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Oy Vey

Reading over my boychild's second grade curriculum this evening... Under the Mathematics section, this gem:

Data Analysis and Probability
- collect, analyze, display and interpret data
- create concrete graphics, bar graphs, picture graphs, and/or charts
- predict and record results in activities involving probability

This better involve apples/oranges and the shuffling around thereof...and not some horseshite like the relative number of neutrons in a frigging pulsar.

Posted 08/03/04
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Battled the usual array of out-of-control children, indifferent soccer moms, and elitist bitch-queen volunteers* this morning to deal with orientation at my child's school today. He starts second grade Thursday after a harrowing first grade year with a Stalin-esque** teacher who's idea of preparing him for the rest of his school career was to load him down with homework every single night of the week. Now, I give you that I was in grade school a long time ago (and in another country, for that matter), but I'll be damned if I remember having that much homework, even in high school.

My kids' school experiences thusfar have led me to develop a theory about elementary school teachers... By definition, they must adhere rigidly to the lesson plan, to a certain way of doing things, or the room full of 7 year olds will run right over them. I grasp this. What most of them seem incapable of, however, is switching gears and dealing with parents as adults and equals. Hence, they speak to us as if we were seven...or in dire need of a helmet. That, my frens, is a guaranteed way to torque anyone of independent and intelligent mind.

At any rate, this year's teacher is remniscent of last year's...if you stuck her in a vacuum chamber that removed a foot in height, all her eyelashes, 20 years, and any remnant of a sense of humor. It's going to be a loooong few months until we move into the new house/new school system. I'd better start drinking now.

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Posted 08/03/04
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My Day, As Told By A 1st Grade Reader

See Seki.
See Seki bent double with stomach cramps.
See Seki tell her husband, "take the day off, I feel like hell."

See Husband take day off.
See Seki go to the bathroom.
Oops, Seki closed the door.


See Molly.

Molly is 3.
See Molly decide to hop around Nana's house like Tigger.
See Molly bash her face into the bathroom counter.
See Molly's left front tooth.
Molly's tooth is on the floor.

Hi, tooth!
See Seki and Daddy race to Nana's house.
See Daddy talk to the dentist, who says, "put it back in."
See Seki run for the bathroom.
See Seki and Daddy get lost driving Molly to the dentist.

See Molly being the bravest, strongest little girl ever.
See the dentist say, "too late to put it back in, $54 please."
See Seki and Daddy getting a referral to something called a pedodontist who will have to knock Brave Molly out to shove a metal thingy up in her gums to make sure her big girl tooth will have room to come in when she's 6.
See Molly gleefully eating the ice cream she gets to have for meals all weekend until she can go to the pedodontist.
See Seki and Daddy hoping the blasted insurance will cover it...and hugging Molly very tightly.


As you can see, she's really torn up about it.


I swear, I'm going to teach her to say, "Well, you should see the other guy!"

Posted 04/26/03
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And Grampahood?

My mother recently gifted the children with a stuffed bear that sings "America the Beautiful." It's been teaching them the song by osmosis ever since. Only here's how they sing it, sans bear:

O beautiful for stageous skies
For amber waints of grade
For purple fountains majesties
On da beauty play
O Merica O Merica
Cant grent hi grathe on me
And grampahood
In brotherhood
From sea to shining slees.

You just can't make this stuff up.

Posted 10/29/02
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Fear The Toddler

I just caught my 2 1/2 year old daughter walking around with a spoon and a copy of Machiavelli's The Prince.

I have never been this frightened in my entire life.

Posted 08/28/02
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It's roughly 4 AM. My husband has just left for the emergency room with our screaming, feverish, refusing-to-take-her-Advil daughter.

Unsurprisingly, Googling for "how to get my hellspawn to stop the infernal screeching and take her goddamned medicine so I can go back to bed" has yeilded no useful results.

Posted 08/27/02
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I hate Emergency Rooms. The smell...the uncomfortable furniture...the skeezy couple with the infant having a fight over going to the pawn shop...the woman who looked like an extra from that X-Files episode, "Home"...

But I hate them most of all when I'm there because my child is hurt. Tonight's drama makes a total of three times we've been priveleged to devote large chunks of our lives to worry and waiting: once for a fever that scared us, once for a head vs. Christmas ornament incident and now, the dislocated elbow of our 2 1/2 year old daughter.

They call it "nursemaid's elbow" and it is apparently as common as rain. You've got the child by the arm and they twist and pull and *pop.* In this case, we were in the pool, trying to get her floatie back up on her arm where it was supposed to be. Pull the wrong way on a slippery child and howls of agony for hours.

Guilt. We know we didn't do anything wrong, no one accused us of mistreating her, no one even looked at us funny. But there's still guilt. Little nano-workmen install it the day your children are born and they are linked in for the rest of their lives via wireless LAN or something. Technology for which Jobs and Gates would barter their left nuts.

So after four hours of "it hurts!" and "ow woo hoo hoo!!" the wonderfully understanding pediatrician came in, gave it a slight twist and *reverse-pop.* Molly sighed in relief and was clambering around the chairs within 10 minutes, dripping lime popsicle everywhere. Now she's in her bed, snoring, and she'll have completely forgotten the pain by morning.

But we won't.

Posted 06/02/02
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Mommy & Molly

Playing with the new digital camera...

Mommy & MollyMommy & MollyMommy & Molly
Mommy & MollyMommy & MollyMommy & Molly
Mommy & MollyMommy & MollyMommy & Molly
Mommy & MollyMommy & MollyMommy & Molly
Mommy & MollyMommy & MollyMommy & Molly
Posted 05/28/02
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Thinking about having kids? This is 5:13 a.m...telling you to get a goldfish instead.

Posted 04/06/02
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My Day Thusfar...

...has consisted of cat puke, cat poop, milk that's been spit out and rubbed all over the coffee table, milk that's been spit out onto the couch and carpet, an oatmeal covered spoon put back in the silverware drawer, kool-aid crystals scattered all over the kitchen floor and shower cleaner sprayed into the toilet.


Cat pee. Cat pee on the Magna-doodle.

Posted 02/13/02
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My Morning So Far...

"Mommy, why does Oswald like to sing songs?" my son asked. 'Because he's a fucking simpleton,' I think to myself. Oswald is a big blue cartoon octopus on Nick Jr., voiced by Fred Savage of Wonder Years fame. If good old Fred had ever bothered to watch the end product, he'd know (as the rest of us do) that he is never getting laid again. Ever.

I got angry at a peanut butter & jelly sandwich a few minutes ago. Angry. At a sandwich. The bottom piece of bread was an end piece and kind of tough, it didn't want to be cut into a triangle. So I snarled a curse and attacked it with renewed vigor, strawberry jam oozing like blood...with seeds. It was absurd enough to pull me up short. Angry at a sandwich? Because it wouldn't allow itself to be cut? I was too grumpy for it to make me laugh, but I have hopes for later.

My grumpiness stems from being awakened by the piercing shrieking of my 2 year old daughter. Those of you with daughters know that police whistles got nothing on little girls. My son had apparently pinched her because she was sitting in his rocking chair. I meted out the appropriate punishments, yelled a bit and went to make coffee, thoroughly grumped. This is when the sandwich chose to defy me. And that's what it's really all about...I instructed the sandwich to be cut, it didn't cooperate. I instruct my children to be nice to each other, not to hurt each other, they don't fucking cooperate.

And the shrieking. As with all toddlers, my daughter is a firm believer in letting the world know how she's feeling. From her merry giggles to her goddamned ambulance siren of an angry shriek, she believes in sharing the emotion. And I have not yet mastered the art of keeping it separate from my own. Some days I don't think I ever will.

While the coffee is brewing, I clean up the not one, but two instances of cat effluvia lying around the house, alerted by shrieks of "Cat puke!" from both children. So helpful, aren't they? I make biscuits, hoping my daughter will deign to put mortal food in her mouth. She's currently existing on some invisible form of ambrosia...doesn't appear to eat anything but grows nonetheless. Preparing my own breakfast, I drop the honey container smack onto a freshly buttered biscuit. *sigh*

Perhaps I should go back to bed.

Posted 01/24/02
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Ow My Ass

The drive from Tampa, Florida to Huntsville, Alabama is roughly 12 hours. Unless you're doing it with two small children. Then it takes 78 hours because, if you have a brain in your head, you stop off at Grandma's house halfway there and spend a day and a half recuperating and fortifying your intestines for the second half of the trip.

And Grandma lives in Andalusia, Alabama.

A more inbred cesspit does not exist on the face of this benighted planet. I hate literally everything about Andalusia, from the utter lack of anything resembling an espresso to the fact that at any time I could run into one or more of my husband's old punches. Since it is so close to the Florida line, the drug trafficking is to make Miami green with envy, there's not a Taco Bell to be found and it's just...EW! I just don't like it. I think it is rooted in my hatred for the small town in which I went to high school...Gurley, Alabama. But that is another story.

So, the agenda for the week. Spend time tomorrow with Persephone, who we haven't seen for six months, so she can be reminded of why she chose to ask the medical profession to ensure she never has children of her own. Then, at some point, a viewing of Lord of the Rings has simply got to happen. If I don't get me some Aragorn, I'm gonna be a bitch to live with. Ahh, Aragorn.... Oh, where was I? Okay, then Christmas, hang about here for a bit then back down the lonesome highway to the benighted Andalusia for some more visiting with Grandma. Don't get me wrong, LOVE Grandma, HATE Andalusia.

Oh, by the way, a karmic message for anyone pondering the notion of robbing our apartment while we're gone...across the hall live the two nosiest old fucks on the planet, so a front door entrance is right out. If you should make it through the back door, you have to contend with Monkey, the psycho bitch-cat from hell. And may the gods have mercy on your soul. Be sure to use your own blood to write out your last will and testament before you die, okay? Thanks.

Posted 12/22/01
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