Voodoo and eggplant and politics

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on January 27, 2012


Ever have that feeling of impending doom? I should have had it that day.

I should have been driving home and spending money cautiously, but instead I was wasting time and about to waste money on eating lunch at “Tara Thai” in Charlottesville. To accomplish this, I first needed to squeeze my massive vehicle into a tight parallel parking spot. With lunchtime and ongoing construction in the area, spaces were limited.


My maneuvers were ridiculous and complicated. I could barely see the car parked behind me. All this, just to have a “last lunch” together with my second daughter at UVA. Suddenly, there was tapping at my window. A uniformed soldier had walked into the street to offer verbal instructions for me to finish the parking job. I rolled down my window.


A godsend! Here was constructive assistance, far better than what I usually give. My bellowed advice usually contains helpful phrases like “Watch out!” or “Hey, hey, hey…be careful!”


I give the vague advice of politicians running for office. “I will drive this country better than my esteemed competitor, who is actually a vile worm, and I have the infomercials to prove it.” Response: cheers and thunderous applause. “This Nitwit Numbskull, whom I am too much of a statesman to call by name, will very likely drive us off this perilous cliff.” Response: jeers. “But I will steer our nation confidently back on the path that will please God and appease the restive souls of our Founding Fathers.” Response: climactic applause with a standing ovation. “To do this, my good people, I need your votes, and more importantly, your financial support.” Response: flashing smiles, flashing cameras, and flashing checkbooks.


Here, instead, was a member of the military, or perhaps a woman whose fashion sense incorporated khaki digital camouflage and the accompanying brown boots. She was going to guide me step by step.


I hoped my daughter would take note: Maternal sacrifice for the eggplant eating bliss of someone who had once been an egg inside of me. “Thank you!” I shouted in relief. “I’m glad I didn’t realize how close that car was behind me, or I might have hit it just out of nervousness.”


“Actually,” the female soldier said, “you just did. I figured you needed help.”


Great. This was just great. My cash and time expenditures were going to exceed all plans. I gave my daughter an accusing look. Hadn’t I said this lunch thing was a bad idea? Maybe I hadn’t said so, but I had thought it, hadn’t I?


This was when we were trying to reduce our expenses. I already felt guilty about splurging even ten dollars on lunch. Now I had hit a car in the effort to do so. I had stupidly not even felt the impact, but I had loads of witnesses seated outside the Panera right next to the tiny Thai restaurant. It had beckoned us, like a Siren, with its promise of spicy eggplant. Just like the ill-fated sailors of Greek legends or the recent cruise ship captain, I was oblivious to the treacherous “rocks.”


A better driver could have parked there. I should never have attempted it. Once or twice, I have braved a single parallel spot in Old Town Warrenton where the street seems wider and the spaces seem longer. After I have held up traffic for a couple of minutes, my right rear tire ends up trying on the feel of high heels while it is perched on the curb. Then, too late, I wonder whether it was really worth it. Why hadn’t I just parked behind the Post Office, in the area designated for daft drivers?


My daughter looked at me sympathetically, but quickly vindicated herself with, “I told you it was okay – I would have eaten at Runk.” Runk is the curious name of a dining hall that lends itself to jokes about being rank. Runk also rhymes with stunk, but at least it does not require parallel parking. Actually, I have eaten there, and the food is just fine. But then again, I’m no food critic. I like almost any food I haven’t had to prepare myself.

I rushed to inspect the car behind me. There was no damage except a black smear from my bumper. I left a note with my information on a neon-green sticky note on the driver’s side window.


I debated with myself. Was it really necessary? I had barely tapped that car. I decided to be a good role model for my driving daughter. Also, there were lots of witnesses, several being uniformed military personnel. Why take chances?


The Thai eggplant dish was as delicious as usual, but who could enjoy it? Guilt mars the taste of pleasure. I kept checking the street for the owner of that car. I fired up my Dell Mini to start homework, but got the faintest, feeblest Wi-Fi signal from Panera. It was like trying to detect signals from alien life forms.


Then, I tipped my glass and spilled some water in my lap. What? Did someone have a voodoo doll of me? I should have headed home and put myself down for a nap. But the weirdness of the day had only just begun. Stay tuned.

How indecision and eggplant conspired against me

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Jan. 20, 2012


My second daughter, who has been vegetarian for the past few years, is very fond of the spicy eggplant dish at a Thai restaurant near her campus. Sorry. She’s at UVA, so I’m not allowed to say “campus.” It’s called “The Grounds.” I have joked that her dorm room, as labeled on the GPS, should be renamed “Spicy Eggplant.”


I had just dropped her off from Fall Break and had a busy day planned: I was backlogged on homework, and had a meeting to attend later that evening.


We unloaded her things, and the clock and our stomachs announced lunchtime. The dining hall was open. She could have her lunch there, and I would head back on the ninety-minute drive back to Warrenton. The dining halls there have a few, well-rehearsed and often repeated, options for vegetarians. (Just like home, actually!)


I hesitated to abandon her to a solo lunch. Sensing my weakness, she immediately suggested we split a dish of spicy eggplant. With an extra bowl of rice, there would be plenty and it would cost no more than fast food.


I contemplated the eggplant. Should I spend extra time in Charlottesville and another ten dollars when neither was in the plan?


Indecision – it has been a lifelong struggle. Well, that and procrastination would be my two biggest struggles. And disorganization. Don’t forget that one. Don’t ask me to choose the one that is my flagrant flaw, because indecision will get in the way.


My husband is the opposite: He can make up his mind in two seconds, and then he swiftly falls into action to “execute the plan.” I waffle. I consider the options. What if this and what if that? I spend so much time trying to make a decision that there is little time left to carry it out. At that point, I feel more like executing myself than the plan. And then I’m still not sure I might have chosen the right path.


If I had been Roberta Frost, I might have made this into a lovely poem: “The Eggplant Not Eaten.” But alas, there I stood, unable to make a quick decision and say with enthusiasm, “What a great idea! Sure, let’s go get lunch, and then I’ll be on my way.” Nor could I make a clean and guiltless get-away, giving a quick hug and driving off. Whichever I did, I would be full of self-doubt. At least that comes easily to me.


She would be eating dining hall food all semester, could it be so awful that she couldn’t go ahead and have it for lunch today too? I had granola bars to crunch on the way home. This involved no extra time or expense.


On the other hand, she would be eating dining hall food all semester anyway. What was the harm in the spicy eggplant today? Wasn’t this yet another opportunity to “create a memory”? What sort of memory would I create by rushing off? “Mom is a cheapskate. Mom is too busy with this class and her meetings.” And didn’t the granola bars have enough preservatives that they could keep for this time next year, if needed?


I looked over at her hopeful eyes. Unfortunately, all of my children have these eyes that can make you do things against your better judgment. No matter what I did, I knew I would be making the wrong choice.


We drove to the nearby shopping area. I don’t know what it is about traveling to a college campus or college “grounds,” but they always seem to be under construction. I maneuvered into the packed parking lot. Cars darted into parking spaces that I was sure I had noticed first.


Driving under the influence of the clock can bring out the evil in most drivers. Sometimes it can also bring out epithets and oaths, as well as impatient hand gestures. For me, it just brought out that familiar feeling of self-doubt. If I were doing the “right thing,” wouldn’t I have been able to glide into a spot? We snaked our way through the busy lot for the second time. Should I just forget this idea and turn back? Or would that show my inability to persevere – another flaw?


I finally found the answer: a parallel parking spot, right in front of the restaurant!


You might think a short woman driving a Suburban would hesitate to parallel park this behemoth. Not me, but only when there are two contiguous spots, so I can just drive in. There was only one spot bounded by compact cars. Squeezing into this parking space should be no more difficult than squeezing into the jeans that used to fit. The only difference between getting these two bodies into their respective restricted spaces is that jeans are somewhat flexible. Parking spaces are not. Also, there is a 1.5-ton difference in our bodies.


It would probably take me fifteen vehicular manipulations. I could barely see the car behind me, as it was low to the ground and very close. Much too close. Stay tuned for the rest of this eggplant excursion.

Slave to Superstition or Indecision

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Jan. 13, 2012

Are you superstitious? In theory, I’m not. But I don’t live in Theory. Just as with learning in the classroom, theory and practice can be cousins who are so far removed, that sometimes, they barely recognize each other. Of course, you might then argue that Theory and Practice could make for a perfect marriage, but we’re not going there. At least, not today. And not for the one dollar you shelled out.


I know better than to be superstitious, but I don’t DO better.


For example, there was a meeting this week I really wanted to attend, but the last time I tried to do so against my husband’s advice, all sorts of things went wrong. You know the kind of “advice” I’m talking about. The advisor throws his or her hands up, almost as high as the exasperated eyebrows arch, and says, “Fine, go ahead. Do what you want, but don’t say I didn’t warn you afterwards.”


Don’t pretend like you haven’t given out that kind of advice. If there are children in your household, you are probably doing it right now. “I would ADVISE you not to bother me now that I have my coffee and am reading this wonderful woman’s column. If you attempt to do so and get hurt in the process, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”


It’s not that he has specifically, verbally, said, outright, that doing so is a waste of my time, and my time, as the mom, translates into our time, as in the family. It’s just the uncanny series of events that followed that were hard to ignore.


The last time this happened was a few months ago, so it is recent enough to be fresh in my feeble memory. Unfortunately, many of us spend our lives learning and relearning the same series of lessons. I know I have been given this lesson before, but life, like in the classroom, sometimes results in cramming enough to pass the impending exam, and not maintaining the knowledge to keep you out of future scrapes.


If I think hard enough, I think I can really blame everything on a dish of spicy Thai eggplant, as innocent as it may sound.


This was back when my family was in belt-tightening mode. (We are now officially out of belt-tightening. I feel I must announce that in case you have “caught” my family dining out to celebrate a special occasion, or carrying out, to lament at Mom’s time management issues.)


I had had to drop my second daughter off to UVA one weekday morning, right after her fall break. I had homework that had to be completed, and I also had that meeting I planned to attend when I returned home that evening.


My husband discouraged my going to the meeting, considering I was already behind on the homework, and the rest of the week threatened to be crazier than our normal-crazy. Did I listen? Of course, I didn’t. We all know that we are smarter than our spouses. It is just the humanitarian in us that prevents us from saying so outright. Instead, we simply smile and do not comply or we sweetly sabotage their silly ideas.


Skipping this meeting was not an option, I said. I had already promised to take a friend, and I didn’t want to let her down. It would, indeed, make for a busy day, but you need to remember that I am (almost) as American as you are, and therefore, I follow the rules of American Mathematics. Busy = productive = fulfilled = happy. We think it only works in that order. No has dared try to reverse the flow. We validate being busy and we dismiss the notion that anything good or contemplative could come out of “idleness.” We treat our time the way we treat our closet space: it doesn’t matter how much you have, you are sure to clutter it up anyway.


So I get down to UVA. I’ve got my reading to do for class, so that afterwards I can tackle the assignment. I have my tiny laptop with me, just in case I can get onto wi-fi somewhere and post peer review comments on other students’ papers, as required. We get there just in time, and I am ready to whip around and head home. But here comes the first hint that something stupid is about to happen. It is lunchtime. “So, Mom, do you want to split a spicy eggplant dish with me?”


This daughter can get you to spend money in nearly criminal amounts. Should I leave and get back to Warrenton, or should I hang out a bit, and try to get some work done out there? Ah, Indecision, you’ve come back to me again.


Maybe it’s Indecision, and not Superstition that is really at the root of my problems. Stay tuned to next week for me to actually get to the topic. What, did you really expect me to finish a WHOLE story in one little aliquot of 850 words? See you next week – you can decide whether that requires knocking on wood or not.

Happy (Re)-New Year, all year long!

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat (Weekend Edition) Jan. 6, 2012

There were mornings that year when I did not feel like getting up. The five older children were in school. When they left, I felt as if the very purpose in my life had been drained right along with them. Getting everyone out the door was a nonstop, exhausting affair: the commuting husband, the middle and high school children, and then the elementary school children. When they were gone, the emptiness surrounded and threatened to choke me. What did the day hold for me?

I was left in the middle of a mess – like a rescue worker trying to rebuild after hurricane damage on a daily basis. I was engulfed by the hustle and bustle, but inside I had nothing. Every day was the same. I was left, empty, standing in the midst of devastation that, with significant imagination and even more significant effort, could have been a beautiful home.

There was the two-year-old waiting to wake up, sometimes sweet and satiated, but oftentimes cranky yet unwilling to eat. In the absence of the older siblings, he became demanding and needy, and this was a problem, because I felt the neediest. Did he feel deserted the way that I did?

That slump was an odd stage. Ironically, my problem came, not from being overwhelmed as I had been used to for the many years when I had homeschooled the children. There was no time then to think about what my needs were, because I was used to being needed all the time. And now, the only thing that seemed to need my attention were inanimate objects, like dirty laundry, unmade beds, and dirty dishes. (The children have always had chores, but in the crazy-busy mornings, and during the academic year, sometimes, you get to be the catch-all.)

I know. It’s okay if you shake your head and ask what I could possibly have had to complain about. I had the luxury of being at home. I had six healthy children who were bright and beautiful people. I had a practical and caring husband. What was my problem?

In my right state of mind, I can reflect and wonder the same thing. It’s a different sort of vision, though, when you are drowning in the midst of your woes. The man on shore can calmly see and point out where the rope to the life preserver is. Why wasn’t I in a ladies’ Bible study group? Why hadn’t I joined a gym? There are programs for taking children along. Why wasn’t I volunteering in the schools or at the hospital?

Simple. I would survey the scene around me. I saw an overwhelming amount of work. What business did I have to try volunteering outside the home? I could barely keep up inside. It may be counterintuitive, but sometimes, I need the impetus of additional work to get any of it done.

I wish I had looked into a group for mothers of preschoolers MOPS or others like the Women of Wonder (WOW). When you do something for others or with others, outside the confines of your four walls, no matter how much or how little space those four walls encompass, you have a sense of purpose. We all need purpose in our lives.

I finally got out of my slump of self-pity when I heard a message I had often heard before. But this time, I heard it anew: Jesus would have made His journey and died on the cross even if the sacrifice were for just one person: you or me.

I looked over at my sleeping preschooler. Wow. How many people are deprived the joys of parenthood? I felt a sense of shame creep over me. If Jesus would have died for just one person, why could I not live “just” for one child? He needed me to be mentally and spiritually alive just as much as the others.

Looking over at that particular moment and seeing my sleeping child is a distinct memory. It was a moment of resolve and renewed power. It was the answer to a prayer I had not knowingly uttered. Lord, give me strength and give me purpose.

This is the beauty of the holiday season, of Christmas and New Year. It need not be saved for December 25th or January 1st. We can celebrate the sacrifice of Christmas and we can celebrate a new beginning all year long. Jesus made the journey to earth and began it in a lowly manger. He ended it on a cross, flanked by criminals. In the thirty-three years between, He turned the world upside down.

Love your enemies. Pray for those who use you. Allow yourself to be used. Put away the lights, and light up your heart. Happy New Year 2012, all year long!

The A’s and bees of kindergarten

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Dec. 16, 2011

This concludes the Kindergarten Chronicles. I can’t write further on this topic, because I don’t want to be accused (falsely or rightly) of being long-winded.

I started this series (doesn’t that sound official?) to recap a few stupid things I had done when my youngest daughter entered kindergarten several years ago. Obviously, I cannot cover all that material in just three weeks. On her first day of school, my daughter fell asleep at story time. I had gotten her up early to complete projects due on the first day.


Later that year, my daughter was on the losing end of a battle with a bottle (Dr. Seuss, anyone?) of Wite-Out®. In case you didn’t know it, Wite-Out® is pretty tough to take off of skin. On brown people, it is also pretty conspicuous.


The stuff just sinks in through the epidermis. I tried many remedies. Soap and water? Forget it. Acetone? Nope. Not even my standby, Germ-X, which can wipe Sharpie marker off of things, could touch this stuff.


My daughter could have been an advertisement for the company. “Wite-Out®. We refuse to be corrected.” Or: “Wite-Out®. Once we’re on the job, you can’t get us off.”


I felt ridiculous, sending in a clean, adorably dressed little girl with bouncing and shiny hair all topped off with several streaks of Wite-Out® across her nose. Apart from the subtle commentary it might inspire, that the child had been subconsciously trying to “correct” her skin color, I was more worried about the more obvious, overt message: This child’s mother is inept.


Who lets a five-year-old play with Wite-Out® anyway? She was trying to fix a patch on a color-by-number where she had botched the color. Bent close to the paper as she slathered the Wite-Out®, she accidentally spackled her nose as well. The opaque white stuff happily sank into her skin.


For three days, she wore those white stripes across her nose. I struggled to get it off. Meanwhile, we dubbed her Chief Wite-Out® and told her she looked great with war paint. After three or four days, I set to work picking off the flakes carefully and gently with my fingernails. Sometimes, you just get desperate. She was quite happy to be demoted from chief to princess.

My final and most noteworthy episode involved a project in spring. Each child was to bring in an item that depicted springtime, and write a few sentences about it. Wouldn’t you know it? Just a few days before this project was due, we happened to run across (not over) a disabled bumblebee in our driveway. It was huge, but unable to fly. At most, when agitated, it would desperately set about buzzing its wings.


I captured (doesn’t that sound dramatic?) the bee and put it into a clear, plastic tub with holes poked into it. We offered it a grape sliced in half, and watched the bee board this edible shuttle. She sat and sucked up all the juice right out of the grape. We offered her other foods as well, and were amazed to watch her eat. Figuring worker insects like bees and ants are female, my daughter named it “Missy.”


When considering what to send to school, I proposed the brilliant plan: “Hey, let’s send in Missy! That’s a sign of springtime, isn’t it?”


Her eyes lit up. This is the beauty of young children. They like you. They like your suggestions.


I’ll have to admit that the bee was not in the most secure container ever designed. In terms of technology – it was akin to diapers available in the 80’s. Sometimes, those things leaked. This was a round tub in which we had bought pitted dates. It was taped around the edges, and stationed upside down on its lid. Sometimes, I’m just resourceful like that.


Don’t ask me why, but suddenly, in the middle of the day, I had the uncanny feeling that maybe, just maybe, sending a live bumblebee in a makeshift container might not have been the best idea, despite the official approval of a kindergartener. Some children might be freaked out by insects, especially fat, furry ones with a reputation for stinging. Sometimes, I’m just insightful that way.


I emailed my daughter’s teacher, Mrs. Mary Stright, asking if it had been okay to send in a live bee. (Note to self: Permission is better sought prior to an event.) Her response was to the point. Some children were afraid and some were allergic. I suppose if I had been in Mrs. Stright’s and Mrs. Penn’s shoes, trapped in a room with lots of little people and a bee in a shaky container, I would have been direct too.


But imagine that! Only a kindergarten teacher could respond so succinctly, and alliteratively, featuring the Letter A. “Afraid and Allergic.”


Mrs. Mary C. Stright and Mrs. June Penn have been collectively teaching in Fauquier County for over fifty years. (I hope I’m not the most memorable parent they’ve encountered in this time.) They are a phenomenally academic team, but their classroom is also filled with lots of love and laughter, AND a little record player for the kids to dance to.

I hope your child has the good fortune to be in their class at CM Bradley. Just try to hold off on sending in bees, okay?

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.