus funds. The spendthrifts who require decorator binders would need to dig into their own savings.

The moment I called out this plan, the most miserly children (or the most ingenious, depending on your perspective), darted off. They checked the over-the-door, clear-pocket, shoe organizers where I had stuffed all those clearance, ten-cent book covers, as well as last year’s nickel-a-box crayons. They dashed down to the basement where I keep our overstock of school supplies for the school year. Then, they tackled the bins stacked with lined and graph paper as well as binders and portfolios. These rascals figured the quicker they pilfered our home for freebies, the smaller their cash outlay would be later on.


Watching my most eager children grab the last of the glue sticks, ferret out red pens, and strike gold with a pristine pencil pouch, I felt a mixture of shame (at hording supplies) and pride (at devising a plan that encourages them, instead of me, to do the hunting.)

Last year, I was reading a book on organizing and de-junking the home. Unfortunately, midway through the book, I misplaced it. I’m not trying to be funny; that’s the sad truth. In it, the author (whom I cannot acknowledge, since she has chosen to go AWOL amongst our other books) said we shouldn’t succumb to the myth of saving money by buying things on sale and then trying to make our homes into a place to store all these great finds. She said that’s why they have places called “stores.” Instead, we choose to live in junk-piles where we lack shelving and the full-time employees to keep them organized.


My children’s school shopping is DONE. We even finished shopping for the child we “adopted” through our church’s outreach. I’m glad my children have divested me of my hoard. Now all I need to do is find that book.