Robert Fulghum penned a wonderful little book called, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." Having taught kindergarten, the book is dear to me, but while getting ready for another day of unemployment, I realized life's most important lessons may even go further back than that...
to potty training.
That's right, everything we need to know in life goes back to potty training and without even having researched any psychological theories to back this up, let me forge ahead...
• Change is inevitable... yes, you could continue the current routine -- it's easier, but eventually you have to live with the smell... and the discomfort...
• Accept guidance... nothing is obvious the first time around.
• Be patient... things may not happen right away.
• Noise is normal... progress is not always quietly achieved.
• Don't worry about what you've lost... you can live without it.
• Timing is important... delay leads to disappointment; ignoring the obvious makes you all wet.
• Occasionally, mess happens... it's best to admit it, everyone around you knows anyway.
• Follow up with paperwork... not always, but most of the time, failure leaves tracks.
• Flushing is fun... watch it go and don't worry where it went.
• Put the seat down... unexpected courtesy will always win you favor.
• And last, but certainly not least... never assume it's just gas...
Enough said.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Beer Note Baffles Anxious Mom
"Deer mom. Thank you for bringgin me to school. Ivin if you have to pul a beer. I like it in 2nd grad. Love Allyn."
I looked at the hand-written note my son had excitedly presented me as he jumped into the car following his second day of school.
It was neatly written on primary manuscript paper, carefully folded, and tucked into a bright red envelope, stamped ALLYN T.
I dropped him off at his after-school program, returned to work and quickly slipped open the envelope.
My mouth dropped open as I read it and re-read it several times.
What in the world could it possibly mean? I certainly don't quickly slam down a "cold one" on my way out the door before taking the boys to school in the morning.
I knew there had to be some little spelling mistake that would easily explain the meaning of the note. Having taught kindergarten, I was usually pretty good at deciphering "phonetic spelling." But this one had me baffled.
Worse yet, I couldn't help but wonder what my son's teacher must have thought as she surveyed his handiwork.
When I picked him up later, I couldn't wait to ask him about the note. In fact, everyone at the office had found the letter quite amusing and were anxious to learn its meaning. (The unibomber couldn't have drawn a more captive audience.)
"Read me the nice note you wrote me," I requested as I handed it to him, not letting on that I didn't "get" its meaning.
"Why?" he asked as if I had asked him to explain something obvious, like how all the mud got on his new white shirt.
"Well, I just like the way it sounds when you read it," I purred.
"Okay," he sighed as he rolled his eyes and pulled the note to his face. "Dear Mom, Thank you for bringing me to school. Even if you have to pull a bear, I like second grade."
I breathed a sigh of relief - of course "beer" was referring to the bears his teacher uses for assertive discipline. For each minor infraction, the teacher "pulls" the student's bear down a notch. Yes, my son would be well-aware of "pulling bears."
Whew! My reputation was exonerated - I only hoped the teacher had him read it out loud to her as well.
"Did you read this nice letter to your teacher, too?" I asked.
"Nope," he replied.
"But it's such a nice letter, why didn't you?" I prodded.
"I couldn't 'cuz she was laughing too hard."
I think I'm going to go pul a beer now.
I looked at the hand-written note my son had excitedly presented me as he jumped into the car following his second day of school.
It was neatly written on primary manuscript paper, carefully folded, and tucked into a bright red envelope, stamped ALLYN T.
I dropped him off at his after-school program, returned to work and quickly slipped open the envelope.
My mouth dropped open as I read it and re-read it several times.
What in the world could it possibly mean? I certainly don't quickly slam down a "cold one" on my way out the door before taking the boys to school in the morning.
I knew there had to be some little spelling mistake that would easily explain the meaning of the note. Having taught kindergarten, I was usually pretty good at deciphering "phonetic spelling." But this one had me baffled.
Worse yet, I couldn't help but wonder what my son's teacher must have thought as she surveyed his handiwork.
When I picked him up later, I couldn't wait to ask him about the note. In fact, everyone at the office had found the letter quite amusing and were anxious to learn its meaning. (The unibomber couldn't have drawn a more captive audience.)
"Read me the nice note you wrote me," I requested as I handed it to him, not letting on that I didn't "get" its meaning.
"Why?" he asked as if I had asked him to explain something obvious, like how all the mud got on his new white shirt.
"Well, I just like the way it sounds when you read it," I purred.
"Okay," he sighed as he rolled his eyes and pulled the note to his face. "Dear Mom, Thank you for bringing me to school. Even if you have to pull a bear, I like second grade."
I breathed a sigh of relief - of course "beer" was referring to the bears his teacher uses for assertive discipline. For each minor infraction, the teacher "pulls" the student's bear down a notch. Yes, my son would be well-aware of "pulling bears."
Whew! My reputation was exonerated - I only hoped the teacher had him read it out loud to her as well.
"Did you read this nice letter to your teacher, too?" I asked.
"Nope," he replied.
"But it's such a nice letter, why didn't you?" I prodded.
"I couldn't 'cuz she was laughing too hard."
I think I'm going to go pul a beer now.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Down on the old ant farm
It was a pretty good deal for $1 but the events that followed made me reconsider the "bargain" several times over.
"Wow!!" my youngest cried upon spying an ant farm at a local dollar store. "You mean you can farm ants?"
"Sure, they drive teeny-weenie little tractors and raise no-see-ums instead of cows," I replied.
He gave me the "Oh, mom" look but held on tight to the ant farm as his "priority pick" for the outing. I was surprised and rather pleased with his selection considering the variety of candy and toy weaponry available.
But my mood changed once we got home and he began to badger me about putting the farm into action.
Outside it was hot enough to melt a video tape (been there, done that), but seeing as I wasn't able to scrape together enough sand and ants inside the house we took the farm, a pail and a spoon and ventured into the 95 degree heat.
We came upon a big ant hill and began to dig. Wanting nothing to do with two giant humans bent on the destruction of their empire, the ants evaded the spoon and ultimately the farm.
I attempted to pick them up with my fingers. Try it some time - make sure they're not fire ants first - it takes a gentle touch.
After squishing a few, much to my son's distress, I began to dump spoonfuls of sand and ants into the plastic farm.
It was pretty messy, but it looked like at least five ants were trapped inside. We snapped the top on and started to walk home.
Sweat pouring off us, we made our way back home, stopping every now and then to drop a couple more ants into the farm.
This vital mistake led to a real education on ants.
At first the little, black creatures occupied themselves with the business of escaping the plastic farm. We dropped some sugar into the contraption to distract them from this pursuit.
"That one's Little Foot, that's Big Foot, and this one's Harry," my son announced as he watched the little critters scamper about.
"Harry?" I asked.
"He has hair but you're too old - your eyes can't see it anymore," he said smugly.
About a half-hour later, he had something new to report.
"Look, they're wrestling! I can't believe it!"
Then it occurred to me - the ants all looked alike but coming from different hills they considered each other mortal enemies.
Wouldn't you know with all the job titles associated with ants - worker, nurse, soldier - there was not one diplomat in the bunch?
By morning, the farm was strewn with curled, lifeless ant bodies and one big, smug-looking ant with dark glasses, smoking a cigar.
Tears welled up in my son's eyes as he surveyed the ravaged farm.
"I can't believe Big Foot could be so mean!" he cried.
I was just relieved the farm had made it 24 hours without spilling.
I dumped the farm's contents into the trash and assured him we'd try again, this time taking all farm workers from the same hill.
I intend to make good on that promise...
But don't bet the farm.
"Wow!!" my youngest cried upon spying an ant farm at a local dollar store. "You mean you can farm ants?"
"Sure, they drive teeny-weenie little tractors and raise no-see-ums instead of cows," I replied.
He gave me the "Oh, mom" look but held on tight to the ant farm as his "priority pick" for the outing. I was surprised and rather pleased with his selection considering the variety of candy and toy weaponry available.
But my mood changed once we got home and he began to badger me about putting the farm into action.
Outside it was hot enough to melt a video tape (been there, done that), but seeing as I wasn't able to scrape together enough sand and ants inside the house we took the farm, a pail and a spoon and ventured into the 95 degree heat.
We came upon a big ant hill and began to dig. Wanting nothing to do with two giant humans bent on the destruction of their empire, the ants evaded the spoon and ultimately the farm.
I attempted to pick them up with my fingers. Try it some time - make sure they're not fire ants first - it takes a gentle touch.
After squishing a few, much to my son's distress, I began to dump spoonfuls of sand and ants into the plastic farm.
It was pretty messy, but it looked like at least five ants were trapped inside. We snapped the top on and started to walk home.
Sweat pouring off us, we made our way back home, stopping every now and then to drop a couple more ants into the farm.
This vital mistake led to a real education on ants.
At first the little, black creatures occupied themselves with the business of escaping the plastic farm. We dropped some sugar into the contraption to distract them from this pursuit.
"That one's Little Foot, that's Big Foot, and this one's Harry," my son announced as he watched the little critters scamper about.
"Harry?" I asked.
"He has hair but you're too old - your eyes can't see it anymore," he said smugly.
About a half-hour later, he had something new to report.
"Look, they're wrestling! I can't believe it!"
Then it occurred to me - the ants all looked alike but coming from different hills they considered each other mortal enemies.
Wouldn't you know with all the job titles associated with ants - worker, nurse, soldier - there was not one diplomat in the bunch?
By morning, the farm was strewn with curled, lifeless ant bodies and one big, smug-looking ant with dark glasses, smoking a cigar.
Tears welled up in my son's eyes as he surveyed the ravaged farm.
"I can't believe Big Foot could be so mean!" he cried.
I was just relieved the farm had made it 24 hours without spilling.
I dumped the farm's contents into the trash and assured him we'd try again, this time taking all farm workers from the same hill.
I intend to make good on that promise...
But don't bet the farm.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Gold bomber blows Derby competition away
It was one of those moments you cherish a lifetime (or at least until the next minor miracle comes your way).
Jumping up and down in disbelief, we watched as our seven-year-old's little "gold bomber" raced down the wooden track, taking all of its heats and going on to win first place in the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby.
While this would be a banner moment for any family it is particularly momentous for ours because of the fact that we own four major tools - a hammer, a Philips screwdriver, a pliers, and a plunger. What? A plunger is not a tool? Okay, three tools.
It had been weeks since my son and I purchased the little, blue Cub Scout Pinewood Derby kit which contained a six-inch block of wood, four plastic wheels and a quartet of nails - four long weeks of begging and pleading, "Pleeeze, Mom, can we make my car tonight? I promise I'll go to bed at 8 o'clock every night for the rest of my life."
Yeah, right.
The problem was... how to transform the pine block into a sleek, little race car - a major challenge for a seven-year-old "accident waiting to happen" and a tool-less female who never took a single shop class in her life.
When I mentioned the problem to my brother-in-law, he shared the saddest story I've ever heard.
Nearly 25 years earlier, as a young Cub Scout, he too participated in a Pinewood Derby. The story goes because he had no assistance with his car, he ended up attaching the wheels to the block, painting it red and racing his little, red block down the track amid the snickers of fellow Scouts.
After wiping the tears from my eyes, I vowed my son would not suffer a similar fate.
So we took our block to Sunshine Ace Hardware and the guys there helped remove the pieces we had marked with a pencil. The results looked very much like a race car.
My son was ecstatic.
We bought some primer and a can of gold spray paint and headed home.
After a quick and ineffective sanding job, my son had a ball spray painting the car. (He also painted two rocks, a plastic figurine, eight of his fingers, and an old pair of shoes. Gold paint is a lot of fun.)
His dad helped him put the wheels on the car and a Leggo man was cleverly glued into the driver's seat. I don't think my son could have been prouder of his shiny, gold racer.
That is, until the night of the weigh-in.
"My car's probably going to take last place," he sighed, eyeing the fancy, slick race cars made by Scouts whose families actually own tools.
"Fancy is not always fast," I replied, hoping to make him feel better about his "gold bomber."
As the saying goes, "don't judge a book by its cover." The next day, the bomber went on to win, despite the fact that my son dropped it on the sidewalk and a wheel fell off just minutes before the race began.
"So what's your secret?" other parents asked us.
"Well, I'm certainly no expert," I replied. "I guess... just don't take it too seriously."
Kind of like life, huh?
Jumping up and down in disbelief, we watched as our seven-year-old's little "gold bomber" raced down the wooden track, taking all of its heats and going on to win first place in the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby.
While this would be a banner moment for any family it is particularly momentous for ours because of the fact that we own four major tools - a hammer, a Philips screwdriver, a pliers, and a plunger. What? A plunger is not a tool? Okay, three tools.
It had been weeks since my son and I purchased the little, blue Cub Scout Pinewood Derby kit which contained a six-inch block of wood, four plastic wheels and a quartet of nails - four long weeks of begging and pleading, "Pleeeze, Mom, can we make my car tonight? I promise I'll go to bed at 8 o'clock every night for the rest of my life."
Yeah, right.
The problem was... how to transform the pine block into a sleek, little race car - a major challenge for a seven-year-old "accident waiting to happen" and a tool-less female who never took a single shop class in her life.
When I mentioned the problem to my brother-in-law, he shared the saddest story I've ever heard.
Nearly 25 years earlier, as a young Cub Scout, he too participated in a Pinewood Derby. The story goes because he had no assistance with his car, he ended up attaching the wheels to the block, painting it red and racing his little, red block down the track amid the snickers of fellow Scouts.
After wiping the tears from my eyes, I vowed my son would not suffer a similar fate.
So we took our block to Sunshine Ace Hardware and the guys there helped remove the pieces we had marked with a pencil. The results looked very much like a race car.
My son was ecstatic.
We bought some primer and a can of gold spray paint and headed home.
After a quick and ineffective sanding job, my son had a ball spray painting the car. (He also painted two rocks, a plastic figurine, eight of his fingers, and an old pair of shoes. Gold paint is a lot of fun.)
His dad helped him put the wheels on the car and a Leggo man was cleverly glued into the driver's seat. I don't think my son could have been prouder of his shiny, gold racer.
That is, until the night of the weigh-in.
"My car's probably going to take last place," he sighed, eyeing the fancy, slick race cars made by Scouts whose families actually own tools.
"Fancy is not always fast," I replied, hoping to make him feel better about his "gold bomber."
As the saying goes, "don't judge a book by its cover." The next day, the bomber went on to win, despite the fact that my son dropped it on the sidewalk and a wheel fell off just minutes before the race began.
"So what's your secret?" other parents asked us.
"Well, I'm certainly no expert," I replied. "I guess... just don't take it too seriously."
Kind of like life, huh?
Thursday, March 18, 2010
A Perilous Pet Record
It happened every time my family walked into a pet store - everything from finch to guinea pig started shaking in its cage.
Chameleons turned clear-colored, snakes tried to swallow their own tails, fish intentionally floated around on their backs, birds flew aimlessly into the walls of their cages, trying to knock themselves out.
Kinda weird, huh?
Perhaps this happened because animals have a sixth sense about people. Somehow the animal grapevine has passed along our track record of pet fatalities and the fact that our whole backyard is one big pet cemetery.
Of course all of these deaths are completely legitimate - the coroner's autopsy report proved it so in every case.
It would be convenient to blame the losses on the careless hands of my two sons, but the truth is two gerbils, two hamsters and dozens of fish met their 'Maker' under my care (as a kindergarten teacher) even before the boys were born.
Because I have a similar record with plants, I began to look for potential pets with that "cactus look" about them.
"How much care does it take? Does it need to eat?" I would ask the clerk as my sons begged for the latest "victim."
She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.
"Ma'am, maybe you should look in that section over there," she suggested, pointing to the plastic plants and animals.
But it's hard to talk your children into plastic pets so we kept looking.
Fish, I decided.
"Wow, $12 for a fish?" I got a sudden flashback to my college days and that pathetic mouth-to-mouth attempt on Goldie XXI. "Let's look at the plastic stuff."
"How 'bout him?" my son asked pointing to a horned something-or-other in a sandy cage with a desert decor. He certainly looked "cactus" enough.
"Too mean-looking," I replied, eyeing the $239.99 price tag.
"A bunny?" - "Too breakable."
"A mouse?" - "Too loseable."
"A bird?" - "Too escapeable."
"A turtle" - "Too boring."
"A ferret?" - "Too sneaky."
"A snake?" - "Get real."
Finally we found something - something that didn't know enough to hide as we passed by the aquarium.
It was a marine crab and the clerk assured us it was very durable - almost 'tank-like' in fact. Put him in a salt water tank and you didn't have to feed or water him or walk, bathe or deflea him - it was great! We had him for five years - count them f-i-v-e.
Sure, Festus had his drawbacks. He didn't listen well and he wouldn't fetch a stick. He wasn't much company when everyone else was mad at me and he wouldn't bring my slippers or the newspaper at the end of a hard day at work.
So what did he do? Well, it's really more what he didn't do that made him so unique.
He didn't die.
Chameleons turned clear-colored, snakes tried to swallow their own tails, fish intentionally floated around on their backs, birds flew aimlessly into the walls of their cages, trying to knock themselves out.
Kinda weird, huh?
Perhaps this happened because animals have a sixth sense about people. Somehow the animal grapevine has passed along our track record of pet fatalities and the fact that our whole backyard is one big pet cemetery.
Of course all of these deaths are completely legitimate - the coroner's autopsy report proved it so in every case.
It would be convenient to blame the losses on the careless hands of my two sons, but the truth is two gerbils, two hamsters and dozens of fish met their 'Maker' under my care (as a kindergarten teacher) even before the boys were born.
Because I have a similar record with plants, I began to look for potential pets with that "cactus look" about them.
"How much care does it take? Does it need to eat?" I would ask the clerk as my sons begged for the latest "victim."
She looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.
"Ma'am, maybe you should look in that section over there," she suggested, pointing to the plastic plants and animals.
But it's hard to talk your children into plastic pets so we kept looking.
Fish, I decided.
"Wow, $12 for a fish?" I got a sudden flashback to my college days and that pathetic mouth-to-mouth attempt on Goldie XXI. "Let's look at the plastic stuff."
"How 'bout him?" my son asked pointing to a horned something-or-other in a sandy cage with a desert decor. He certainly looked "cactus" enough.
"Too mean-looking," I replied, eyeing the $239.99 price tag.
"A bunny?" - "Too breakable."
"A mouse?" - "Too loseable."
"A bird?" - "Too escapeable."
"A turtle" - "Too boring."
"A ferret?" - "Too sneaky."
"A snake?" - "Get real."
Finally we found something - something that didn't know enough to hide as we passed by the aquarium.
It was a marine crab and the clerk assured us it was very durable - almost 'tank-like' in fact. Put him in a salt water tank and you didn't have to feed or water him or walk, bathe or deflea him - it was great! We had him for five years - count them f-i-v-e.
Sure, Festus had his drawbacks. He didn't listen well and he wouldn't fetch a stick. He wasn't much company when everyone else was mad at me and he wouldn't bring my slippers or the newspaper at the end of a hard day at work.
So what did he do? Well, it's really more what he didn't do that made him so unique.
He didn't die.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
They grow up too fast...
One Sunday morning after an especially harrowing church service, a sweet, little cherub-faced granny made her way over to where I stood bouncing a crying, over-tired baby in one arm and keeping a tight grasp on a wiggly three-year-old with the other.
"Enjoy them while they're young," she whispered as she patted my arm, "they grow up so fast."
I smiled and nodded but inside I was thinking, "Yeah, right, and I enjoy bamboo shoots under my fingernails, too."
It wasn't until a few years later that I realized the wisdom of granny's advice. It was the day my oldest son's little hand quickly slipped from mine as we walked to his kindergarten classroom.
"I can find my room myself, Mom," he stated as his earnest, blue eyes met mine. "I'm not a baby."
It was at that moment I realized granny was right - he was no longer a baby and I had not savored every messy kiss, too-rough hug, or sticky pat on my cheek. I ached for that little person whose tireless arms were constantly tugging at me to pick him up.
I realized I had thrown away too many scribbles, put off too many bed time stories and ignored too many never-ending questions like why God made brussel sprouts.
From that moment on, I vowed things would change. I would no longer consider motherhood as a well-earned badge of honor or an "I survived" t-shirt.
I vowed to enjoy diapers for they would soon be replaced by BVDs.
I would live for hugs and kisses of any sort, for they would soon become a quick wave of acknowledgment from 50 feet away.
I would appreciate wooden blocks and Fun Fruits for they would soon become drum sticks and Big Macs.
I would gladly watch endless reruns of Sesame Street for they would soon be replaced with Freddy Krueger flicks.
I vowed to enjoy running next to a wobbling bicycle in stifling humidity because I would soon find myself running next to a car trying to stuff in a bag of BVDs as it cruises off to college.
I would cherish the words, "MOM, can you..." because they would soon be replaced with the deafening silence of an empty nest.
Of course I haven't always made good on these pledges. Even with the renewed resolve, I continue to be haunted by granny's advice every time I say things like, "Why can't you just... grow up?"
The bittersweet truth of motherhood is it's not how many diapers you change or how many teacher conferences you attend, it's not how many emergency room visits you endure or how many gray hairs you earn along the way. The only thing that matters in the end is that you were there.
Mom, I know I am growing up so fast - thanks for being there for me.
"Enjoy them while they're young," she whispered as she patted my arm, "they grow up so fast."
I smiled and nodded but inside I was thinking, "Yeah, right, and I enjoy bamboo shoots under my fingernails, too."
It wasn't until a few years later that I realized the wisdom of granny's advice. It was the day my oldest son's little hand quickly slipped from mine as we walked to his kindergarten classroom.
"I can find my room myself, Mom," he stated as his earnest, blue eyes met mine. "I'm not a baby."
It was at that moment I realized granny was right - he was no longer a baby and I had not savored every messy kiss, too-rough hug, or sticky pat on my cheek. I ached for that little person whose tireless arms were constantly tugging at me to pick him up.
I realized I had thrown away too many scribbles, put off too many bed time stories and ignored too many never-ending questions like why God made brussel sprouts.
From that moment on, I vowed things would change. I would no longer consider motherhood as a well-earned badge of honor or an "I survived" t-shirt.
I vowed to enjoy diapers for they would soon be replaced by BVDs.
I would live for hugs and kisses of any sort, for they would soon become a quick wave of acknowledgment from 50 feet away.
I would appreciate wooden blocks and Fun Fruits for they would soon become drum sticks and Big Macs.
I would gladly watch endless reruns of Sesame Street for they would soon be replaced with Freddy Krueger flicks.
I vowed to enjoy running next to a wobbling bicycle in stifling humidity because I would soon find myself running next to a car trying to stuff in a bag of BVDs as it cruises off to college.
I would cherish the words, "MOM, can you..." because they would soon be replaced with the deafening silence of an empty nest.
Of course I haven't always made good on these pledges. Even with the renewed resolve, I continue to be haunted by granny's advice every time I say things like, "Why can't you just... grow up?"
The bittersweet truth of motherhood is it's not how many diapers you change or how many teacher conferences you attend, it's not how many emergency room visits you endure or how many gray hairs you earn along the way. The only thing that matters in the end is that you were there.
Mom, I know I am growing up so fast - thanks for being there for me.
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