The Wheels on the Bus....

I spent my day knee-deep in Kindergarteners--small people who started out loud, silly, and boisterous, and became increasingly hot, tired, bedraggled, and grimy as the Farm Field Trip wore on.

On the nausea-inducing (one-HOUR) bus ride, I was treated to the following snippets of titillating conversation:
Girl1: (very seriously) "I saw a groundhog at my Grandma's. They wanted to kill it."
Boy1: (with great excitement) "I see a Park Police car!"
My Son: "Does Spiderman eat bugs?"
Girl2: "You're weird!" (fortunately NOT aimed at me!)
Boy2: (passing a shopping center) "I'm huunnngry. Can we stop at McDonalds?"
Boy1 again: (singing) "Five dollar foot-longs at Subwaaaay!"
Girl1 again: "Why do they call it a hayride?" (Wait, I know this one! Because you ride...in the hay!)
My son: "Is the Hulk a bad guy?"
Boy 1 again: (quivering with enthusiasm) "I see a firetruck!"

Finally we arrived, and despite the oppressive humidity, 100 or so 5-year olds trudged through muddy fields, toiling diligently to gather strawberries (fortified, in my son's case, by promises of shortcake for dessert later). They emerged with brimming baskets: dotted with sticky red juice, itchy from hay that stuck to their socks, dripping sweat from their brows...but grinning with triumph and pride. So in the end, no one will recall the heat, or the gnats, or the muck, but rather "Remember when you came on my field trip, Mommy, and we picked so many strawberries?" Yep, chalk up another one of those "precious childhood moments"!

Winners Don't Always Score the Most Goals...

As a child, I didn't participate in organized sports (except for one brief, disastrous attempt at t-ball, but I've finally managed to suppress those memories). I was chubby, and shy, and insecure (aside to those who know me: Stop laughing now! It's the truth!). However, I'm glad I eventually uncovered my inner-athlete, since I now find myself raising two sporty little boys. The older one has played soccer for 5 seasons now, with the same coach, and most of the same kids. In 3rd grade they moved "up" a level, and are playing for the first time on a 3/4-length field, with full-size goals, and goalies, and referees. MLS it isn't, but it's almost the Real Thing!

My son's team is full of really terrific boys. They're enthusiastic, they run hard, they try their best...and they lose every game. They don't even score many goals (hence the losing). But Derek counts down to every single match, bouncing around the house in his excitement, checking the clock for how many hours until he can pull on his shinguards and cleats and get out in the grass. He bubbles over with the sheer joy of playing, and it is absolutely infectious (in a good way!).

On Game Days, the Parental Corps paces the sidelines, cheering at crisp passes, groaning at shots off the crossbar, and yelling encouragement until we're hoarse. After the last whistle--and yet another loss--Coach jogs over to us with a big grin on his face, to animatedly discuss all the little things the team did right today, and how much they're improving, and how close they are to that elusive first victory. No wonder my son loves soccer season. His entire experience--except for the teensy detail of the final score--has been one big barrel of positive energy. On this team, there's no criticism, no arguing, no defeatist-attitude. Instead, these 8 and 9-year olds pat each other on the back, congratulate one another for a job well done...and rehash the exciting moments over chips and juice boxes.

So these boys aren't getting much of a lesson in how to be a "gracious winner", but they certainly are incredibly Good Sports. And they've already instinctively figured out what even some adults tend to forget in the heat of competition: for a rousing good time, all you need is a ball, some grass, and a bunch of buddies to chase. And of course: snacks!

"Metal" Memories

Like many kids of my generation, I suffered through several long adolescent years sporting a heaping mouthful of braces. Scratchy brackets, sharp wires, rubber bands...even the dreaded headgear (collective shudder). "Back then", they started the excruciating process in middle school, which meant you just might enter high school still flashing a chrome-grin. (i.e. the photo of me in 9th grade) And the agony...pressure so intense it hurt to BREATHE. Every time I visited the torturer--I mean orthodontist--I spent days afterward subsisting on bananas and peanut butter sandwiches; even those caused me to wince with pain at each bite.

Fast forward to the 21st century, when enlightened tortur--orthodontists begin their work on 7 year olds! Derek already has had palate-expanding devices in for a year-and-a-half, with brackets and wires that they remove or add, depending on what's going on with his teeth (falling out, growing in, crowding, what have you). Apparently they now know that if you get in there before the palate fuses (around age 10), you can just merrily manipulate the mouth with much less resistance, and therefore PAIN. So, his experience overall has been much easier than what I remember.

However, although I never expected to say this: I'm glad I have such vivid memories of my own Orthodontic Era. Because this morning for the first time after an "adjustment appointment" at the orthodontist, Derek lay curled up in bed, refusing to eat (for him, a RED ALERT!!) and moaning about his mouth aching. I was able to empathize with him and share some Tales of a Teenage Metal Mouth. I assured him it would feel better tomorrow morning. But he really brightened when I cut up a banana and arranged it into a smiley-face for his breakfast...and slathered it with Nutella. (Proving once again, chocolate does make the world go 'round!)

"I'm free, to do what I want, any old time"

Memorial Day approaches, which means people all over this country gear up for a weekend of flag-waving, barbequing, and celebrating the "unofficial start of summer". (As I write this I'm under a fleece blanket, in my flannel pajamas...but in my imagination I'm warm!) Here then are a few of the freedoms I personally feel grateful for as a citizen of the United States:

--Freedom to go to the pool when it opens this Saturday. Also freedom to NOT enter the water until approximately July, when it has risen above 50 degrees.
--Freedom to cook over an open flame in the backyard.
--Freedom to enjoy an adult beverage (AFTER cooking over said fire).
--Freedom to chase small children with water pistols with no repercussions!
--Freedom to consume way too many s'mores (Bonus: if you eat some green salad at the same picnic, the calories cancel each other out. It's true. Just take my word for it!)
--Freedom to spit watermelon seeds--no reason necessary. Extra points if you actually manage to hit a small child involved in the water battle.
--Freedom to play badminton or volleyball or whiffleball or any other game in the grass. Skill not required; sportsmanship mandatory!

And now I am blissfully free to wrap this up and watch the O's/Yanks game for a while. Oh, that reminds me of one last very important thing. I'm grateful to live in a country where I can express my opinions openly and without reprisal. So here goes...Yankees Suck : )!!!!!!!! (It had to be said.)

Oh....Rats!?

Disclaimer: in my last entry I swore (ha ha) that my husband and I avoid using "bad language" around our children. I was mostly telling the truth. In fact, Husband recently got in trouble for his unconscious habit of sprinkling conversation with the word "crap". I repeatedly pointed it out to him--okay, I huffed in exasperation and glared at him--and he would always look befuddled. The expression was so automatic, he didn't even register that he was saying it...constantly. And I know people use it all the time, as a relatively acceptable, mild oath. But really, it is yet ANOTHER word for poop. (Eskimos have dozens of words for 'snow'; American slang gives us...excrement. My boys do not need more options in this area!) To his credit, Husband has been diligently trying to monitor his speech. He's even adopted the inoffensive and amusing "crud monkeys!" as a substitute. However, for all our good intentions and examples inside our own house, I fear that it takes just one bus ride or recess chat to undo the hard work. Case in point: last week the 5-year old was struggling to get ready for school, and was close to tears of frustration. When I went to help him and asked what was wrong, he muttered, "I always have trouble with my frickin' socks!" So it's back to the drawing board...

@$%&!

During my Former Life, I worked in various elementary school settings, and was surrounded by children all day. In the educational environment, one automatically became accustomed to using curse-and-vulgarity-free language. It became second nature to let fly with "sugar!" or "drat!" or in particularly intense emotional situations, "doggone it!" Little did I know at the time that it was good training for having my own kids. Even though my husband and I don't use those words at home, I know my kids hear them out in the big, bad world. In fact, the 3rd grader--upright and honest citizen that he is--will occasionally report on what he knows. For instance, one night at dinner (Wholesome Family Meal, right?), he matter-of-factly stated, "I know what the f-word is, and the s-word too." I choked down my bite of pasta and went into immediate damage-control mode: "You know not to USE them, right?" "Oh, no, Mommy," he earnestly agreed. Meanwhile the 5-year old was bouncing up and down in his seat, waving his hand like he wanted to be called on, asking, "what's the s-word?" Maybe I should have taken another moment to think it through and plan my response better, knowing my immature audience...but instead I plowed ahead and answered, "It's just another word for 'poop', honey". Exactly one second of silence, then WAAHHHH HAAAAA HAAAAA!!! POOP!!!! IT MEANS POOP! !! HAAAAAA HAAAA!!! Sigh. I don't think he still has any idea what the actual word is, but the moral of the story is: in Boy Language, you can never have too many words for 'poop'.

Chugging Along on the Search Engine...

My last entry, in which I mocked my father's ancient Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, and the equally obsolete 26-volume Encyclopedia Brittanica, started me pondering the "bad old days" of research. In my case, I first had to wait until the public library was open. Then Mom had to drive me there. And at last I could begin the torturous process of digging through books, newspapers (and sometimes the librarian's brain) for the information I needed. Compare that to 2009, when you can get all the facts you want (and many, many you don't) with a few clicks. Just for fun, I checked my recent search history, and here are some of the topics I've combed the Internet for lately:

--The exact date Cal Ripken Jr. was inducted into baseball's Hall of Fame, for Derek's book report. It took approximately 1.5 seconds...he's so spoiled already by computers and doesn't even know it!

--How to melt broken crayons together, and make them into new ones. Riley came home from Kindergarten and described the process with great enthusiasm and detail...except how hot, exactly, the oven should be. Googled it. 2 seconds.

--The FDA-approved method of disposing of expired medications. The school nurse sent home an instructional flyer that advised "flush them down the toilet". ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Just what we need, Prozac in the water supply...(okay, that one might not be so bad.) FDA.gov: downloaded a procedure sheet, copied it, brought it to school to share. Maybe 30 seconds, including printing, + 5 minutes for the drive.

--Nickelodeon's May Movie Month schedule. Finding which night the movie I wanted to record was showing: remarkably difficult on their website, so maybe 2 minutes. Setting DVR: 45 seconds. Mourning newspaper TV Guide and VCR tapes: hahahahaha...I mean zero seconds.

--A synopsis of Shakespeare's Othello...because when the 5-year old came out of the bath, spiky-haired, wrapped in a towel and looking very thoughtful, he asked me, "Mommy, which character would you be, Iago or Othello?" It was one of those, "Dude, do you realize you're in Kindergarten?" moments. Also: get your father for me so I can ask him what the HECK you were talking about in there! 10 minutes to sort out where this came from, 1 minute to find a succinct summary to refresh my memory.

I still visit the library regularly to check out books for pleasure-reading, but my days of tedious, boring, difficult research are o-v-e-r. At least until my sons have to write term papers. Then I'll...drive them to the library!

Caught up in "the Web"

In high school, I met my first computer. I learned to write stupid little "Basic" programs--cursing each stinking comma and misplaced "and/or"--that eventually succeeded in drawing useless pictures on the screen. Let's just say the machine and I did not particularly enjoy each other. Then in college, my roommate had a (clunky, desktop-covering) computer I was allowed to borrow for typing papers. A glorified word-processor, if you will. I told it what to do, it obeyed, and we got along just fine (except when it occasionally rebelled and ate my work, but what can you do?). Now I sit here with my laptop, answering e-mails, updating my Facebook status, checking whether the O's won, reading celebrity gossip on People.com, playing a quick game of Bejeweled, getting an update on the forecast for tomorrow, and...where was I? Oh yeah, writing my blog entry! I can't even imagine anymore how we stumbled through life, in the dark, dismal time B.I. (Before Internet). I do vaguely recall hours of torture in the library, scouring the CARD CATALOG for reference books, searching the shelves, and taking notes (with pen! and paper!). Mostly I've blocked this out for my own sanity. Remember dictionaries? My dad had a hardback one that must have weighed 25 pounds. And encyclopedias? Yep, we had a full set, A to Z. Scary, dark times, those were! My children don't know how lucky they are--when I asked my father a question he didn't immediately know the answer to, he would bark, "Go look it up!" Now it's more likely to be: in 9-year-old-speak, "Don't worry Mommy, I can just Google it!" Or as the 5-year old says, "Which dot-com should I type in?" Progress...