Last night Paul and I were sitting side-by-side at our computers, and he said, “GEEZ, there is A-1 sauce all OVER my monitor!” And I said, “?” and he said, “Don’t Twitter that.” And then I said, “?” and he said “Don’t Twitter THAT, either.” So I didn’t.

What I did about the Rob situation (the one where he said he’d completed two out of three in-class writing sessions without yet choosing a SUBJECT) is first I helped him choose a topic, and then I told him to tell his teacher what was going on. My mom’s a teacher and I grew up hearing the teacher’s point of view, so now I’m over-sensitized to it to the point where I don’t even want to COMMUNICATE with the teacher in case I accidentally imply that I think my child’s inborn flaws are her fault.

And in this case, this is an inborn flaw of Rob’s I’ve been struggling unsuccessfully with for YEARS: he’ll sit there trying to think of “the perfect thing,” and so he doesn’t think of anything, and the longer he thinks about it the less perfect all the options seem. His first grade teacher mentioned that he would sit during Journal Time getting increasingly stressed and writing nothing, so he and I worked for the entire school year on “just writing what comes into your head, rather than Questing For Perfection.” We made some progress at the time, but when we worked on it again this past summer (I work on it with him each summer, to keep from losing ground) he was all Attitude about it, writing stream-of-consciousness stuff including all the words to the song “B-I-N-G-O” and the numbers 1 to 100, so I kind of threw in the towel and figured it’s good he’s good at math.

Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes: so I told him to tell his teacher he hadn’t yet started on the assignment he was supposed to have 2/3rds completed. For one thing, I couldn’t think of a way of telling his teacher myself. For another thing, this is the kind of problem he needs to work on NOW, so that maybe he won’t flunk a college history final because he’s too shy to go up to the teacher and say, “Hey, I don’t understand what you mean by that essay question,” which I’m not saying I know anything about but GEEZ why didn’t I just ASK? I mean, teachers don’t BITE.

He was really nervous about telling his teacher, but I was all “Do as I say, not as I do,” and so he did it, and he came home from school saying he was SO RELIEVED. His teacher apparently said, “Okay,” and then she checked all 20 kids’ work and found that Rob was not the only one who was a little behind, and so she’s giving everyone an extra 45-minute writing session, and also Rob said in one session he got everything done up through the rough draft, so all he has to do is the final draft. Woot. And I can’t donate blood this month because I sweated out too much of it over this.

I was watching We Don’t Live Here Anymore, but I get uncomfortable when a movie tries to indicate marital/life dissatisfaction via crying children, messy kitchen counters, messy hair, spitting out toothpaste, cereal bowls on the table, fighting children chasing each other through the clutter as the parent pleads ineffectually for them to stop, etc. It gives me too vivid a picture to superimpose over my OWN life, which seems happy until I see the elements of it used in film-making to indicate unhappiness. So I thought I’d take a little break.

Paul was talking with Elizabeth and Edward about Christmas (they don’t really remember last Christmas), and it came to light during this conversation that Elizabeth was confidently expecting to receive a unicorn. And not just “a” unicorn but a PURPLE unicorn. Paul tried to delicately extract more information, such as WHY she thought she was getting a purple unicorn, or such as how she knew about unicorns since as far as we know we’ve never mentioned unicorns before, but he got nowhere except to reaffirm that the child didn’t just WANT a purple unicorn, she ASSUMED a purple unicorn. Like, obv, Christmas = unicorn.

This reminded both of us of two Christmases ago when William was in kindergarten, and he revealed to Paul that he was looking forward to the nutcracker he would be receiving for Christmas. This was the first Paul and I had heard about it. So the next day (which was the day before Christmas Eve, and Christmas Eve is the day we celebrate Christmas, so basically it was Christmas Eve if you follow me), I went out to Target with William and was all, “Oh, hey, look at these nutcrackers, is this the kind of thing you’re, um….?” and it was a good thing I DID because Paul and I were thinking of a The Nutcracker kind of nutcracker, like this guy:

but William was thinking of this:

I found a gift set that came with a nutcracker and an assortment of nuts (but no scary dental-looking picks), and I brazened it out: I put it in the cart under something else, and bought it right in front of him, counting on his humming-along-obliviously personality to carry us through, and indeed it did. As soon as we got home I wrapped it and “Oh look what’s that over there”d it under the tree, and it was the hit of Christmas and I had to buy another enormous bag of nuts for him to crack open because he’d gone through all the ones that came with the set. And happily for me, he didn’t even want to EAT the nuts, he just wanted to crack them open, so I got a child bringing me a fresh bowl of snacks every hour or so while I sat there reading my Christmas present books in peace because he was so totally absorbed in the cracking.

With this experience behind us, Paul and I felt motivated to find a purple unicorn. We don’t think of Christmas as an opportunity to fulfill a child’s every material wish, and in fact we generally find it a useful opportunity to cruelly/kindly teach children about how we don’t always get what we want, but there is something particularly irresistible about a child who doesn’t understand this yet and who wants something so reasonable.

I went online and found a purple Beanie Baby one that was $15 ($15 for a Beanie Baby?) plus another $5 for shipping ($20 for a Beanie Baby?), but then I found this much larger unicorn for $15 with free shipping:

(image from Amazon.com)

It’s a make-your-own, but I’m just going to make it myself and give it to her already-made. For one thing, she’s too young to even want to make it herself, and for another thing, I am not the right kind of parent to assist with that project, because I am not relaxed enough to watch a child stuff twice as much stuffing into one leg as into another, and also because I find the whole thing really gross: you get a limp animal skin, and it seems DEAD, and then you’re supposed to coach the child to mess around with the skinned animal’s new, fake innards and implant a “wish” and so forth, and you know FORGET IT. I’ll do it myself and spare her the dead unicorn skin and me the uneven stuffing.

I don’t mind telling you that Rob has been driving me CRAZY recently. It is some comfort to be able to swap stories with my friend of many years Astarte, whose fourth-grader is pulling some of the same pre-adolescent stuff. Rob has been sighing, eye-rolling, door-slamming, talking about how things are NOT FAIR, acting like I am the only mother in the world crazy enough to insist on AT LEAST every-other-day showering, etc.

Also, we have forgetfulness/carelessness issues. Almost every day SOMETHING is forgotten at school: his coat, his lunchbox, his clarinet, his homework folder. He left his clarinet at school for THREE DAYS last week, then came home saying, “The good news is, I remembered my clarinet! The bad news is, I forget my lunch box. And my coat.”

This week it came to light that he had lost his clarinet practice book days and days ago, and had just been TOODLING AROUND during practice time, and that furthermore he has not been practicing the songs even when he DOES have the book, and also he’s been including the setting up and putting away as part of the 30 minutes he’s supposed to do.

So since he wanted to act like he didn’t understand he was supposed to use his PRACTICE BOOK when he PRACTICED, I’ve been sitting with him during practice time to make sure actual practicing is taking place. I’m not musical and can’t read music, but even I know that when you play music you’re supposed to play it on a beat, not “as fast as you can”; and that if you don’t know the whole song, you can break it down into smaller parts; and that if you have a song to learn you should PRACTICE PLAYING IT as opposed to saying, “I don’t know how to play it.” In just two sessions with a non-musical coach he’s gone from “Hm, maybe the poor guy has inherited my musical ability” to “Hey! He can play SONGS on that STICK!”

But here’s the situation that’s stressing me out most of all. He told me yesterday that in school this week they’re doing a writing exercise in class, where they do three 45-minute sessions (one per day) on a larger writing assignment, with an outline and a draft and a final copy. They’ve done two of the in-class sessions so far, and he has NOT YET CHOSEN HIS TOPIC. This makes me hyperventilate. I think, “Why didn’t he tell the teacher he’s having trouble??” and “Why isn’t the teacher CHECKING at each stage of this new thing??” and “Why doesn’t he just PICK A TOPIC???” and “OMG is he seriously just sitting there staring into space while everyone else is writing??” and “What is he going to do NOW??” Today is the last 45-minute session, and he said to me that he was pretty sure he could just do the final copy. Yes, but he’s supposed to be learning outlines and drafts, and also he STILL DOESN’T HAVE A TOPIC.

It is very hard to know where to draw the line with these things. At what point is is, “Well, he needs to learn to sink or swim; I’m not going to be able to nag him about his homework when he’s in college,” and at what point is it, “He’s in fourth grade and still needs to be taught good work habits”? And then I look warily at the FOUR MORE CHILDREN I’m going to have to go through this with.

Don’t be ridiculous: I’m always going to be a cute baby, not an eye-rolling pre-adolescent.

Oh my goodness, I seem to have bought a Wii.

Now what?

Do you remember the wee little tree kit I bought in the Target dollar section? It was really fun to buy it and set it up and plant the seeds, but I assumed it would come to nothing but disappointment: I’ve planted evergreen seeds twice before, and both times they’ve done nothing but add their wee quantity of nitrogen to the soil.

But this time! LOOK!

Not just one sprout, but TWO! The first sprout to come up is in the center, and then the other sprout is that teeny bit of white at 11:00. AAAAAA!!!! Spruce trees! Baby spruce trees!

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On an unrelated topic, I’m supposed to be working on my wish list for Christmas. (My family shops early.) What should I put on it? What have you bought or been given lately that’s provided great satisfaction? (Like my spruce sprouts!)

Kara‘s gratitude blogging has been rubbing off on me: reading her list every day gets me in the habit of thinking what things I’d put on my own lists, if I were making daily lists. I will make just ONE little list:

1. a child who went back to sleep in his crib after falling asleep in the car

2. clouds that look like things

3. postage stamp choices

4. pregnant friends

5. newborn-sized clothes, in pink/purple/butterflies/flowers

6. graham crackers and goldfish crackers

7. clean towels that don’t have any lingering mildew smell

8. Lindt chocolate on clearance

9. finding a new source for postcards

10. still being friends even when we disagree—mwah!

Do you want to play, too? Add to the list in the comment section!

I just finished watching the movie P.S., which by the way has me thinking about Topher Grace in a WHOLE NEW WAY, since my previous acquaintanceship with him was limited to That ’70s Show, where he was…well, ’70s clothes and hair can take ANY guy and kick him squarely out of the Romantic Lead Zone.

Where was I? Oh, yes! So I was watching P.S., and there’s a scene where the 39-year-old main character goes back to her childhood bedroom to retrieve some old stuff. And the room is, like, just exactly as she left it. Her high-school clothes still hanging in the closet! Her shoes still on the floor! Her posters still on her wall! Her stuff still messy on her desk! Her boxes of memorabilia still stacked precariously on closet shelves!

My old childhood bedroom is at the other end of the spectrum: when I went to college, I cleared it out as if my parents were going to be leasing it to a new tenant. I left behind two large boxes of things I didn’t want to get rid of but couldn’t really bring to college, either, such as books and my prom dress (did I think I was going to need that again some day? I tossed it out a few years later). Those, I put in the closet. Everything else was GONE. CLEARED OUT. Walls bare. Desk drawers empty. I MOVED OUT at that point, or that’s the way I saw it. I still came back for Christmases and a couple of summers, and I liked to stay in my old room when I did, but it wasn’t really my room.

My parents apparently got some flack about this from their friends, which was unfair because I don’t remember it being THEIR idea that I strip the room like that. I remember just assuming that that’s what the next step was, and doing it, and then showing it to my parents after it was done: here’s the heap I’m taking to college, here’s the suitcase for the drive to get there, here are the boxes I’ve shoved way back in the closet, and here are the trash bags full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrappers that were under the bed.

Now, in my mid-thirties, my room has been not-my-room for so long, I kind of forget it ever WAS my room. Right now it’s a playroom, with toys in it for when my kids play over there. I don’t think of it as My Old Room, I think of it as The Playroom. It’s a different color (yellow instead of white-with-magazine-pages) and the floor is different (hardwood and throw rugs instead of the schoolroom tile I was supposed to mop and rarely did). The only lingering trace of my old room is the rainbow glitter hairspray I unwisely sprayed on a corner of my closet door.

I am not sure how offensive a middle finger is. Like, is it an “adult content, not safe for work, don’t click if you’d be offended”-level thing? Or is it like saying, “That sucks!” or “I’m pissed!” or “Screw that!” where our parents wince but the rest of us forget that anyone winces? Well, just in case, I’ll give you the heads-up that this post is on that subject and may contain images.

I am intrigued by this guy’s idea. He says that if you’re married and you’re pissed off about Proposition 8 (which bans gay marriage in California), you should switch your wedding ring to your middle finger and take a photo of it.

I tried taking a photo like his, and I looked like a HUGE IDIOT. If you clicked through, you’ll have seen that he looks pretty awesome: he looks cool and friendly but definitely he’s got a strong stance, and he looks like he feels comfortable using his middle finger to express that stance, and also his wedding ring is really cool.

But when I tried it, I managed to give the impression that I was NOT giving the finger but in fact just happened to have my middle finger separate from the others, and also like I didn’t realize I was wearing my wedding ring on the wrong finger and too high up. Also, I LOOKED the way older people SOUND when they try to use teenaged slang words.

And since I was trying to take a photo of MYSELF, in some versions I missed my hand entirely. In others, my hand was blocking my face. But in ALL of them, I looked like an aging mother who was trying to be all gangsta or something. And also, I looked like I was pointing at something, perhaps at the last wisps of my evaporating youth and coolness. Pitiful.

PLUS, I was painfully aware of how displeased my parents (who read this blog) would be to see their daughter giving the finger, and also I’m wary of cheesing off the friends and family who would take the opposite stance on this issue. In general, I don’t want to go around telling you what to think/do (unless it’s about COOL BABY CLOTHES you should DEFINITELY BUY), because I think everybody should think/do their own thing and not screw around with what other people think/do. But in this case, what’s happening IS that people are telling other people what to think/do, and THAT’S what I’m objecting to.

So, hey, Prop 8! Yoo hoo! Over here!

P.S. If you do this, too, be sure to go over to Diary of a Modern Matriarch and add your name and link to her list.

Edit: I want to say for the record that I realize the way I expressed my feelings on this subject was highly disrespectful. I would be just as disrespectful about a decision to, for example, ban black citizens from voting in elections, or invalidate heterosexual marriages, or make it illegal to worship God.

Yesterday the kids spent about six hours playing with an office chair and three empty rolls of tape. What’s next, playing with the box the toy came in? Sometimes I think children have turned my life into an embarrassing cliche.

Look at this cute shirt I bought:

Rob saw it and said scornfully, “It looks like a SPORTS shirt.” But do you see what it says? “Junior Scientists of America.” And those are, like, atoms zooming around the A. Hee! I bought it in 12-18m (or did I get 18-24m?) (like it matters) for Henry and in 4T for Edward.

I’m a little peeved, though, to see they are now $3.99, since that was what I paid for them AFTER a 15% off coupon, and I was feeling all triumphant about it. I’ve noticed with Old Navy that either there is a 15%/20%-off coupon, OR everything is 15-20% off. Well-played, Old Navy. Well-played. Now perhaps I will also have to buy the grey “mathletes” version:

“Cuter than the sum of our parts,” it says.