Happy Octopus Day!

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Friday, May 11, 2012 

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and if you have the fortune of having your mother around, show her a little love and appreciation, no matter your age.  I’m sure you think you are that perfect offspring, one whose very existence makes motherhood meaningful.  Don’t flatter yourself.  Get her a few flowers – handpicked ones, even little wildflowers, are fine.

 

You might be cute and you might be sweet, but you should realize that birthing you probably involved some level of pain.  Even if you were adopted, and have no contact with your birth mother, your adoptive mother probably endured pain too, though it might have been more emotional or bureaucratic than physical in nature.  The pain associated with acquiring you, in whatever manner, would have rapidly paled in comparison to the pain that arose from your maintenance and upkeep.  And look at yourself now.  You have been nurtured to a point where you are a decent and caring person who is intelligent enough to read this column.  Get her a card or make one.   That would validate the decent and caring part of my theory about you.

When I think of mothers, I think of the octopus.  On so many levels, mothers have to be like the amazing octopus.   You might think that’s because the octopus has eight arms, and so often, mothers seem to need them all to juggle the demands of the brood.  If an arm is lost, it can grow back later.  I view this as an analogy for women who make sacrifices for their young.  For some, it might be their careers.  For others, it might be their figures.  For a sad few of us, it is both.

Hopefully you did not think to yourself that the octopus, being an invertebrate, has no backbone, and therefore the analogy shows your mother to be some sort of soft and spineless individual.  Never forget that the octopus has a hard beak for dealing with prey (and possibly rude children like you), and is capable of injecting poison.   Rather, you should realize that the soft-bodied cephalopod is consummately flexible.  This means you can keep tossing things onto its to-do list, and somehow, your trusty octopus, will juggle it in.  Like many modern women, the octopus is able to get into and out of tight spaces, with some exceptions made for parallel parking SUVs in Old Town.

The octopus, like your mother, is highly intelligent.  In laboratories, it (the octopus, not your mom) can find its way in mazes, (think of driving and directions) and can unscrew jars to get to a snack.   While the advent of the GPS seems to have suppressed my intuitive sense of direction on the road, I can still find, and get to, the snacks.

The octopus can be playful and changes colors to indicate its mood.  The octopus is a master of camouflage, adapting itself to not only the coloring of its surroundings, but also to patterns and movements of other creatures.  In other words, the octopus can figure out how to get along in differing environs.   Also, the octopus tends to fortify and decorate its lair with shells.

The octopus can jet around quite fast.  Have you seen the speed at which your mother can/could move when expecting company?  How about when behind the wheel?  One of those arms is attending to the steering while another is wiping up a stain on the seat beside it. A third arm is sending a snack to the backseat, while the fourth arm has just confiscated the toy is being fought over.  Arm five is adeptly handling the cell phone, while arm six is adjusting the music in the car to suit everyone’s taste, except the mother, because she is just used to making sacrifices like that.  Arm seven is able to wield a hairbrush and makeup for a quick touchup before arrival and arm eight of course, is suctioned around that omnipresent coffee-cup.  

You’re thinking this image is ridiculous because nobody’s listening to the radio anymore; the kids are listening to music individually or watching a DVD back there.  Or maybe you’re wondering why the hairless octopus needs a hairbrush when just the lipstick will do.  Or maybe you know that the octopus is deaf.  And that’s not due to the noisy children.  Another breakdown in the analogy: the real octopus is a solitary creature.  I haven’t known many women who were like that.  Or maybe I don’t know them because they are solitary.

I started thinking of the octopus several years ago, when we got a book called Nico’s Octopus by Caroline Pitcher.  (http://www.amazon.com/Nicos-Octopus-Caroline-Pitcher/dp/1566564832.)   It’s a beautifully illustrated, touching story of a little boy (Nico) who finds an octopus and keeps it for a pet.  Nico learns much about the octopus, but the most heartrending is in her transformation to motherhood. 

The mother octopus lays around two hundred-thousand eggs and hangs strings of them from the ceiling of her lair.  She guards and fans these eggs to keep them oxygenated.  For the entire month or two, she does not hunt and does not eat.  Shortly after the babies emerge, the mother dies of starvation.  In humans, the decline is not as rapid, thankfully.

Make sure you thank your octopus this weekend.

The Bison and the Hick on the Plains of Ohio

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Fri. April 27, 2012

Before we know it, SOL testing, like any other spring-time allergen, will be upon us and our children.  I remember the year we had moved to Ohio in 2001.  I was still a die-hard homeschooling mom then, so I only sent my children into school at the end of the year to take the proficiency tests alongside their public-schooled counterparts.

 My fourth-grader came home that day looking a little ruffled.  And it wasn’t the test that had ruffled her.  It was something else.  As mother, inspector, corrector, and protector, I needed to investigate.

Being an Indian mother, my greatest fear for my children, after academic failure, is the possibility that one might grow faint from hunger.  Correction: that a child of mine might even experience it.  Perhaps she was just hungry.  People who are hungry, sleepy, tired, stressed, or in pain can be a little crabby.  I think that sums up about 90% of the human condition for 90% of the population.  (Self included.)

Immediately following the debriefing on the difficulty level of the test and how well she felt she had fared, I honed in on the next burning question.  Had they been served any snacks?  “Not really,” she said.  “They just gave us some kind of a hick drink.” 

A hick drink?  What was a hick drink?  Sweetened ice tea?  An “Arnold Palmer” with its interesting blend of lemonade and sweet tea?  Besides, wherever had this child learned such language?  Surely, I had never referred to Ohio as such.  Granted, we had left gorgeous, hilly, water-clad Northern California for Central Ohio.  Central Ohio was flat.  There was a simulated beach within driving distance.  At the edge of a dam, a “beach” had been created by volumes of finely ground gravel dumped onto the shore.  The wake of the motorboats created a sort of wave action for those of us soaking in the pebbles and the sun.  Note I did not say “the sand and the sun.”

 Ohio was family-friendly, of course.  It was family- friendly in the same way that a stray mutt has to be.  It’s a matter of survival.  Ohio could never rival California in natural splendor, resources, attractions, or weather.  It was like comparing the voluptuous Marilyn Monroe to the charming Shirley Temple.  You can’t.  People always rushed to conferences in California, but no one bothered to convene in Columbus.  Still, Ohio was our new home, and I had never called it a “hick” place.

I stalled for time and probed further, “What do you mean, exactly, when you say it was ‘some kind of a hick drink’?”  Somewhat exasperated, she said it was a fruit punch of some sort.  Then it dawned on me.  She had been served a box of “Hi-C.”  I knew that it was pronounced “High C” as in, allegedly high in Vitamin C.  Among my many nutritional transgressions, which I have been guilty of, and can currently be accused of, serving boxed Hi-C drinks was not one of them. 

I remembered the TV jingle from my childhood, “They’ve got Hi – C!  They’ve got Hi – C!...”  My children were not avid or addicted watchers of children’s TV shows, so there was no exposure to the modern commercials either.  Hence, she thought “Hi-C” was pronounced as “hick.”

But that wasn’t what had miffed her.  Before the round of tests, while my daughter familiarized herself with the desk-and-attached chair, a student informed her that the teacher’s name was Mrs. Bison.  Need I mention that the teacher was unusually heavy-set? 

My daughter practiced her best manners by addressing the teacher properly and formally.   “Um, Mrs. Bison, I was wondering if I could sharpen my pencil,” she began as she presumptuously started toward the pencil sharpener.

The teacher’s sunny disposition took a mercurial U-turn.  The happy, hefty, woman suddenly bellowed, “Young lady, sit down in your chair!”

Having been homeschooled, my children were not used to being yelled at…by others, that is.  I did engage in plenty of yelling, but that was as natural in our home as running water.  It didn’t really count; it was just my natural dialect and a means of efficient communication.  Being yelled at by an outsider, though - that was something different, entirely.

Of course, you guessed it.  The woman’s last name was not Bison at all.  It was something confusing and hyphenated, like Neiler-Byce or vice versa.  (And not Versa-Vyce.)  The other student must have gotten a good laugh later, I suspect.  I am assuming a child who was naughty enough to have set my daughter up would also have been clever enough to suppress his laughter.  Like a little criminal, you know?  He probably laughed and bragged later how he had gotten the visiting student to call the teacher a Buffalo kinswoman.

I wonder if that kid is still laughing.

Black Friday Shopping – the Best Training Grounds

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition, on Fri. 3/30/2012

I’ve never been to a Black Friday Sale the day after Thanksgiving, but I think I know how those shoppers feel.  In lieu of conducting interviews and doing background reading, I’m going to base my understanding of said shoppers’ psychology on myths, legends, and sensationalized media reports.  For a column like this, that’s practically the same as conducting interviews and doing research.

We’ve all read about shoppers stampeding for discount electronics and people emerging from the fray with the last $ 15 DVD player clutched as tightly as if it were the Golden Goose herself.  The victorious shopper might end up wearing the imprint of the less successful bargain shopper’s shoe stamped on their backside, but who cares?  Shopper Superior has got that DVD player at what amounts to a steal, so if a little violence was involved, that’s to be expected.

Of course, you’ve read those stories about those kinds of shoppers.  Admit it.  Reading about someone’s egregious or bizarre behavior usually takes precedence over reading about the advances in medical research, developments in the Middle East Peace Process, or the latest blip in the economy, like watching for vital signs in a patient who has been comatose for years.

Let’s examine the characteristics of these shoppers: They line up at ungodly hours; they tend to pounce on any bargain that isn’t moving; they tend to pounce on any bargain that might be moving, too.  Sometimes, unfortunately, getting to the bargain requires that they step over, or possibly even on, other shoppers who might be slower and less efficient.  They are a little desperate.

As a bona fide substitute teacher for Fauquier County, you can have the experience of being a Black Friday shopper every time you try to land a position.  The system works like this: all the substitutes have access to a website where “jobs” are posted whenever a teacher posts his or her expected absence.  Since this is web-based, it can happen at any time.  Access to this website is restricted to those who have submitted an application, completed the training, had their backgrounds checked and their fingerprints cleared, and submitted transcripts and reference letters.

At last count, there were 770 substitutes for the 898 teachers employed by the school system.  This means that you, along with 769 other people, might be viewing this webpage all at once, waiting for that sole vacancy to be posted.  If you click on the job first, and immediately pounce on the button that says “Accept,” you get to be that teacher’s substitute.  After you accept, you can bother with the minor details of which school, what day, and what time to report.  Also, very helpfully, the teacher’s name, the subjects taught, and any other notes are posted.  According to more heavy-duty research conducted for this column, the average time that elapses between a teacher posting a vacancy and it being nabbed by a substitute is eight minutes.  Eight minutes. 

But that was back in the days of the Pony Express, I believe.  That data was announced in the fall, and it had to have come from last year.  I would love to get updated data, because I have watched that Aesop website off and on, and there has only been one job that sat there longer than three minutes.

Once, when I was young and innocent to the Aesop system, I was looking at the details of a job.  I turned momentarily to ask my husband whether he thought this sounded like a good idea.  By the time I turned my head to click “Accept” the job was gone!

If you are the careful and considerate sort of person who is going to contemplate whether or not you truly feel qualified to serve as a substitute for a language class in which you have neither expertise nor experience, you can forget it.  Someone else will have clobbered the job first.

Most of the times, the “Search for Jobs” page of the website is blank except for a message in red:  All qualifying jobs are currently filled. However, please review this web site periodically for new job listings.

The wording here should be revamped to: “Sorry, Slowpoke, someone else beat you to it again.  Why don’t you keep hitting refresh, and work on improving your hand-eye coordination in the meantime?”

So watching this page is imperative.  It is also vital that you have nothing else to do , like actual work, that could interfere with your latest work of watching this page like a hawk, or like a vulture.  When a job is posted, the whitespace will be filled with glorious data announcing details of the vacancy.  It’s like seeing a shooting star!

At this point, you have five seconds to jump on it.  Let’s hope your fingers and your internet connection are fast.  And woe to you if you have never been a Black Friday shopper.

Vineeta’s “Adventures in Vulture-land”

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on 3/23/12

Last year, I was teaching five different subjects a day.  Now, I am on a self-inflicted sabbatical.

Last semester, I was writing three to four scholarly papers per week with references and in-text citations in order to obtain a teaching license. Now, I am only writing this weekly column.  The only references I need to make here are snide ones.

Since I am neither teaching nor doing the onerous research-based writing, you might be wondering what I am doing with all of this extra time.  Sometimes, I wonder that myself.

I now have the Virginia Department of Education’s teaching license in hand, so I am supposed to be job hunting.  This column is my leisure activity, and therefore cannot be counted as real work.

I am preparing to take another Praxis II Exam next month to add to my current endorsements for Middle School Math and Middle School English.  Phase II of the Career Switcher program, which requires “only” three papers a month, additional training and classes, and establishing our own teacher’s website, will kick back in this May.  (It will probably give me a kick in the backside right about then too.)  I’ve been helping with a seminar on electronics that my eldest son is leading at Mountain Vista Governor’s School.  I’ve also served on the Middle School Math Textbook Adoption Committee with middle school teachers and other parents under the County’s Instructional Supervisor for Math, Kim Raines, who is a National Board Certified Teacher with years of experience.

Yes, I still have children, a household, dirty dishes, and mountains of de-junking.  Writing this column and padding my teaching portfolio are all just elaborate schemes to avoid this sort of domestic drudgery.  Fortunately, I have one of those academic, intellectual sorts of husbands who values learning over an immaculate house.  He’s thrilled when I can discuss the latest reading that I’ve done in electronics and doesn’t seem to notice that the house may cave in on us at any moment. 

Once, when he was in his microscopy stage, he came in off the front porch absolutely thrilled.  The two big planters that flank the door had been devoid of any decorative plants for quite some time.  They were filled with stagnant water.  “My gosh, Vin, this is great!” he gushed as he rushed to grab a Petrie dish to collect a sample.  “We’ll probably see some larvae in here.”  He asked me not to disturb the planters.  It’s pretty tough keeping up with such domestic demands, but I try.  Or don’t.  It works – so far.

I have found another way to keep abreast of teaching while avoiding housework: I am now on the substitute teachers’ roster for Fauquier County Schools. 

Years ago, I had been a substitute teacher, but fell off the roster.  Two years of inactivity as a public school substitute while I worked full time in private schools was just enough to do the trick.  You know that saying, “I’ve fallen down and I can’t get up?”  Once you fall off the roster, you have to go through the entire process of registering, attending the day-long training, having your background checked, and getting your fingerprints cleared all over again.

And that’s not a bad thing.  I doubt anyone would complain about those who spend time with our county’s school children being scrutinized as carefully as possible.  Sometimes, even that has not been enough.  No man knows the heart of another.  We can check and be checked as much and as carefully as possible.  And that’s a good thing. 

The screening may not be quite perfect, because guess who might have been in your child’s classroom recently?  Yes, you’re looking at her.

So far, I have subbed at Mountain Vista Governor’s School, Kettle Run High School, Warrenton Middle, and P.B. Smith Elementary School.  It’s a great way to interact with our best and brightest, even if they’re not acting their best and their brightest. 

Sometimes, students confuse the teacher’s day out of the classroom as their day off.  Sometimes, students confuse the substitute for a warm body with a pulse.  I realize that basic physiological functions help qualify me to be in the classroom, but it needs more than that.  Much more.  We are valued and needed professionals, absolutely vital, or so we are told.

Yet being a substitute makes me feel something like a vulture.  It’s not just for the bird’s appealing looks, or its claim to elegance.  It’s the bird’s remarkable ability to polish off leftovers of questionable freshness.  It’s that waiting for something to fall.

I don’t want your child’s teacher to be sick, or have a sick child, or to be hauled in for jury duty, or professional development, necessarily, but that’s how I can get into their classroom. Somebody needs to be out. 

According to the FCPS website, “Fast Facts 2011-2012 School Year,” our schools had 11,205 students enrolled last year, taught by 887 full-time teachers.  Guess how many substitute teachers are on the rosters right now?  770. 

So not only do you have to be a vulture, you have to be a quick vulture – or a well-liked vulture – one who is specifically requested.  More next week.

How do I get in on the Active Adult Community scene?

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition's insert on "Mature Lifestyles" 3/16/12

I’m wondering how and when I can get in on the “Active Adult” scene.  I’m curious about what goes on behind those fenced, manicured communities.  Are they keeping something in, or keeping the rest of us out? 

Haven’t you seen those billboards that advertise “Communities for the Active Adult?”  These little enclaves are restricted to those who are 55 and older.  Why, I wonder?  What do these communities do that is so special?  Are their backyard barbeques superior to the ones in neighborhoods populated by younger, less experienced chefs?  Are they saucier, more mellow, or do they use aged beef?  Is the loudest noise these residents want to hear going to be that of themselves snoring? 

Or is it just the opposite?  Are these people being wild and they don’t want anyone else to know it?  Now I’m thinking of “adult” in the context of those sickening, pasty yellow billboards that are plastered all up and down I-95.  They serve as much to pollute the mind as they do to promote their products.  Or maybe it is a tamer kind of wildness, where the residents are biking and skating around their neighborhoods without protective gear so as not to be poor role models?  (You know how impressionable those silly 54-year-olds can be.) 

And what happens when one spouse is significantly younger than the other?  Is the couple’s qualifying age determined by averaging, or by the younger partner?  Some of the more severe cases of May-December couples may wind up being disqualified.  

I guess the assumption here is that couples of the 55+ age group are not going to be bringing along a bunch of ragtag, crusty-nosed, children.  Because that can take the active right out of the adult.  I suppose these communities are for empty-nesters.  Disqualified, again. 

Mostly, these communities are meant for Baby Boomers.   “Baby Boomer” refers to the generation of people born between 1946 and 1964.  Technically, I have missed being a Boomer by two years.  Two years too late - as in I was born in 1966, not 1944, Smart Aleck. 

I have almost a decade before entering this esteemed phase of mature adulthood, but even in 2021, I doubt I will qualify.  It’s not the “adult” part that I will have a problem with.  I can sit through a war documentary as well as any other adult counterpart, and only doze off once or twice.  It’s the active part that will be problematic, of course. 

What does it mean to be an active adult?  You can clip coupons faster than your arthritic counterparts?  Does it mean you can zip into a handicapped parking spot before your neighbor, with her faulty eyesight and even faultier driving, sees it?

Of course, these are exaggerations.  If you look at a modern “mature” adult, you will probably see someone who is more fit than you, and more engaged in intellectual and community events than you were even aware of.  They just don’t make grandmas and grandpas with all those telltale signs of knitting needles and graying hairs the way they used to. 

Besides, at 55, you aren’t exactly a senior, unless there’s a discount involved.  If there’s a discount, we all want to be seniors.  We don’t even mind being entry-level seniors then - sort of a junior-senior.   Unfortunately, these discounts seem to be applied only to products with a senior stigma.  These would be medical products that are so embarrassing that you don’t want to confess to using them.  These are only advertised on channels being watched by aging adult males, well past bedtime: namely, The History Channel at 8 p.m. onwards.  Every ailment and dysfunction known to man, and mostly to man, gets good air time here.

That’s the tragic thing about aging: It’s so hard on you, physically and mentally.  Right when you have the experience and wisdom to handle it all, your equipment chooses not to cooperate.  It begins to deteriorate in an indiscriminate and merciless manner.  Sure, we all know there’s really only one alternative to the advancement of our years and the wear and tear on our systems, unless that secret, anti-aging product, for which you just received a coupon in the mail, really works.

I am still curious about the goings-on in these active adult communities.  I am planning to check one of these out some day.  Until then, I guess, I will have to be satisfied to live in a non-active, immature community.  It’s called “my house.”  Here’s one place where I am doubly qualified to be.

Jack Sprat and the Mrs.

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on 3/9/12

Do you remember Jack Sprat and his wife?  No, they haven’t been in the news for espionage or for embezzling funds or for blatant infidelity.  These are the characters from the old nursery rhyme.  Surely, you remember Jack Sprat, the man who could eat no fat?  Remember his wife?  How could you?  She didn’t even get a name.  I suppose we are supposed to be satisfied with calling her Mrs. Jack Sprat.  Regardless of her appellation, we do get the picture that she was the rounder one because she simply could eat no lean.

To me, it’s an ideal relationship.  The Sprats could go out to dinner, and after the Mrs. had wedged herself into the booth, and Mr. Sprat had planted his knobby knees under the other side of the booth, they could order just one meal.  He would guzzle down the water and chomp on a few ice chips while the Mrs. went to work on the creamy mashed potatoes and the slab of beef.  I’m sure she would need a milkshake, and if you’re going to splurge on a milkshake, why would you deny yourself the whipped topping and that single Maraschino cherry?  Jack is going to indulge in none of that.

What about the blooming onion with the sauce?  It has its basis in a vegetable.  Forget that. Jack might have to settle for only a whiff of that calorie-laden decadence, and even that might be too much for him.  The aroma alone would probably bowl him over.  He would probably just eat the green beans, even though that would seem somewhat cannibalistic.  If the man has any fat on him, it’s going to be in the form of his wallet. 

When the dessert rolls around, she might let him have a bit of the fruit filling from her pie – if he behaves himself and doesn’t make rude comments regarding her calorie intake.

I feel something like that couple.  My husband possesses much better will power than I do.  If he decides he will or won’t do something, you may as well throw in the towel.  You might feel like throwing the towel at him, but he is fairly firm in his convictions. 

He has a very strict dietary regimen.  Lots of tomatoes and fish – oatmeal and green tea, almonds and walnuts, blueberries, and spinach salads, and the occasional sugar-free cookie.  I, on the other hand, will everything else.  By choice.

The other day, our nine-year-old daughter complained that he hadn’t even tasted the birthday cake that she had dutifully made for her brother, even though she had removed the frosting from his tiny portion.  (I might have helped save the planet by making sure the frosting did not go to waste.)

When I conveyed his latest affront, he decided to be a good sport and made a big show of eating that one morsel of cake.  One.  It put the biggest smile on our little girl, because Betty Crocker isn’t always a piece of cake, you know.  It takes so little to make some people happy.  For a smile like that, I could have eaten the whole cake.  In fact, I might have…in small portions, of course.

So, what is the secret to the happy marriage of Jack and his nameless wife with the shameless eating habits?  We’re never told if Mrs. Sprat is a marathon runner.  You never know.  At least she might have been assigned a number for us to remember her by.  From the illustrations that accompany these rhymes, though, I’m going to take a wild guess and say that she was not.

You may recall that my wedding and engagement rings had to be cut off of my finger in the summer, just a few months before our 25^th anniversary.  That was because the 25 extra pounds I have added over the years had decided to aggregate right around that ring finger.

My husband, however, has lost 45 pounds over the last year.  A couple of months ago, as he was changing a filter in the car (at night), his wedding band slipped right off and went clinking into the abyss.  It hasn’t turned up anywhere in the car, and we still haven’t found it in the driveway or the grass. 

So, as a result, 25 years into our marriage, neither of us has our original wedding band on.  It’s a good thing I don’t believe in omens.

In the meantime, if someone wants to lend me a metal detector, don’t be shy. Mrs. Sprat will be happy to take you on a tour of the driveway.

Happy Birthday, “Surge”!

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Fri. March 2, 2012

Our three boys’ birthdays fall in the space of one month.  They will soon be 7, 14, and 17.   The youngest was born on February 28^th in Ohio in 2005, just five months before we moved here.  He is finally forty pounds.  Here is one child who is happy to be in a booster seat because it’s a promotion from that car seat.  Happy Birthday, Nathaniel!

The two older boys were born in Northern California.  The middle son will be fourteen on March 31^st.  Happy Birthday, Niles!

My eldest son, who is the third child, has his birthday on March 4^th.  Happy Birthday, Sergio!  I can’t believe you’re 17. 

There were times that I thought he might not survive childhood.  Sometimes, frankly, I thought I wouldn’t survive him.  He was chronically sick, tortured by an eczema that prevented him from sleeping through the night, and besieged by so many food allergies that he could only eat what I made at home, from scratch.  Have you tasted my cooking?  As if he wasn’t tortured enough.

I know how fortunate we are – we have anesthesia and antibiotics and public sanitation.  We have relatively easy transportation and ridiculously easy communication.  We can expect our children to survive infancy.  We live in a vastly wealthy nation compared to most of the inhabitants of earth.  We have access to plentiful and safe food, and we usually have clean water.  (I hope this doesn’t raise any blood pressures in Bealeton.)  We live in a time and place where our dangers tend to be the hurried pace of life or the excess of things – food, pleasure, possessions, and leisure time. 

But there are always the challenges.  People who have not lived with a two-year-old human being sometimes don’t understand how unreasonable these cute little people can be.  The theory of getting them to do what you want, when you want, is very simple - until you try to put it into practice.  This varies with each child, adult, your combined moods, and temperaments.  Other factors may include the ambient air pressure, which side of the bed you happened to roll out of, and whether or not you are wearing “angry” colors.

When our two eldest daughters were two and four years old, my brother, who was doing his medical residency rotations, came to stay with us in Northern California.  He brought with him my very sweet sister-in-law, a perennially cheerful person, and their two sons, ages four and three at the time.  Our household expanded to eight people, with half of them being preschoolers.

Those five or six weeks were a joyous time.  It flew by.  After a few days together, however, I thought to myself that my sister-in-law didn’t quite understand child discipline.  Those boys were out of control, I thought.  Poor thing.

Then, I had a boy of my own.

Not just any boy, either.  He was Sergio.  Much of his infancy is a blur of projectile vomit and his screaming whenever I tried to set him down.  There was crying to, but I soon learned to control my emotions.  I used to load him into a backpack carrier just so I could vacuum the house.

(It would be years later when I finally acquiesced and let my husband talk me into having a cleaning service help us out.  There should be no question as to who is the smarter one.  What was I trying to prove, exactly?  That I could do it all, save money, and become neurotic whenever sticky hands approached a glass door I had just cleaned?)

My Sergio might have been a difficult baby, but he was also exceptionally (and redeemingly) cute.  I might be biased, but on a tour through Yosemite National Park once, a woman cooed over him and asked repeatedly if she could take him with her.  There is a fine line between flattering and frightening someone.  By the end of the ride, I was scared.

Sergio became a difficult little boy, perhaps because he saw and valued things differently.  His younger years were filled with what, to me, were weird obsessions.  I developed coping mechanisms.  I allowed him to ride in his car seat while holding an electric weed whacker just so we could get places.  I took him to church with a thirty-foot extension cord coiled into a big diaper bag.

By the time he was three, my parenting skills had not just deteriorated: They were gone.   Leaving the grocery store, a bagger who once escorted me could not understand why I insisted on pushing the cart.  Every time she tried to commandeer the cart, Sergio, buckled in the cart, had a shrieking fit.  She gave up and let me push.  She bounced along beside me and said, “You know, my younger brother was just like that.  They finally put him on lithium.”  She eyed my boy and leaned over and whispered, “Have you looked into lithium?”

Sergio is now taller than me (not difficult), weighs more than me (a little more difficult), and is a young man I am proud to claim.  The past seventeen years have been quite a ride!  Even without the lithium.

Happy Birthday, "Surge"!