Dropping the ball

December 31, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

Are we having fun yet?

I don’t know how you feel, but 2012 can’t end fast enough.  It hasn’t necessarily been a bad year, but it’s been a hard one.  Whereas New Year’s Eve makes me nervous and even a bit sad that the year didn’t live up to expectation, New Year’s Day makes me feel hopeful.  Ambitious, even. And that’s when the trouble starts.

I recently asked my husband what he was going to do in 2013.  I didn’t mean a list of resolutions, but a plan of some sort.  What are you going to do this year? His short answer was “to lose 40 pounds…again.”  His broader (no pun intended) answer was, “to stop making plans.”

Aha.  Now there’s an idea.

Part of my disappointment this year has been linked to good intentions spoiled by things I couldn’t control. John Lennon is credited with the great quote, “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.”

So stop making plans.  As one friend told me during a session of email therapy, “Go into situations without any assumptions and you’ll never be let down.  In fact, you might even be pleasantly surprised by how things turn out.”

As I work through the last days of Christmas vacation, I realize that I wasted time with my family.  I spent the first two days of holiday break in stores buying last-minute gifts to make  Santa’s haul look even on both sides of the tree. I spent the next two days in a grocery store, the next two days clearing clutter from every flat surface in the house, the next two days caring for an ailing aunt, and the past two days worrying about all of the above.  We had a nice Christmas, but it had a heaviness to it.  Something just didn’t feel right.

Some years are like that.  Not every holiday can be flawless.  It’s just that we spend weeks — months, even — preparing for 48 hours of perfection, and when it doesn’t measure up to the fantasies in our mind…it’s an incredible deflation.  But what did I expect, anyway?

Plan: I thought my husband and I would put the girls to bed early and we’d get the TV to ourselves to watch old Christmas movies.

Outcome:  We never saw one minute of It’s a Wonderful Life. 

Plan:  Mike and I planned to sit in the front room, listen to Christmas music on Pandora, and watch the snow.

Outcome:  It didn’t snow until last night, and I’m sick of holiday music.

Plan:   Using my new cookbooks, I scratched out a great holiday menu of “red and green” lasagna, homemade bread, a Christmas salad with strawberries and pistachios, Red Velvet cake, and cranberry cocktails.

Outcome:  We defrosted store-bought lasagna and ate on TV trays. The girls didn’t like anything but the bread.

What’s wrong with that?  Nothing, I guess.  But it wasn’t what I had in mind.

My computer’s spies must know what’s on my mind, because I keep getting pop-up ads for programs like “Overplanners Anonymous”.   Can’t I just go with the flow?

After The Great Toy Sort of the season, I noticed that the girls didn’t really care who got what.  They swapped stuff later in the afternoon.  Ava played with Maryn’s dolls, and Maryn snagged Ava’s art supplies.  They traded DS games and even shared some of the Barbie crap. (Yes, crap.)  They looked at each other’s books and ooh’d and aaah’d over old school fun such as Magic Rocks and Sea Monkeys.  They took turns shooting suction cup arrows through the house.  They were content. I hardly know the meaning of the word.  It sounds like something I should learn.

So as 2012 wraps up, our goal is to stay home and do nothing.  In the past, I fought to keep the girls up until midnight so we could squeal “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and throw confetti in the air.  Not this year.  If they’re up, they’re up.  No structure.  No “But it’s New Year’s Eve!!” protests.  We might go out for an early dinner to avoid the roads when Amateur Night kicks in.  We might open a bottle of something bubbly.  We might throw in a movie and let the countdown pass. Or, we might just go to bed and put 2012 behind us.

At least, that’s the plan.

 

 

Posted in Behavior, Facebook, Family, Holidays, Humor, Issues, Katy Brown, Mommies, Perfection, Relationships, Stuff we love, Toys, Uncategorized | No Comments »

Merry Christmas from The Mommyhood

December 24, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

Dear Readers,

With kind remembrances, we send our sincerest wishes for a bright holiday

and a peaceful New Year.  Enjoy the precious gifts of love and laughter.

Cheers!

The Mommyhood

Posted in Amy Gannon, Cara Bailey, Carrie Cherry, Kara Moore, Karan Ireland, Katy Brown, Mommies, Uncategorized | No Comments »

Robbed

December 18, 2012 by Carrie Cherry
No Gravatar

During my daughter’s six years, I’ve been afraid I’d drop her, break her neck, pinch her finger in a car door. Afraid she’d choke on a paper clip, ingest poison, fall down stairs, poke out an eye. Afraid she wouldn’t make friends, wasn’t eating enough vegetables, would grow up hating me.

I was never afraid to take her to school.

Until now.

The shooter in Newtown, Conn., took 27 lives last week, robbing far too many moms and dads of their precious babies. Words can’t even describe that loss.

But I can’t help feeling like the rest of us have – in a way – been robbed too. Robbed of the simple security that when we take our kids to school, they’ll be safe and happy in their classrooms.

Instead of thinking about my daughter’s reading skills or what is on the lunch menu, I have found myself this week thinking about the layout of her classroom. Are there closets? Does the door lock? Is there enough room in the bathroom for 18 children to hide? Is there an exit to the outside? Have they practiced a plan on where to go if they have to escape? What happens if they’re in the gym or library when an armed intruder enters the building? How fast can law enforcement get there in the event of an emergency?

We hand our babies over to educators every single day. And 99.999 percent of the time the worst thing that happens in an elementary school is that somebody skipped in lunch line.  But after what happened in Connecticut, we now have to consider the tiny gazillionth of a percent chance that our worst nightmare could come true.

Our community is not immune. We had a near miss several years ago. I was an education reporter for the Daily Mail covering a routine school board meeting back in July 2003 when a disgruntled maintenance worker named Rusty Bright opened fire with an AK-47. By some miracle of God and the quick-thinking of a handful of administrators, no one was killed. One teacher was shot and injured. Bright fired three times, but had the capability of firing off 75 rounds. There were 20 people in the room.

After that incident, the school board offices on Elizabeth Street beefed up security, having an officer stationed at each meeting.

I’m wondering what, if anything, will happen here in the wake of Newtown to make us feel better about leaving our children at school.

Do we build a fortress? Install bulletproof glass and metal detectors? Put armed security guards or police officers at the front door? Design closets that will hold 20 kids? Force the bad guys to turn in their guns?

Or is fear and uncertainty our new reality? Do we just hug our kids extra tight every morning and hope and pray for the best?

I don’t know the answer.

What will it take for you to feel safe dropping your children off at school?

Posted in Carrie Cherry | No Comments »

Searching for Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

December 17, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

The horrific news of the elementary school shooting in Newtown, CT, left me feeling quite unprepared as a parent.  I know how to love my children and care for them, but I don’t know how to protect them anymore.  I used to think hand sanitizer was the solution to all problems, followed by antibiotics, a warm bath, ice packs and rest.  I used to believe that a reassuring hug made the day manageable. I used to think small towns were the safest places on Earth.  Not anymore.

This past semester, I taught a communications course at a local college.  The thought of “a shooter in the building” never crossed my mind.  I walked into the room every day of the week for the past month like it was business as usual.  After watching the news and listening to eyewitness reports, I realized that carefree feeling was incredibly dangerous.

The classroom setting was normal.  It was located on the third floor and it had one door — one way in, one way out.  There was a window high on the back wall, but it appeared to be more of a skylight.  There was a lock on the doorknob, which worked, as I often turned the button to keep late arrivals from interrupting students’ speeches.  But if someone were to have stormed the area with a loaded gun in hand, I would have stood there — shocked — with a dry erase board marker in mine.

I started thinking about how I would have acted (or reacted)  if given time to prepare for such a disaster.  The media has been airing stories about teachers’ heroism, stuffing children into closets and corners of the room, using their bodies as human shields to protect each girl and boy.  Our local school system requires lockdown training — and maybe all of them do, I’m not sure — and it’s designed to make students and administrators familiar with shelter-in-place tactics.  Turn out the lights. Get under the desks.  Pull the shades.  Stay quiet.  And lock those doors.

What else?

Guides like The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook and Hunker Down were written for people like me who struggled to earn a simple Girl Scouts badge.  When I’m scared, my brain shuts down.  I can’t think and I can’t speak.  I freeze.  My survival skills are rather limited:  Go to the basement if there’s a tornado warning. If there’s thunder, there’s lightning.  Go inside.  Don’t drive through high water.  Don’t drown, turn around. Click it or ticket.

That’s about it.  A gun? Never held one.

We all need to learn how to live in a fallen world.  We now have to teach our children how to protect themselves against the unfathomable.  Maybe it’s a good idea to know how to break down a door, how to escape from a sinking car, how to fend off a shark, how to jump from a building into a dumpster — and how to survive if caught in the line of gunfire.

The mental aspects of survival are as important as physical skill, authors tell us.  We cannot panic.  We cannot give up.  We have to be ready, willing and able:  understanding the proper way to use a weapon, assembling disaster kits of essential elements such as non-perishable food and water, updating first aid materials, purchasing signaling equipment, keeping a stash of cash and a tank full of gasoline. The lists go on and on.

The principle behind these books, which often go unnoticed, is a simple one:  You never know. Because of this, we must pay attention:

  • Stay alert. Report all suspicious-looking people or unusual situations.
  • Practice, practice, practice procedures for lockdown  modes.
  • Run away from an attacker in a zig-zag, unpredictable pattern.
  • Look for places to hide, such as a bathroom stall and on top of a toilet.
  • Move heavy equipment such as desks and file cabinets to serve as barricades.
  • Know where the exits are located as well as fire alarms.
  • Dropping to the floor and remaining flat can help protect your vital organs.
  • Stay perfectly still. Play dead.
  • NEVER open a door unless someone can prove to you that they are a police officer or paramedic.
Praying is optional, but I’d do it.

Among the things I used to believe was that we had to keep an eye on individuals that were in charge of our children in our absence.  Teachers, coaches, other parents, etc.  Now, we’re forced to admit that every person in their lives may be a threat to our children’s safety.

Facebook friends have been sharing meaningful quotations and moving images, along with rants related to gun control and mental health reform.  But out of everything posted, I think about something attributed to the late Fred Rogers of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world.”

Be one of them.

 

Tags: , ,
Posted in Behavior, Discipline, Events, Facebook, Family, Health, Issues, Katy Brown, Mommies, Relationships, School, Uncategorized | No Comments »

Rest in peace

December 14, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

Out of all the rooms in our house and all the furniture in it, my bed is the most cherished. It’s the place — a safe haven — that I fall into after a long day, and where I go back to if the morning allows it.  It’s where I read my favorite books and magazines, where I shop through the pages of catalogs, and where I work on my laptop to write what’s on my mind.  That’s what I’m doing now.

This bed of mine, which I love so, is the place where our babies slept when they probably should have been in their own cribs.  This is where those growing girls recover when they’re sick, and where they calm down when they’re scared.  This is the place where we watch cartoons on snow days, and where we catch movies on holiday breaks.  We play with Barbie dolls and stuffed animals in this heap of woolly blankets and cooler sheets, and we hide underneath them in a homemade tent, complete with flashlights and glow-in-the-dark sticks. We’re protected here.

This afternoon, I traveled to my girls’ elementary school about 20 minutes early just to be close by. The devastating news of the day weakened my knees, soured my stomach and broke my heart. When Maryn and Ava finally emerged from their 1st and 4th grade classrooms, smiling broadly and carrying the gifts they had purchased for us at the holiday store, I found it almost impossible to smile back. I felt unbelievable relief but also incredible guilt for looking forward to everything we had in store for the weekend.  Christmas lights. Cookies. Music.  Laughter.

After the girls had kicked off their shoes and dumped out their backpacks, grabbed a snack and chased it with juice, they hopped on the couches and turned on the TV.  Panic surged through my body, and I grabbed the remote control and quickly turned it off again.  They looked at me strangely, wondering if they had done something wrong.

“You know what?” I began.  “It’s kind of cold down here.  Why don’t we go upstairs and get in my bed for a while?”

The girls jumped up and ran for the stairs, pounding the risers like Clydesdale horses.  They squealed and giggled as they bounced around in rumpled linens that should have been made before I went to work. With Ava on my right side and Maryn on my left, I looped my arms through theirs, as if to tie ourselves into a knot.  In what seemed to be no time at all, both of them drifted off, peacefully, where they belonged. Safe and sound.

Our thoughts and prayers are with every parent, child, teacher, staff member, and administrator at Sandy Hook Elementary School and the community of Newtown, Connecticut. 

Tags:
Posted in Issues, Katy Brown, Relationships, School, Uncategorized | No Comments »

Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease

December 10, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

This week, I had to hold my tongue and sit on my hand to keep from saying and writing what I really felt about something. It took more strength than I thought I possessed. Last night,  I told Mike that my body ached from head to toe.

“Flu?” he asked.

“Tension,” I replied.

How silly. What could be that bad?

An adult — someone I trusted — made inappropriate comments to my daughter that broke her spirit (temporarily,  I hope). I know, I know…these things happen and they’ll happen again. That’s life.  Some days are like that. Mean people…stink (I know this isn’t the “s” word that goes with the phrase, but I can’t stand to say it). Don’t take it so seriously. Don’t take it personally.

Our child is hurt. Don’t take it personally?

I picked up my cell phone and tried to press the numbers to confront this person, but something much calmer than the blood racing through my veins instructed me to abort the call. Then, I remembered a phrase I wrote on the board at school earlier in the day.

Be pretty if you can. Be witty if you must.  Be gracious if it kills you. 

Gracious.  What does that mean, really, in a time like this?  To be courteous and polite; to be pleasant; to be kind.  To be merciful.

Now we’re talkin’.  Merciful.   Let’s use that word in a sentence, shall we?

The lady was merciful when she chose not to make the phone call.

I had every reason to be furious, and I had every reason to defend my child — even though I wasn’t “there” to see someone refer to her, in the presence of others, as an annoyance.   For the past few years, the word “victim” has been tossed around as something that people like to portray to get attention or to justify the act of feeling sorry for themselves. However, my child wasn’t playing the role of Victim because she never told me what had happened. Another parent brought it to my attention, which made it worse, actually.  My daughter was afraid she had been so wrong that she’d get yelled at by me, too.

And that’s when I cried.  She didn’t do anything wrong other than being in the wrong place and at the wrong time.  She’s a pleaser. She tried too hard to do something right, and it backfired. But should I have fired back?

After putting down the cell phone, I picked up my pen and I began to write.  At first, it was a paragraph of angry prose that was scribbled on the page like a kindergartner’s hand. Rough draft; round one.  Edit.  Rephrase; round two. Correct. Revise; round three. Final draft; sign, seal and deliver.

I wrote the note instead of typing an email because it wasn’t business.  It was personal.

When I relayed the story to a colleague, I learned that she had been in a similar situation this week, too.  Her child was embarrassed by an adult that he had looked up to and respected, and in one scene of uncontrolled frustration, their relationship was ruined.  They’re kids.  Aren’t the bullies supposed to be within their own age groups?

I recently found myself in a discussion with another parent regarding a hot topic in the news, and the exchange moved from basic questions and answers to an ethical debate that challenged my character. Thank goodness I’ve been teaching persuasion this semester!  I didn’t get the last word, but I got the final question:  Who do you think you are?

Ava, who wants to become an elementary school teacher one day, has developed a new interest in journalism.  She loves to read, but now she’s sniffing out harder stories that appear on the front pages of newspapers and magazine covers.  Then, she asked if she could have her own blog, too.  I thought for a moment.  No to Facebook, but yes to a blog? Isn’t that worse?

She explained her goals and the intended audience, and she tried out a few headlines and ideas for posts.  All were very good.  But, I had to give her a short lesson on self control.

Would the story hurt someone’s feelings?

Would the story embarrass someone — including her family? Herself?

Would the story cause someone to get in trouble?

Would the story cause friendships to end?

If she can answer “yes” to any of these questions, then she has to delete it.  Period.

The same holds true regarding gossip.  How would you phrase your comments or reactions to something if the subject of the conversation were standing right behind you, listening?

We’d be much more selective with our words and tone, I’m sure.

I used to worry about other children picking on my girls, but I’ve been seeing more immaturity out of men and women my age.  The lesson is a tough one:  To avoid sticking one’s foot in one’s mouth, it’s best to let the heat of the moment pass.  And if we are attacked by someone’s insensitive remarks — as people seem to have lost their filters — then it’s best to kill ‘em with kindness…if being gracious doesn’t kill us first.

Posted in Behavior, Family, Issues, Katy Brown, Mommies, Perfection, Relationships, School, Uncategorized | No Comments »

‘Tis the season to be tortured

December 3, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

Ho, ho, ho? No, no, no.

When I think of the Christmas season — which now begins before Halloween — I am reminded of family traditions from my childhood.  Thanksgiving was a holiday honored until December 1st, a day ushered in by my mother’s request for what was left of the Sears and J.C. Penney catalogs.

I circled all the dolls, toys and games that I wanted Santa to deliver on Christmas Eve, and I folded down the corners of pages that contained gifts of the year, such as the Barbie Dream House. With pages falling out of the seams and models’ teeth blackened with the ink of a Bic pen, I’d hand over my Wish Book with the gentleness of the child I should have been all year.

The wall calendar (conveniently hung by our rotary telephone) was marked with special occasions throughout the month of December:  Firm Christmas party – 7PM…Hair appointment – 11AM…School concert – 6PM.  But on the 15th of the month, the date was stamped with not black but red ink:  TREE.

That’s right.  December 15th was the date reserved for my father’s annual holiday fit. After dinner, he would stomp downstairs to the basement and spend the next 30 minutes unloading the year’s worth of hoarding to uncover the crumpled box containing our 6-foot Christmas tree.  With a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, stuck from dehydration, ashes would fall onto the plastic bristles like bits of tinsel.  After the red ends were jammed into the red holes, and the blue, green and yellow branches were stuck in their color-coded holes, my mother would take the second shift to help get strings of multi-colored C9 bulbs out of knots and tangles.  I would unwrap ornaments to play with at the dining room table, being warned time after time THAT WILL BREAK! and PUT IT DOWN! 

So, I’d PUT THAT DOWN and search for the Elf on the Shelf , who was really a member of the “Snap”, “Crackle” and “Pop” Rice Krispies trio. The generic elves of my childhood weren’t used to manipulate behavior like our house elf, Jack-Daniel.   This year, Jack-Daniel showed up with a  cute little elf-friend named Ginny.

Once the presents were mail-ordered, the tree was anchored to the wall, and the holiday events were attended and scrutinized, my mother moved on to the final stretch of Christmas must-do’s.  She would circle the 20th of December and stamp it with the words: PICTURE WITH SANTA.

After an hour of grooming my thick hair into place and securing it with a barrette partially stabbed into my scalp, and then zipping up an itchy velvet dress that would meet the top of my knobby knees, Mother would help me pull up white, patterned socks that would be covered in black patent Mary Janes (that were as slick as the black ice on MacCorkle Avenue).  Then, we’d pile into the Mercury station wagon and drive to The Diamond, where we would stand in line for another hour to get one sepia-toned shot with St. Nick.

When it was my turn to sit on the stranger’s lap, I found no joy in the situation.  In fact, I began to hate my mother and father for making me take part in such a frightening production, as Santa wore gold aviator glasses and had cuts on his knuckles. The cameraman insisted that I “smile pretty” and to show him “those dimples”, and my father hovered nearby like an assistant, ringing a bell, cheering me on. “Smile, Kat! Heeeeey, Kat! Look here!”  Ring-a-ding-ding.

My mother, on her last holiday nerve, huffed in frustration and ordered them to “TAKE THE PICTURE!”.  And so they did.  And then we left.

This weekend, I arranged a time for Maryn to have her picture taken with Greenbrier Santa, something I thought she’d enjoy since this is her most favorite time of the season.  Ava, much more wise this year (to my sadness), stood by to watch children cry, scream for their mothers, and climb over Santa’s enormous chair.  As I patiently waited in line for our turn, I felt someone tap me on the back.   It was Ava.

“Maryn’s gone,” she said.

“What do you mean she’s gone?  Where is she?” I asked.

“She ran off. She’s afraid of Santa.”

“But why?” I asked, scanning the hotel lobby for my child (wearing a dress with a wintry blue argyle pattern…and white socks).

“She says he looks mean.”

Apparently, my 6-year old burst through a pack of American BoyChoir members like Tavon Austin.  My 82-year old aunt managed to keep up with Maryn, protecting her on a couch two parlor rooms away.   I wasn’t very pleased.  Like mother, like daughter.

Auntie stopped me before I could begin a chorus of “what’s gotten into you” rants.

“Now just a second,” she began, holding up a wrinkled, arthritic hand.  ”When you were a baby, I remember how upset you got when your mama and daddy made you sit on Santa’s lap.  Leave the little thing alone.”

Word of advice? Never mess with a 90-pound lady carrying an antique cane.

And then we left.

Now, what’s the moral of the story?  Honoring holiday traditions can be quite nice, but it can land well-meaning parents on the naughty list.

 

Posted in Behavior, Childhood milestones, Events, Facebook, Family, Holidays, Humor, Katy Brown, Mommies, Perfection, Relationships, Stuff we love, Toys, Travel, Uncategorized | No Comments »

NoFacebook November: Week 4 (The home stretch)

November 26, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

Monday, November 19, 2012

Thanksgiving is the affair that gave me an idea for the book I’m supposed to be writing -  “Cooking for Dead People.”  It started last year when I wrote about the hysteria of putting together the biggest culinary event of the year, which I’ve made for the past 12 years without incident (except for 2005 when the heating element in my oven failed).  I still feel nervous about getting the turkey and sides to the table in a Martha Stewart-esque fashion, and I dread the stacks of dishes that keep me from going to bed at a reasonable hour.  As much as I want to love Thanksgiving, it’s a tremendous amount of work that is enjoyed, but not really appreciated.

After making the decision to “doctor up” recipes instead of cooking every protein, carbohydrate, starch, vegetable, and sweet from scratch, I also elected to ditch my “good” dishes and rely on … paper and plastic.   The plates look like glass (they aren’t), the silverware looks like stainless steel (it isn’t), and the cups look like….well…plastic, but very clear plastic.  You can see through them! Not a water spot to be found! I intend to toss every utensil and serving dish in the trash after I’ve kicked everyone out of the house.

I took the recipe cards and handed my husband the marching orders. It’s not that I don’t want a family Thanksgiving — I just want the kitchen to myself.  We control freaks have to work alone.

“I am not getting up at 5:30 a.m. so we can eat dinner for lunch.  I am not going to miss the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  I am not going to skip a shower like I did last year because everyone showed up during breakfast.  Therefore, at 12:00 noon, you are to take the drinks, vegetable tray, fruit display and cheese ball into the backyard.  You are to put logs in the fire pit in case it’s not quite 60 degrees outside.  Then, you are to turn the animals loose and create your own National Dog Show.  This year, you’ll have a Golden Retriever, the 15-inch Beagle, a Welsh Corgi, and a mixture of all three.  You are to give the girls a football and a soccer ball to play with, and a can of tennis balls for the National Dog Show contestants. Guests can find a bathroom in the garage, along with a hammock should someone need a nap.  Then, at 3:00, you may come inside for dinner.  And not a second before.”

Do you think he’ll ask me to say grace?


Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Table for two.

 

Maryn came home from school with a picture pencil-drawn and partially colored depicting our Thanksgiving table.  I am standing beside our cat, Ringo.

Where is everyone else? I asked.

“They’re not here,” she said.  You chased them off.”

 

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Since I’ve been teaching a communications class at a local college, I’ve learned as much as I’ve lectured. I’ve discovered that despite working nearly every day for the past 9 years, I’ve done so from home, which means I’ve forgotten how the world turns and how the people in it tick.  But, most importantly, I’ve learned how to be a better parent. How I hope my daughters’ teachers read this.

  1.  I will always send a note or an email explaining the girls’ absences, even if it’s just a mild cold or a slight fever.
  2. I will always ask for their missing assignments, but I will never ask their teachers to go over the material beyond the basics. If they miss class, then I’m the substitute teacher.
  3.  I will remember that good grades are a sign of the student’s achievement, but also of the teacher’s success in delivering and explaining the material.
  4. I will never challenge a grade or a score, unless it’s such a shock that I have to find out what went wrong.
  5. I will never ask for an assignment to be altered or replaced with something … dare I say … easier.
  6. I will order my children to pay attention in class and to keep their mouths shut unless they are called upon to answer a question, or they are asked to participate in classroom discussion..
  7. I will remind my children that school starts at 8:25, and being even five minutes late is a lengthy distraction.
  8. I will stress that neatness, effort and due dates count as much as correct answers.
  9. I will check the website for classroom updates, particularly messages from the teacher to the parents.
  10. I will confirm to my daughters that teachers have bad days, too.

 

Thursday, November 23, 2012

My little backyard Thanksgiving backfired like a Ford Thunderbird.  I cheerfully ushered everyone out the door to enjoy food and drinks by the fire pit (with the dogs and children), and everyone found their way to the patio with the exception of my aunt, who announced, “That sounds like fun, but I’m going inside.”

I can also report that you can get the platter of turkey to the table a lot faster when you trip over the aunt’s cane.

…

The meal was a success, every crumb was devoured and there was nothing left of the bird but the wishbone.  I took one end and broke it off, silently wishing that my parents had been here.

 

Friday, November 24, 2012

It’s the morning after and I’ve eaten as many Tums as cranberries.  That’s the funny thing about cooking Thanksgiving dinner (or lunch, or if you flip back to 2011, it was breakfast) – after you’ve diced, chopped, seasoned, basted and tasted every recipe, you no longer want to eat it when it’s spooned onto your plate.

So now it’s Black Friday, and I have no desire to bust a door, as the sales flyers tag the hours of 6 a.m. to 12:00 noon.  There’s nothing on God’s Green Earth that I need or want that much, other than a box of Zantac 150.

I’m protective of Thanksgiving because it was my mother’s favorite holiday and her culinary home run of the year.  I usually have a healthy dose of seasonal depression from November 1st to the middle of January, and this year proved to be no different. I felt guilty about treating Thanksgiving as a day as opposed to a long weekend, particularly after I opened the Christmas decoration boxes and started hanging familiar bobbles around the house. I don’t think we’re supposed to put pumpkins under the tree.

Speaking of trees (as I ramble), my turquoise and orange Christmas ornaments looked quirky (yet modern) until Mike showed me the Howard Johnson motel chain logo.  He calls this year’s tree theme “The Hojo”.

Saturday, November 25, 2012

A close friend of mine had dropped off a seasonal book for the girls to read this weekend, which I didn’t pay much attention to after I pulled it out of the mailbox.  Ava and Maryn read it to each other, placed it aside and moved on to other things.   This morning, as I sat on the couch with a hot cup of Starbucks’ Thanksgiving Blend coffee (which is by far the best concoction made, in my opinion), I opened the book, Thank You, Sarah, and began to read something that was as important as it was personal.

Thank You, Sarah is the story of Sarah Hale, whose relentless letters and 38 years of begging presidents, secured Thanksgiving’s status as a national holiday (thank you, Abe Lincoln). But author Laurie Halse Anderson’s description of Sarah Hale captured my attention so much that I read the book three times.

Thanksgiving needed a real superhero.  Someone bold and brave and stubborn and smart. Thanksgiving needed Sarah Hale.  Yet, Sarah Hale didn’t look like a superhero.  She looked like a dainty little lady.

 Never underestimate dainty little ladies.

The story goes on to explain what Sarah Hale did before she became a protector of what was supposed to be a religious holiday – one of gratitude, not of greed.

Sarah Hale fought for playgrounds for kids and schools for girls, and she protested spanking, junk foods, dull stories, and unreasonable attire for women.  She also wrote articles and books, became the first magazine editor in America, and she composed “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

And how did she do these great things?  She used a pen.

When Sarah saw something she didn’t like, she picked up her pen and she wrote about it.  She wrote letters. She wrote articles. She wrote and she wrote and she wrote until she persuaded people to make the world a better place.

 Because, as they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. Write on.

…

Observation after week four:

At first, I thought this exercise would be beneficial because it would force me to do other things – such as pay attention to my kids.  But even without Facebook, my kids didn’t want to pay attention to me.   So that hypothesis was proven wrong.

I thought Facebook was my addiction, but then I discovered that writing was my real obsession.  So that hypothesis was proven wrong.

Lastly, I soon realized that I wasn’t really “off” Facebook if my husband was scanning his own page on an iPad from the opposite couch.  He would read funny posts aloud and growl in frustration over others.  If Facebook really is an addiction of some sort, then merely hearing about what’s going on is like inhaling second-hand smoke.  You aren’t lighting up, but you’re still satisfying the craving.  Can a person give up social media cold turkey? So far, research findings are inconclusive.

…

Marital argument of the week:

It’s awfully hard to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade when your husband hates Matt Lauer.

Posted in Behavior, Consumerism, Discipline, Events, Facebook, Family, Food, Health, Holidays, Humor, Issues, Katy Brown, Mommies, Perfection, Relationships, Stuff we love, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

To have or not to have?

November 20, 2012 by Carrie Cherry
No Gravatar

School Thanksgiving lunch. Photo by Brad McElhinny

Last week was the Thanksgiving lunch at my daughter’s elementary school. It was scheduled for Thursday and I wasn’t going to be able to make it because I had to work that day, in Huntington. I couldn’t get back in time. (Major working mom guilt there…) So my mom was going to take my place. (Thank God for grandmas!)

But wouldn’t you know it? Julia’s school dismissed an hour after it started because of a power outage (I swear I am cursed.) The lunch was rescheduled for Friday, a day my mom wasn’t available. But I managed to rearrange my schedule so I could go.

I’m super sensitive to the fact that Julia only has one parent and I was terrified of her being left alone in a sea of families.

It turned out that she wouldn’t actually have been alone. There were lots of kids dining solo. And several of them were devastated that their mommies or daddies weren’t there. A little girl at our table cried, sobbed really, for her parents. A teacher tried to comfort her.

It broke my heart.

It’s got me thinking that maybe these school luncheons aren’t the best idea. Sure, it was nice to pop in on Julia’s day. But what about the parents who can’t get away from the office? Their kids don’t get to feel special. Instead they feel sad and alone. What’s to feel thankful about that?

What are your thoughts?

Posted in Carrie Cherry | 2 Comments »

NoFacebook November: Week 3

November 19, 2012 by Katy Brown
No Gravatar

This little experiment has gone from week to…weak.

Saturday, November 10, 2012

I’ve Scene It All Now

This afternoon, I gave Disney $19 for tickets to see the 12:30 showing of “Wreck-It Ralph”.  I gave $19.50 to the concession stand and hauled our carbs to the theater for 80 minutes of adult entertainment produced in cartoon format.  The girls didn’t understand one minute of the movie that featured retro video games, but I enjoyed the “blip-blip-blip” down memory lane.  This also explains why Elder Beerman is selling 1st generation Atari consoles for $60.  But, things haven’t changed that much.  Sixty-four games come pre-loaded on the old-time unit, except for Pac-Man (sold separately).

When the movie ended, my girls bobbed up and down in their seats to a Carley Rae Jepsen/Owl City song that closed out the credits.  When I looked back to scan the crowd,  I noticed the woman sitting directly behind me was wearing 3D glasses.

We weren’t in the 3D showing.  Game over.

Monday November 12, 2012

 Wore Wore III

Americans are observing Veteran’s Day, which means stores are packed with people taking advantage of holiday sales and pre-season discounts.  Well, let me rephrase that:  People hope to take advantage of those steals and deals.  But, if they’re like me, they’ll shop ‘till they drop and walk away empty handed.

On Saturday, our mailbox was jammed with flyers and circulars advertising 40% off of this and 60% off of that.  I shared these little lovelies with my aunt, who hired me to be her personal shopper this year.

“Get the girls whatever they want,” she said.  This really means “nothing over $50.”  Off I went in search of adorable little outfits for Maryn, and stylish (but NOT trendy) accessories for Ava.

There ain’t no such thang.

While in one store, I finally found a pair of jeans that weren’t ripped, frayed or so tight that they looked like pantyhose.  I took them to the counter and presented my Kids’ Pass worth an additional 20% off everything in the store.

“Sorry, ma’am. This coupon isn’t good for Levis.”

But it says only Polo and North Face are excluded.

“And Levis.”

But it doesn’t say that.

And so I moved on.  I went to a smaller children’s boutique and found sweet little leggings and swing tops for my little one, complete with matching boots.  These days are numbered, so I need to have fun dressing Maryn while I can.

I had a similar coupon promising 20% off.   The sales associate scanned it.  The computer made a digital rejection noise.  She tried again.  Bonk.

“Sorry, ma’am, but the computer says this is an invalid coupon.”

But you sent it to me.  It says good now through December 24, 2012. 

“I know, but it won’t take it.”

Moving on.  I then traveled to a competitor’s boutique looking as worn out as the jeans painted on the preteen mannequin.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

I don’t want anything with sequins, lace, ruffles, bows or glitter.

The sales associate stared at me in silence. She recovered after a moment.

“You don’t like bling?”

I don’t.

“Why? Kids love it!”

Because you can’t wash bling.  Bling falls off.  Bling gets all over things that weren’t meant to be blung. And after the holidays, my daughter won’t want to wear that bling because it looks like Christmas.

Don’t you have a nice stripe or maybe a simple polka dot?  Corduroy?  Plaid?

I felt like Bubba Blue after he’d been shot during an attack in the jungles of Vietnam.  Slumped in Forest Gump’s arms, he asked weakly, “Why this have to happen?”  Forest tells him what we all know.  “You got shot.”  And Bubba, mustering every bit of strength left tells his best good friend, “I wanna go home.”

Back in the jungles of adolescent clothing, the once perky sales associate looked uncertain as to how to help me.

“Can I show you anything else?”

Just the door.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Harry Styles of One Direction

 

The Fab Five

Ava went to school in tears not because of a history test or long division, but because of One Direction.  The British boy band was scheduled to appear live on the Plaza as part of the Today Show’s concert series, but not until 8:30 a.m.  She had to be in class at 8:25.  And no, I didn’t let her take a tardy slip to see her generation’s version of the Beatles appear on the Ed Sullivan Show.

But once I got home, I flipped over to NBC and waited for Harry, Niall, Liam, Zayn and Louis just as I turn to YouTube to catch John, Paul, George and Ringo. Feeling slightly guilty, I danced with a coffee cup in hand, singing right along to “Live While We’re Young”, secretly admiring the brushed-forward hair the Fab Four made famous in 1964. The Beatles’ military-inspired jackets, stove pipe pants and stacked heel boots became the French-inspired rage at a time when parents were buying their daughters cardigan sets and knee-length pleated skirts. This morning, I find myself waiting until 10:00 so I can buy my 9-year old daughter her first navy blazer with some sort of insignia on the pocket, which will be paired with “skinny” jeans and a pair of white Chuck Taylor tennis shoes.  It’s a strange feeling to watch life run full circle, or in this case, in one direction.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Thanks Forgetting

In one week, I’ll be poking a partially frozen turkey and panicking over everything left to do before the biggest meal of the year. It dawned on me this afternoon that I’m not prepared for seven guests: my house is dirty, the rooms are cluttered, and laundry is heaped in piles on the floor because the baskets have toppled over. Rather than grabbing a broom and getting down to business, I elected to go to the grocery store to stock up on traditional fare.

My dad used to call this method of cooking “doctoring it up.”  Instead of homemade dressing, I bought two boxes of Stove Top mix and I’ll add chicken stock, celery, onion and sage.  There. Done.

Instead of homemade cranberries, I plan to open two cans of whole berry sauce and throw in rough-cut pecans and diced apple.  There. Done.

The mashed potatoes will be red-skinned so I don’t have to peel them.  Boil. Season. Mash. Whip. Serve.  There. Done.

The gravy, which no one eats, will be microwaved and poured into the serving dish that no one will pick up or pass to the right.  But it will be there.  Done.

The rolls won’t be made from scratch but pulled from a can, warmed and thrown into a basket covered with a cloth napkin to conceal the blackened bottoms.  It’s impossible not to burn the rolls, so I just hide the evidence. There. Done.

Sara Lee will make the pie.  Cool Whip will make the topping.  There. Done.

The turkey – that blasted bird – will be the only thing to fight with.  I’ll rub butter all over his skin, shove an onion, a stalk of celery and a few carrots up his…coop…and then Tom goes into the oven for four hours, or until the smoke alarm goes off.

I texted Mike to brag about my sensible holiday plan.

< I’m ready to go. Got it all. Turkey, pots, stuff, rolls, gravy, crannies, pie.  BRING IT!

> Did you remember to rent the table and chairs?

> WHAT?

Friday, November 16, 2012

 That’s Just Swell!

Just a few minutes ago, I emptied the girls’ backpacks to fish out announcements, homework assignments and requests for more money. I discovered that Ava had a writing folder that contained a blank outline for her essay, “Why I Admire…My Mother.”

I was deeply touched by her title, that is, until I noticed the handout called WritingFix’s List of 200 Breathtaking Adjectives.

My dear daughter had circled the following breathtaking words:

Creative

Energetic

Compassionate

Kind

Smart

Funny…  and

Bloated.

…

Observation after Week 3 :  As I sit halfway though my tour of NoFacebook November, I’ve become aware of something extremely important:  I’ve stopped writing.

Now that I’m teaching a few hours a day, I’m not writing. Now that I’m avoiding social media for 28 days, I’m not writing.  Perhaps I misdiagnosed my problem. Facebook isn’t an addiction – writing is.  Posts and comments were the ways in which I sharpened my skills.  Two sentences became two paragraphs which became two blogs which turned into two chapters which were becoming parts of  book number two.  Now, the page is blank and the screen is dark.

Is it December yet?

 

…

You haven’t heard the last of it!  Click over to http://katybrown.wordpress.com/ for many more…situations.

Posted in Behavior, Clothes, Consumerism, Discipline, Facebook, Family, Food, Holidays, Humor, Katy Brown, Mommies, Perfection, Relationships, School, Stuff we love, Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

« Older Entries