Chapter Zero Sum Game

Somewhere out there, my high school math teachers, be they living or otherwise, are laughing.  

Today, they get revenge for all the times I daydreamed through class.

My son signed up for the S.A.T.  He's struggled to knuckle down and practice.  To help him commit, I've offered to suffer along side of him.  That's right. I'm taking practice S.A.T.s side by side.  It is not pretty.  

I've also told my son, we will be doing this for the indefinite future, until both of our scores go up.   We will take a practice test each night four nights of the week, and one day of the weekend, his father will bat clean up and probably destroy both of us in the process.  Like I said, it will be ugly.  Since the lad likes stats, we are posting our records but right now, after the first round, neither of us are boasting.  I skipped five and missed four out of twenty.   His score paralleled mine.   We both know, in layman's terms, we stunk up the place.  

Math and I remain to this day, sworn enemies.  We aren't even on speaking terms.  Yet here I am, rediscovering formulas I didn't remember the first time around they were presented.   Every time I open a test, I'm reminded of my own high school experience and asking for tutoring in math.  "We'll start at chapter 1."  I spent the bulk of the weekend arguing we should start at Chapter Five, since that was the one we were taking a test on, but I didn't win the argument.   I think my dad in viewing my scores today would say, "I rest my case."

I'll still argue the point.  

After that S.A.T. mess, I think perhaps, "We'll start at Chapter Zero."

Graduation!

My daughter graduated from High School this week.  

I am so proud of her, for all she's overcome, and for where she's going, and for the person she is.  

I'd love to give her advice, wisdom, something pithy and memorable.  But she's lived with me for 18 years, so I'll just say, I love you.  I'm proud of you.  Congratulations!

I hope to take a similar picture four years from now.  You're beautiful inside and out.  

Transitions

This morning, my oldest daughter started high school.  We took a picture and I looked at her, so brimming with confidence, enthusiasm, eagerness. I hope her face is the same when she comes home today.

She's been my right arm this summer, babysitting as needed, running into the store with a 20 for milk, bread and diapers, writing out the "To Do" list and occasionally putting in notes like, "It's summer secretary appreciation day, take Bonnie to Borders."  or "Milk Shakes."  I'm an easy boss and these hints always work.

As she enters into an unknown world I have to pause and hope that the next four years won't be as painful as I recall, and yet at the same time, I know that long pounding helped form strength.  I also know because I've watched my son mature from hard knocks more than hard assignments; and while I would have spared him much of the grief he has endured, I also know those experiences made him who he is today. 

I used to teach adolescents in high school and loved that odd mixture of immaturity, inexperience, fledgling adulthood type thinking.  So seeing my daughter flit between reading and drawing Manga comics and writing a critique of "Rebecca" made sense to me; as did her bright yellow pikachu lunch box and somber navy back pack.  She was trying both worlds out because as a 14 year old, you can. Watching a teen mature over the years is a bit like watching the tide come in on the beach as you build a castle.  The first time the waves reach your feet, it catches you by surprise.  But it's not unpleasant and so you get used to it.  Then suddenly, it surges well past your construction and while you knew this was coming, it still seems to have come too quickly.

She left this morning a note on the table for me with my list of things to do and she even remembered two things I'd forgotten.  I felt the saltwater run just past my ankle. So this afternoon, we're going out for milk shakes.

Too Much Knowledge

With my daughter entering high school, I began considering how our lives will change in the comming years when they start to move on and enter college. As a result, I began making an actuary table so I'd know when graduations from 8th grade, high school and college were happening. 

The results indicated the need to establish a few rules. 

1) Owing to the birthday overload that smothers March through May, resumes in July and extends through the rest of the year, please, no life changing memorable events in January, February or June. 

2) Graduations from 8th grade, high school and college, confirmations, first communions will preclude any other celebrations in all years except 2017 and 2028. 

3) Those two years, I'm declaring off limits so your father and I can catch our breath. 

Public Service Announcement: over the next 20 years, if you like to party, get on the guest list now.  If' your're a family friend and you'ld be on the guest list already, fair warning, pace yourself.

Things will slow down around 2030, when Paul is 22, just in time for our 40th wedding anniversary.  I will be 64 and finally able to start saving for my retirement.

In 2031, all children will be out of the house and educated through College.  They may then feel free to marry.

Shoeless Joe and Blog Action

When I was a mere junior in high school, I went to prom with a guy who wore polished white shoes with gold buckles and a powder blue tux. My brother Joe opened the door, took one look and said, "Nice shoes."

If it hadn't been for my desire to simultaneously bust a gut laughing and bust his chops for insulting my date, I'd have asked him to change into a tux and brought my brother instead.

Ever since then, the word "Nice" has been...a loaded term for me, fraught with meaning because of it's vagueness.

Today I got an email saying...Nice blog. The email author disclosed that he would like to link my site to his in return for his being linked on mine.

I clicked on the site. It sells athletic sneakers.

Most of the free world spends many a sleepless night in wonder of what an online shoe salesman likes to read during the sports void that takes place after the Superbowl and before Opening day. Now, the mystery will be solved.

CHOCOLATE FOR YOUR BRAIN would be one of a mere fifty listed sites considered link worthy in the "Other" category, along with 15 other categories with fifty blogs each listed. The email assured me that thousands of people visit this site daily, and it would increase my traffic.  My guess is they're the saps that link to the guy's blog in hopes of driving traffic to their own, coming to see if the links have been put up and if they actually work.

Since I can't find a counter on the site, I cannot know the verasity of this claim. The "About Us" section of the website indicates it's been in business since 2003 but the write up on the decision to provide extrodinary customer service to those needing to find out the finer points about buying a sneaker (think Air Jordan), posted in December of 2007.

So maybe they're just updating the website and have found me to be an up and commer. My gut says to let this opportunity pass but I'm still a newbie, only providing quality blog entertainment since October of 2007 with a mere 19 visiting on a good day, so I just don't know. It's just a link and I'm pleased that someone noticed, but given the fact that there's never an indication of what the reader actually liked in my blog, I'm left to wonder.

Still, the email said "Nice blog."

So I'll return the favor.

"Nice" shoes.

But Mom, This Makes Me Look CooL...Really

In getting ready to write a regular column, I revisited some of my old blog entries that never saw daylight. Now I take my writing seriously and try very hard to make sure the things I put on the blog are at least moderately edited and above all things, worth reading. However, once posted or published or sent off into the email wonderland for consideration, I don’t go back to peruse them. Because I’d “Fire and forget” carpet bomb editors with columns, I never looked back to reread any of my stuff…until now.

Going back into the blog postings of the past year is like revisiting one’s high school yearbook. It’s awkward and irritating because I know when I was in that moment, that I believed with all my heart, leg warmers and unicorns were cool and Xanadu worth watching.

Twice.

My mother did counsel against the second viewing of Olivia Newton John’s musical with Gene Kelly, but I couldn’t get past the glow of the music. She also suggested the “I Brake for Unicorns” bumper sticker for the car might be a poor choice.

Currently on my laptop, I have a file with 200 plus unicorns.

They were once sparkling and beautiful and glorious magical things that popped off the page with their dazzling brilliance. Sure they needed minor trimming, but these were inventive thoughts that deserved to be circulated amongst a broad circle of people. Now, I’m looking at these ungainly unnatural creations of mine and many seem far more monstrous than first imagined. “Why didn’t someone stop me?” I wonder.

Looking at my junior yearbook drama club picture, I'm the one with a pink bathrobe sash tied around my forehead like a headband. Maybe the fact that no one wanted to stand next to me should have been a clue.

Yeah. I know. Mom tried to stop that one too.

Now, as I trim run-on sentences and find misspelled words I have to wonder...when I send these pieces off, am I sending real unicorns or bathrobe sashes that I thought people would mistake for headbands because they were pink?

Maybe, I should call my Mom.

And Sometimes Why

Kids require one to consider the imponderables of life.

Is shampoo edible?

How long can I let them watch cartoons before it becomes bad parenting?

Should I worry that my daughter plans to write about her childhood when she's an adult?

Why does my oldest insist on wearing a faded Hawaiian shirt every Friday? Can I burn it?

Why does my three year old need so little sleep?

Do the candy wrappers of Hershey's kisses add fiber to the diet?

What is the proper response to two children fighting over one blue block when there are fifty identical blocks in the box next to them? Is it legal?

How come the shirts I buy for the one kid who needs new clothing, shrink to fit the kid who has the most?

Why does my twelve year old have a fetish against buttons? Ditto for the ten year old on sweaters?

When did my son decide he would only use plastic silverware? Is his fetish an insult or a serious editorial comment to me?

Why can I think of all the things I need to do if I make a list but none of them if I don't?

Outside of helping the next generation with high school math, when is algebra needed in the real world?

Why are most works of literature, theatre and movies considered great, depressing?

Should my oldest feel concern that he gets Greek tragedies like King Oedipus better than "coming of age" works like Things Fall Apart? Should I?

Why can my kids memorize all the pokemon and their attack powers, weaknesses, and evolutionary traits, but not the state capitals, 43 presidents or the periodic table?

Why do I know all the pokemon and their attack powers, weaknesses and evolutionary traits but not the state capitals, 43 presidents or the periodic table?

Why if I think knowing things like the periodic table are important, can I not summon the mental will to memorize the state capitals, 43 presidents or periodic table myself?

How is it that every grade seems to be getting more complicated, the more children I send through it? Was I just not paying attention the first three times?

When is Spring Break?

Petit Fours, Petite Threes and Demi-Sass

The bumps of raising eight individuals all at different stages of development towards adulthood sometimes tickle and sometimes bruise. Fortunately, the odds are in my favor that there will always be at least one that isn't irritated with Mom.

...
When we moved the two toddlers into the same room, they were delighted. The Jedi master now had her apprentice to makeover in her own image. Within weeks, the younger had begun to contribute to the scribbled walls, discover the joys of dumping laundry and found an effective means of getting sweets, climbing into the lap of whoever was eating.

There were still limitations on the young Jedi which her master Yoda had to address. One evening after bed, they felt a bit peckish. The younger was unable to get out of her crib so her older sister lovingly provided room service. Sounds of unmistakable glee from upstairs awoke us, both girls sat in the crib scooping large quantities of mint chocolate chip goodness with soup spoons.
Home Regulations have been modified: Ice cream must now be put in the second freezer in the garage behind any frozen vegetables.

...

Watching the Olympics, my daughters were captivated by Women’s gymnastics. Naturally, each of the girls came to me separately asking if they could sign up at the gym where Dominique Dawes had trained for the 2004 games, only two miles from our home.

“If I start now, that could be me in 2012.” My oldest said dreamily. “The rules say you have to be 16 to compete, and that year, I’ll be 16.”

Treading delicately with my very talented daughter who makes great grades, was a fabulous guard in both soccer and basketball and plays the saxophone, but who cannot at this point, do a cartwheel, I tried to explain. “I’ll be happy to sign you up for classes.” I started, “But you should know those girls have been in most cases, taking gymnastics since they were about six.”

Shawn Johnson had just done a flip off the balance beam.

“Well thanks Mom for shooting down my dream with a sniper rifle!” She snapped and marched off. I sat there breathing deeply. Adolescence rots.
...

The other day, ever the optimist, I suggested to my not yet three year old that she use the potty. Being a talented negotiator, this wasn’t a skill she’d agree to simply because Mom wished it. “M&m’s!” she said brightly. I agreed. M&m’s for pottying and producing pee in the potty seemed reasonable. “Miss Chief”stripped entirely while her father tried to explain this degree of nudity was unnecessary to no avail. We decided modesty could be learned later.

She sat for fifteen minutes happily looking at a book. We went about the morning routine. The announcement that there was water in the potty seemed subdued to me. She then requested the promised M&m’s. The abandoned potty held oddly 100% clear water. Further investigation revealed the potty had been filled with water from the sink.

This may be the only child in the history of the world requiring urine testing to verify substance and not substance abuse.
...

Getting ready for school to start, it was time to clear the desks in the study from their summer displays of intricate lego wars. My oldest has a Smithsonian view of his lego displays. Once made, they must not be unmade. His five foot desk was covered.

“You have to have a spot to study.” I explained as I cleared off another child’s table.

“I do.” My son argued.
Looking at the desk, there was a 1x2 foot rectangle of clear space on the desk. He pointed to it proudly.

“That’s it?”

“Dad said I could keep a few models.”
Now 80% of the entire desk was a landscape of legos. I knew this was not what his father had meant. “You need a clear desk for school. Clear desk, decluttered space for studying. Clear mind.”

“It’s clear. I can put my papers and book here.” Technically, a sheet of paper and an open (small) text book could fit in his designated space. However, this minimalist interpretation did not satisfy the parent in me.

“No.” I stood my ground. “There’s a table…”

“August 18th! The day Mom crushed my childhood!” he yelled as he dumped every one of his models in a fit of temper into a large plastic bin, and marched out.
Taking deep deep breaths. Supressing urge to place a RIP childhood note on his door for the dramatics or a Wanted poster with my picture, I arranged a clear table adjacent to his desk for future Lego battles that don't involve me.
...

I'd be discouraged by all this except that having smaller people around helps maintain perspective.

Today, Miss Chief got up with a project in mind, two pony tail holders and a tinkerbell costume before breakfast. Mom indulged her morning whim and as soon as the costume was on and her hair up, she looked at me with great seriousness, her soft toddler hand holding my cheek. “Mom,” she said, making sure I was looking directly into her eyes, “I promise not to fly outside.”

"Not yet." I thought.

Thank goodness.

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Where did My Inspiration Go...

Last week, I spent the bulk of my time editing.

My son had a project in English.

It was supposed to be a journal of his life and suffering. The premise was to imitate an author who wrote about his life and explained that suffering allowed him to see the world more clearly, to recognize how societal norms perpetuated pain and suffering. The kids were then supposed to look at their own lives for patterns to discern about the nature of reality.

The trouble is, he's fourteen and grew up in a reasonably normal home. He wasn't abused. He's never seen his parents fight where they threw things. He's never done drugs. He has friends. He's had academic and personal success already in his life, getting a scholarship and making honor role consistently in grammar school. We've never lost everything, had to sell his baseball card collection or had more than the emotional equivalent of a skinned knee in terms of life experience that might have traumatized him.

Unless you count the summer of Lyme disease, that rotted, but it was second grade. It's been a while. I think he's over it.

So the topics: The first time I tasted Alchohol, The first time I defied Authority, The First Time He Got in a Fight, the First Day of School, had a sing song element to them that made my son sound like Polly-Anna.

His great conflict to date? Refusing to eat refried beans served by his parents. This was his great suffering.

First day of School? Preschool memory of meeting the person who would become his best friend.

First taste of Alchohol --he made it up, since the teacher said "Receiving the Eucharist didn't count." I said, "Didn't count for what?"

Trying to pull something of depth out of a surface driven life that is essentially at this point unscathed and unscarred, we focused on his blessings. But I pointed out that if his premise was that only through suffering could one come to understand the true nature of the world, I should serve him beans daily.

He said I was full of beans.

Latin Class

This is an older piece I wrote and since this week has been demanding, I'm digging into my folder of unpublished pieces. Enjoy.

My parents made me take Latin. They explained it would help with writing, with my understanding of the English language, and look really good on a high school transcript.

They also took it when they were teens.

Most people who took Latin lament that the language is dying and few high schools offer it as an option. Most people who took Latin secretly enjoy the fact that they know something that most of the world does not, but used to in the good old days. Most people who Take Latin, do so because of the Most People who Took Latin.

My father said to me as I protested, “Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.” translated "perhaps this will be a pleasure to look back on one day."

I’m still waiting.

Latin I was a one hour class after lunch a posteriori: "from what comes after" when my teen age brain was at its most stupefied. It also was in the old building that seldom had working air-conditioning, which in Southeast Texas meant you had to funnel through the fog of a full belly and sleep inducing heat and humidity to conjugate the most basic of verbs, amo (to love).

My argumentum ab inconvenienti: an appeal based upon the hardship or inconvenience involved, never seemed to move the teacher to exonerate me for falling asleep or failing to do my assignments. Highlights from that first year of classes include the mass evacuation three days in a row because of prank phone calls to the principal’s office about loose poisonous snakes in the hallways, Roger’s exploding coke –he put alka-seltzer in the can, and the break up of Carol and Chris mid way through the semester.

Most of the girls really liked Carol and hated Chris. Chris was one of those insufferable types that would argue with the teacher about whether to use the past perfect or the past when translating a particular sentence. My teacher had a phrase for those students who argued that level of nuance, they liked de asini umbra disceptare: "to argue about the shadow of an ass."

The lowlights of Latin class included my attempt to translate sentences from the Aeneid without the aid of a dictionary in a fluency quiz. Halfway through the thirty minute test, I stopped trying to write sentences and just translated each word individually so that the teacher would at least know I knew what the words were. Her comments back to me on the paper: parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus: "mountains will be in labor, and an absurd mouse will be born.” meant she knew I was sorta trying, but the results were less than impressive.

When I translated it, I thought mus was moose. Aparently my knowledge of the flauna of Ancient Rome was as accurate as my knowledge of the language itself.

Like most of the participants in this chosen course, I was a draftee, a victim of a prior generation’s infatuation with inflicting the same pain on the future as had been done in the past. (Now because I’ve had Latin I can tell you that the prior sentence would be put in the Future Perfect if you were expected to translate). I was just hoping to make it through the two required years with a B. When I tried to shorten the sentence to one year, Dad said, “quae nocent docent: "things that hurt teach." I translated that to mean “No.”

The Second year of Latin, one gets to tackle Julius Caesar’s Gallic Wars. It was a significant educational moment when I finally understood what our teacher had been yelling at us during role call each afternoon was, loosely translated “Sit up straight and spit out your gum!” She would also say, olet lucernam: "it smells of the lamp,” meaning I had done the work in a hurry and last minute. It’s hard to object when 1) you know what she said and therefore know she’s right or 2) if you don’t know what she said, it also proves she’s right.

Fast forward to today and my son is in high school and here I am in the role of the parent, thinking, “You know son, Latin looks really good on a high school transcript.” But so far, I have restrained myself from actually making the suggestion that any of my children consider this course of study. I’m afraid they’ll ask me for help. If so, they’ll come away from my tutorial thinking, ne Aesopum quidem trivit: "he has not even thumbed through Aesop." If any of them do decide to take on this subject, I hope and I pray, they does it in loco parentis.

Oh, and just in case my Latin teacher is reading this, “Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, Amant.”

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