Loverboy

A reprint from my "other blog"

My son is smitten.

The object of his affection is another four-year-old classmate by the name of Sarahpatterson. It is all one word when he says it, like she is Madonna, or Cher.

"Dad," Matthew says out of the clear blue one day, "You've just GOTTA meet Sarahpatterson."

"Sarahpatterson?" says Dad. "Who's she?"

There is a long pause during which my son is obviously contemplating a vision in his memory.

"A girl," he finally says with a sigh, "In a pink shirt."

I guess that's all that needs to be said.

The object of his affection is certainly a beauty. A cute little blonde thing with boatloads of personality. I'm sure my son's lovesickness was brought on by her obvious charm. And I know my youngest son. He wants very much to please. And now he has decided WHO he wants to please.

The teachers at nursery school tell me he follows her around like a lost puppy, fetching things for her, making sure that she has everything she might want or need.

"I gotta get that girl to tell me how she does it," her Mom emailed me, "I want to know if it will work on her father."

I doubt it. Most men stop indulging us once they hit double digits. Unless they want something.

Now that he is besotten, I fear that this will take away from his studies. How will he concentrate during show and tell? Open his juice box? Properly complete Finger Painting 101? This may set him back for months!

I was quizzing him one day about the pictures and letters at school. I'm so proud of how smart he is. He remembers that A starts the word apple and D starts the word duck. "T is turtle," he says.

"What's S?" I ask.

"Sarahpatterson."

I sigh. "And what was she wearing today?"

He looks up and scans his brain, "A blue dress."

Now THAT he remembers.

"Sarahpatterson should come up to the cottage," Matthew announced one day. "We have lots of rooms, but she can sleep with me."

Ah the innocence of the Pre-K set! He'd probably let her share his stuffed animals and hog all the blankets.

I can't take it anymore! Matthew, please stay little! Be that sweet little long-lashed, brown-eyed bugger who still believes that you can just adore someone...and everything stays as simple as which bed you sleep in.

And Sarahpatterson, please don't break my little guy's heart!

We Three Pounds

Three pounds!

How can I gain three pounds in two days?!

I know, it sounds like I'm whining, but that's not a great rate to buy into. That would be nine by New Year's, thirty-three by Martin Luther King Day, and something like seventy-eight by President's Week. Seventy-eight! That's a whole 'nother eight-year-old boy. Just what don't want to be carrying around with me! Yikes!

Okay, obviously I'm panicking. I guess "We Three Pounds" showed up just like the Kings, "bearing gifts" and "travers(ing) afar"--that is, if "afar" can be Grandmas' and Grandpas' houses over the last two days.

But could I really have eaten two pounds worth?

I didn't eat two pounds worth of walnut kolachki, although I could have. They remind me of Christmases with Grandma Ashman--perfect---delicious AND sentimental! But even though Colleen CLAIMS she loves me, she also says she's done making Christmas cookies FOR-EV-ER!!!! That's okay, though, because she's also said she's never having another dog, and Lexie the pitbull really loved the cookies, too. Tee hee hee.

Hmm, I did get closer to two pounds worth with the chocolate fudge and peanutbutter buckeyes at Mom's house. And Shelly was so "kind" as to bring the leftover dips from her party for us to graze on Christmas day. Mmm, I can't resist a taco dip with real jalepenos! But calories eaten while standing up don't count anyway, we all know that!

I might have gone over the limit with lasagna and garlic bread for dinner. Mom's lasagna, especially the vegetable version, is irrisistable. And Faith's Ameretto cake (heavy on the Ameretto, of course) is absolutely heavenly. How can I resist having my cake and liquor, too?

So I COULD blame it on Colleen and Mom and Shelly and Faith. For twisting my arms, of course, and forcing me to enjoy all that food. Then again, it might have just a little to do with the numerous glasses of wine I've consumed. Ouch!

I'll have some making up to do this week.
"Guide us to thy perfect lite." ;-)

On the First Day of Christmas...

...Or why I never get a damn thing done...

I wake up this morning ready to roll. It's my first day of vacation, and I am determined to Get Something Done. The house needs to be picked up, some bills need to be paid, and presents wrapped (ALL of them)! If I have time, I want to get to that newsletter I was going to write--the one that used to be The Christmas Chronicle, but will now be a New Year's Greeting.

I got to sleep until nine. What a treat! Matt and Ben are up already, watching television. I decide to nip this in the bud right away. We can't have them doing that all day. They turn it off as soon as I ask and decide to build a fort out of blankets and pillows in the family room. Full of Christmas spirit, they are singing, "Fa la la la la, la la la la." How cute! I sneak in to have breakfast with my blog.

I don't get much written, though, before duty calls. My little boys are quite proud that they can get their own breakfast, but today they need help because the cereal bag isn't open yet and the milk is too full for 8-year-old muscles to lift. No big deal, Mommy will grab that for you. While I'm doing that, though, I notice the bags of assorted candy, paper decorations, green and red pencils and plastic junk left on the counter from yesterday's school parties. I sort through and sneak some of it in the garbage.

Oh, that reminds me. I still have my bag of stuff to sort through. A middle school teacher doesn't get much, but I should take care of that now. The phone rings next, of course, and fifteen minutes later I am looking at my cold tea and toast, and I haven't begun a single thing on my "To Do" list.

I finish my journal entry and hear those voices singing "Fa la la la la," in the other room. I resolve to get back to work.

Start by picking up the house. Can't throw away cans until I empty the can bag. Can't clear off the counter until I bring in the recycle bins. Can't throw in a load of wash until I put away the clean ones taking up space in the baskets.

A voice cries out desparately from the kitchen, "Who threw my reindeer in the GARBAGE?!"

Mommy panics. Dangit! I got nabbed! "Um, it must have fallen in, Sweetheart. But, um, the googly eyes fell off and we lost the nose. So now all that's there is a brown paper cone."

Matthew is appaled! "It's a REINDEER, Mom!"

"Fa la la, la la la, LA LA LA!"

Ever onward! In the midst of folding clothes, though, I stop to answer the door, bring in the mail, and referee two arguments between my sons. Putting clothes away necessitates my clearing the pile of Christmasgifts out of my closet and dragging my kids upstairs to clean their room.

Teenager wants to join the sing-along, "Don we now our GAY apparel!"
"Cut it out!" Mommy yells.
"I know!" is the sheepish answer. Followed by an evil little giggle.

My mother calls. Can we come over tonight so she can give the boys their tree ornaments BEFORE Christmas? Of course we can. There's an hour chopped off the day, so now I really need to get my act in gear!

I hear the voices upstairs, changing the words to the song, "Poo-py, poopy, poopy, pa-ants. Fa la la, la la la, la la la!"
"Hey, you two, cut it out! Sing the song right!"

I head in to vacuum the family room, but get no further with the pillows and blankets all over the floor.
"After we pick up the blankets, can we watch TV?"

No way. They are going OUTSIDE to play in the snow! Mommy will finally get some wrapping done.

First there is the endless wrapping of children in snow gear, though. Once they are cleared away, I get brave and pull out some little kid gifts. I lock the door so that they will have to knock to get in, giving me time to hide the loot. YES! I am LOCKING my children OUT of the HOUSE!" Give me another Bad Mommy award. It'll look great with my collection!

But outside is never, truly, outside.

Knock, knock. "Mo-om, where are the sleds?"
Knock, knock. "Mo-om! Benny threw a snowball at me!"
Knock, knock. "Mo-om, I need new mittens."
Knock, knock. "Mo-om. Why are you locking the door?"

It really doesn't matter--nine presents later it is raining wet snow and they are ready to come in. Sigh!

Mommy caves, "Do you guys want to watch TV?"

A Very Satisfying Meal

I think the reason I first notice him, is that he has a cap on. Not an impolite, improperly worn baseball cap, but a tweed cap like Gatsby would have worn. Sure, he probably should remove it, sitting in a booth in an Italian restaurant, but he has his coat on, too. Like he is ready to leave.

So as I walk by to be seated with my two youngest sons, I can't help but glance his way. He sits stiffly, straight-backed, frequently checking the door. And on the seat in the booth beside him sits a vase full of red, sweetheart roses.

Aha! The romantic in me can't resist. I'll make sure I sit facing him. I can't wait to see his awaited love arrive! Will he propose to her? How I'd love to be a nosy bystander for such an event!

Fortunately it's pretty easy to pretend that I am looking at my boys while I check Loverboy out. He has dark eyes and hair, and a clean-cut, military feel to him. He is nice looking, but not too handsome. I like that. In the stories in my head, I can imagine that they love each other for more than just good looks, and soon they'd be engaged right here in the corner of my favorite pizza joint!

I start to create some scenarios. Maybe he'll do the old-fashioned, get-down-on-one-knee. Maybe he'll announce his love to the whole restaurant, and bravely wait for her public answer. Perhaps he has something elaborate planned, like a hidden ring brought out by the waiters. There is no end to the possibilities!

And yet, as my daydreams ramble on, and my salad arrives, still no girl has joined him. Loverboy continues to fidget nervously, and the corner booth he occupies alone seems to swallow him up. Twice a thoughtless waiter apologetically sets his tray on Loverboy's table as he unloads it for a nearby party. I want to shake him! Can't he see that a little piece of history is about to take place in that corner?! Would it kill him to walk a little further?!

Oh, no! What if She doesn't arrive?! How long will he sit there waiting for her? His face looks so hopeful and nervous, that I begin to worry for this stranger. I really, really love happy endings.

Then I wonder if I've got it all wrong. Was I silly to assume that he's a great guy who deserves to be met by his beloved? Maybe he's been horrible to her, and this meeting is his desperate apology. Maybe it's best that she never shows up. Maybe this guy thinks I'm psychotic because I've been staring at him all through dinner!

As Loverboy makes a phone call, I silently chide myself. What is my problem? I'm always off in some other world, creating scenarios and daydreams, assuming that everyone is good and happy and oh-so-in love! Sheesh! I need a reality check. This poor guy is probably nothing more than a florist who had an extra arrangement left over today, and is irritated because his business partner is late. To hell with it!

Just when I have talked myself into paying attention to my food instead, she arrives. She has been brought in by a friend who was, it appears, in on the surprise. She did not know that he would be there! Loverboy's girl is pretty, but not too pretty. Perfect!

I have tears in my eyes as she hugs him, and I catch some smiles on the faces of others at the tables around me. It wasn't just me, then! A group of strangers collectively sighing in relief for this young man in the corner, enjoying a long-awaited happy ending.

On the way out, I just can't resist. I walk by their table and smile at her, "I was so glad to see you arrive," I say. She smiles back at me, and looks at him.

I leave the restaurant, very satisfied.

"The sun a spark, /hung thin between/ the dark and dark" -John Updike

I've just discovered which sons' arms have outgrown their coat sleeves.

It's definitely winter in upstate New York. Updike's words above are barely exaggeration here, where the sun really is a spark, or a low flame, at least. The highway construction cones will finally be put away, with the exception of a few strays here and there that will emerge in the spring, popping up like crocuses when the sun melts. I drive to and from work in the dark, a trip which is shorter than the time it takes for the heat to kick on. And what the heck did I do with that snow scraper, anyway?

My neighbors will soon disappear into their houses, and by the time they reemerge, many will have more or less children. We wait longingly for that first tranquil snow fall, which we hope arrives in time to make the Christmas decorations look good. After that, just about everyone under the age of 12 wants it all to melt away until next year.

But that will not happen. Oh no. It will pile up endlessly, mercilessly, until there is nowhere left to put it. We will shovel and scrape, push and shove, play and pray, but the snow is tenacious. Snowplowed piles in shopping mall parking lots literally do not completely melt until June. By February I will feel as if I can no longer see color.

Already I am lamenting, and the big stuff has not even begun. We haven't had a real big snow storm. In the pool at work to pick the first snow day, I have December 19th, so cross your fingers for me. But honestly, the big, stay-in-your-house snow days are kind of fun. It's the everyday, wet, cold, slushy, gray, don't-see-the sun-all-day endlessness that I could do without.

Sigh.

Send me some sunshine!

Spinning

Okay, I really want to post some things over here, but I just can't get moving lately, for some reason. I was going to say I have had writers' block, but that isn't really it either. I've had a couple of great ideas float up to the surface of my brain, but I've yet to make it to a computer in time to fish them out. I'm sure there's a great journal entry or two waiting to be salvaged from the ocean floor, but I'm going to have to wait on that.

My students have been writing lately, though, so I've been enjoying being at the other end of the writers' conversation. My eighth graders have been writing poetry...with all of the angst and incongruity that comes with it at that age. Many of them have been coming up with fabulous things...they amaze me. Extended metaphors comparing gossip to a flame, the baseball season to a parade, or a tiny, speechless baby, to a delicate, silent dancer. I think my favorite was a boy who looked at a brave solid soldier on the outside, and then described his fear on the inside. Their poetry is intense, and I love it!

In contrast, my seventh graders have been creating newspapers, which are a hoot to read, because their assignment was to write everything as if it were happening fifty years from now. There is a wonderful sense of hope that comes through in their views--cures for cancer, world peace, even the Bills winning the Superbowl--all these wonderful things show up in their world from the future. They love to tease their teachers a little, too. Throughout their stories, I have blown up a Thanksgiving turkey, run for president (and lost), and been permanently stuck in a window while protesting the closing of our school. My favorite is when I was the first 87-year-old American Idol winner singing my hit songs: Do the 'Do Now', A Lot is Not One Word, and The Five Parts of a Friendly Letter. Their sense of humor is one of the many reasons why I love this age!

So school is good and my house is clean...some things are great. But my migraines are back, my journal's neglected, and a Child-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is failing science. And, trust me, the list goes on. For some reason, I just can't get it all together at the same time. I feel like all around me are people who can juggle it all and do fine, but I just can't. Consistently, at least.

At any given time, someone who met me and just got a little snapshot of my life, would think I was either very put together, or a perfect dope! If my house is immaculate, I guarantee there are a mess of papers on my desk at school. If there are groceries in the cupboard, I probably didn't make it to church this week. If I'm all caught up grading papers, my roots are probably showing and my eyebrows need to be waxed!

And it isn't really juggling, it's more like spinning plates. I'm a carnival worker running back and forth between them, and whenever I get a few spinning beautifully, I'm jumping to catch one and watching another fall to the ground. It's an awful metaphor, I know, but I really can visualize it! Right now I'm watching a few shining plates while my journal plate slows to a wobbly roll.

Sigh. I'll try to get it spinning soon.

Welcome

I am yet another former AOLer trying to decide whether I want to move or not. While I have no passionate philosophical problems with the decision to muck up the journals with ads over there, I do think that they are positively ugly. And...scratch that...I do have a little bit of a problem with it. If anyone is going to choose who places advertisements above my words, it should be me. Yet I feel very comfortable in my digs over in J-land, and I'm just not ready to leave.

With that said, I've decided to set up a little tent over here and see how I like the view. My AOL journal is still in place, but will be a little dusty while I move some things in here at Blogger.

So for now, I guess I'd like to introduce myself. I lost in a forest of testosterone, married with four sons. Tim is 17, and just got a new car, Dan, 14, is my runner, , Ben 8, loves to pose for any picture, and my little loverboy, Matt, who just turned 5.
Despite the fact that I am a middle school English teacher, good editors will catch me in an error or two, because sometimes I get a little carried away (love that spellcheck, though, Blogger). I like to write about life, and what I learn from it, and those have been my best entries. Every once in a while, I even sneak in a poem.

Please stop in and check out this spot a few times. I love to write, but it means so much more when it's read, and I'd be pleased to make your acquaintance.
Tina

Far From Perfect

Sometimes I allow myself to pretend that I am "perfectly" average. You know, average house, average salary, average kids. In a boring way, really. I mean, how much more dull can you get than a teacher married to a cop, raising kids in a rather sheltered corner of suburbia?

I know that we in no way qualify for "perfect," though. By what I read in the media, we are far from it. I never used cloth diapers, I hated breast feeding, and I actually spanked my children occasionally. I regularly use spit to wash their faces, and have even fed them cereal for dinner. My house? Don't even ask. The dishes don't match and neither does the furniture. I daresay if Martha Stewart were faced with Living here, she'd opt for jail.

I wonder, too, if the average family is as weird as we are. Does anyone sing for no reason (and as badly) as I do? Are other mothers surrounded by boys who consider noisy body functions to be a daily source of entertainment?

Okay, I know we are far from perfect, (and I spend far too much time fretting over that distance) but I look for ways that we are far from average all the time. For one thing, I get just a little flak about the size of our family. My "big" family of four boys (something like 2.7 more than the average) gets a wise crack every now and then. "Were ya' tryin' for that girl?" or "All them babies! Hyuck, now y'all know what's causin' that, right?"

Hilarious.

Four kids is what I grew up with, and I just never thought of it as big. Until all four of them decided to play a sport during the same season, but that's another story.

When I was a kid, I thought to be perfectly average would be a shame. A failure even. I was gonna be well above average, a shining star, an expert in my field. La, la, la...Why do I suddenly have an flashback of myself singing into my deoderant-stick microphone in front of my bedroom mirror?

I've since discovered, as I'm sure so many others have, that--while the absence of superstardom certainly can be boring at times (as a matter of fact, I'd call that an understatement)--it certainly can be perfectly wonderful. And to tell the truth, I doubt that anyone is "perfectly" average.

Thus, this journal was born. Welcome.