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!