Bad Words

Upon returning from the computer lab last Thursday, they just couldn't wait to descend upon me, one after the other, to share the news that "Alyssa said a bad word!" I half-ignored them in my attempts to hurry them along so they don't miss the bus. "A bad word? Really? Alyssa?" I say incredulously, when several more approach me to share the exciting news.

Alyssa vigorously shakes her head. "NO!" she says with vehemence. "I did not!"

"Yes she did!" shouts Raymond and Brandy gleefully. "In the computer lab!"

Alyssa keeps shaking her head and contorting her face in a wild attempt to stem the tide of eager tattling over her newly-discovered truck-driver mouth. Figuring that, since Alyssa was relatively new to our classroom, she didn't know about the "shut up" admonition, I did what all harried teachers do while trying to hurry an excited group of kindergarten children out a doorway that is suddenly much too small.

"What did she say," I asked Jessica, lowering my voice in case it was "stupid" or worse, like "idiot."

"She said F*#k!" reports Jessica dutifully. The kids unanimously agreed.

"I did not say f&^k!," yells Alyssa, folding her arms and sticking her head out and bobbing it in front of Jessica's face.

"You did! She did, teacher," says Brandy, eyes wide and flashing, "she said f^&k!"

"I did not! No, I didn't say f&^*!" Alyssa shouts, whirling around to face down each of her accusers.

Raymond approaches me seriously and tugs on my shirt. I lean down, while putting my hand out in a vague attempt to stop the yelling of "f%$k" each time Alyssa denies it. "Teacher. She did. She said "f&%k," intones Raymond. "I heard her."

"Me, too," says Tabatha, thrilled that it is somebody else getting in trouble over the uttering of bad words.

I send the other kids to the bus line and signal for Julie to take my kids with hers, holding on to Alyssa's backpack as she attempts to skitter away towards her dad, who is waiting outside. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and Alyssa senses it as I lean down and whisper into her face.

"Tell me the truth. What happened?" I ask in my best no-nonsense teacher voice. She caves and looks down. "Okay, I said it."

"Were you mad?" I ask.

"No," responds Alyssa, shrugging at me and smiling.

"Were you annoyed?" I ask.

"No," she replies, kicking at the cement with her shoe and watching her dad out of the corner of her eye. As he comes closer, she whispers, "I made a mistake. I was just talking to myself."

Still wanting a reason for such uncharacteristic behavior, I ask if she was wearing the headphones and didn't realize other people could hear her.

"No!" she laughs, finding that notion clearly ridiculous.

"Well then, WHY, for heaven's sake? That is an awful word and it doesn't sound right coming from your mouth," I say.

Alyssa nods solemnly. "Okay, teacher. I won't say it anymore."

"What's going on?" asks Dad.

"Alyssa said a bad word. But she won't be doing that anymore, will you, Alyssa?" I say, raising my eyebrows.

Dad looks surprised. "What?" he says, peering down at his daughter, folding his arms.

"I won't anymore," she promises, grabbing her dad's hand in an attempt to stop this conversation from going any further.

"What did she say?" asks Dad, falling into the same trap I did, but sensing that we aren't having a face-to-face over "stupid," "idiot," or "shut up."

"Um... it rhymes with truck," I say, "And she won't be doing it again."

"Oh," says Dad, putting his hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry. I let that one slip now and again."

"Yes well.....," I begin, but Alyssa is dragging at his hand, clearly embarrassed for both of them.

"He won't say it again," the child assures me, leading her mortified father down the sidewalk towards the parking lot, pausing only to turn around and yell back to me.

"If he does," Alyssa shouts, "I'll tell you, teacher!"

Laundry Day

Last week the PTO sponsored a Pioneer Days assembly. It was an interactive activity that the children adored because they could go from station to station, experiencing life just like 19th century pioneers.

Well, not exactly like the pioneers. It was as close as you can get when housed in the cafeteria of a somewhat rural school in the middle of the Mojave Desert, with air conditioning and plenty of adult help for the more difficult tasks, like carding wool. And there and no wild animals, infectious diseases, or sod houses close by.

For 45 minutes, three classrooms of children worked side by side, playing with authentic wood toys, making authentic dyed-pasta bead necklaces, shaving with authentic shaving brushes and real butter knives, panning for real fool's gold, and grinding real corn in an authentic grinder. There were no behavior problems the entire time. They waited patiently for turns at the grinder, yielding enough corn meal to make a mini-muffin, after much hard work. They gladly sifted their fruits of their efforts, over and over again.

The biggest hit, without a doubt, was the washboard and wringer. The kids took turns washing a towel and then putting it carefully through the wringer, only to wash it again. And again. If they weren't involved with the washing, they watched, eyes round and mouths agape - fully entranced by the whole process.

So, the next day I brought in a vintage washboard that has decorated my laundry room for several years, serving as a reminder that I must always be grateful for Maytag and Sears & Roebuck. I put the washboard in a plastic tub filled with soapy water and scrounged around for the one and only towel in the classroom.

I wasn't sure how they would react when faced with this little set-up, which I'd placed on an old wood table that was abandoned in the kindergarten yard years ago. The fact that they were enamored is putting it mildly. They vigorously scrubbed the towel against the rusty washboard, rocking the rickety table in the process.

Tricycles gleamed in the sun, unridden, while the children lined up to "wash" the towel. Jump ropes were forgotten and the play equipment sat abandoned once Raymond realized that his attempts to coax his buddies onto the slide was for naught. "Come on, guys!" he shouted hopefully. "I'm a superhero!"

Seeing that his friends would have none of it, Raymond got in line for a turn, only to become exasperated when the current washerwoman wouldn't relinquish the coveted spot. Calls of "hurry up!" soon became screeches, as each launderer pushed the bounds of kindergarten reason and washed until anarchy and chaos was threatening. I suggested that they count to 50. Might as well make it academic.

I don't know why I was so surprised at the popularity of the old washboard. These are the same kids who yawn at carefully constructed phonics lessons but "oooh" and "ahhhh" over my cleaning of the whiteboard. "Look! A rainbow!" they exclaim, as the dark ink drips down the board and changes into a plethora of inky paints and blend again to create more color spectacles. "Do it again!" they shout, convinced that one MORE squirt of the noxious whiteboard cleaner will yield another batch of drippy rainbow colors.

"Hurry UP!" they shout at each other, becoming impatient with the current washer person. "Hurry UP! TEACHER! Raymond is taking too long!"

"Count to 50," I reply serenely, thrilled with the spectacle of Raymond's look of complete wonderment and concentration as he vigorously rubs the soapy water along the old ridges of the washboard. I am secretly pleased with myself for thinking of this and happy that the accumulated dust is now swirling around in the tub.

More pushing ensues and Raymond flounces off when he can't convince his buddies to extend his turn to the count of 60. I am pleased that Raymond understands that 60 is ten more than 50.

This is the same group that laughs when I drop something and snickers at words like "underwear," "snot," "poop," and "naked."

They are belligerent with turn-takers who keep scrubbing after the count of 50. Almost as appalled as the saying of "bad words," which usually elicits repeated rounds of breathlessly excited tattling. For Kindergarten kids, "bad words" include "shut-up," which I declared off-limits early in the year, and "stupid," which loses its shock value around second grade.

When they reluctantly leave the washboard to return to the classroom, I notice there is a fringe benefit to all this scrubbing. For the first time all school year, my kids will go to the cafeteria with sparkling clean hands.

Is it today?

Below is a transcript of a phone conversation I had this morning with Tabatha's grandmother.

The phone rings. I pick it up and answer in my usual manner.

Me: "Lengning."

Gramma: "Hi Mrs. Lengning. This is ____ _____, Tabatha's gramma."

Me: "Good morning, Mrs. ________."

Gramma: "What time is Tabatha coming back from the field trip today?"

Me: "Today?"

Gramma: "Yeah. The field trip. What time is she coming back?"

Me: "The field trip to Placerita Canyon is on Monday, Mrs. _______."

Gramma: "No. It's today. I need to know what time she comes back 'cause I have to go to the valley."

Me: "The field trip is Monday, May 5, Mrs. _________."

Gramma: "SHE thinks it's today! She keeps telling me it's today!"

Me: "Mrs. ________, SHE also thinks Diego is going to marry Hannah Montana."

Gramma: "It's supposed to be today!"

Me: "Every homework packet since early April has said that our Placerita field trip is on MONDAY, MAY 5, Mrs. ______. We also sent home a reminder, and Tabatha got TWO permission slips, which you signed. They all said Monday, May 5. Cinco de Mayo."

Gramma: (sounds of exasperation)

Me: "I will be sending home a paper today with the afternoon drop-off time on it. She will be coming home with the big kids on MONDAY AFTERNOON."

Gramma: (More exasperation.)

Me (deciding to take the high road): "I am sorry for any confusion, Mrs. ____________. "

Gramma: "Yeah. Well. I'm just glad I CALLED."

I resisted the urge to retort something that would underscore how ludicrous this entire conversation was, given that the woman obviously doesn't READ what we send home.

When Tabatha arrived at school, I said, "Hey, dippity doodle, WHEN is our field trip?"

Tabatha paused and looked at me like I was only employed because the district gives equal employment opportunities to middle-aged Boneheads. "TODAY," she says, rolling large brown eyes.

"When is our field trip boys and girls?" I called to the children, who were gathering on the rug for our Morning Meeting.

"MONDAY!" they shouted, "3 more days!"

Tabatha looked disgusted. Then she mumbled something under her breath.

"What was that?" I asked her, "I didn't quite hear you."

The child folded her arms and flounced down to the floor. Then she said, rather loudly, "I wanted it to be today!"

Lost Things and Dog Hair

This morning the unthinkable happened: Mom lost her Address Book. This isn't just any old address book, it is the ADDRESS BOOK. Everything is in there with the exception of the last novel by Dickens.

I've seen this book and it amazes me. Phone numbers and addresses are only part of the bounty to be found in this book. Mom has birthdays, anniversaries, blood types, complete health histories, clothing sizes, yoga workouts, and dog names in that book. The complete maintenance history of her last two automobiles is in there somewhere, along with the names of her favorite mechanics at PACC Auto.

It has a filing system that only she understands. There are rubberbands, paperclips, and sticky notes holding important places and delineating special sections. When she can't remember the names of family pets, she finds the special page that has all that information, in her compacted and unique penmanship.

The loss of this book was huge. It was all Mom could do to concentrate on her telephone call with me. Finding this book was so important that she was considering the possibility of going through the trash can.

Mom doesn't like trash and the idea of going through the trash is so unappealing that I could hear the stress in her voice and the feel the tension of her muscles, steeling themselves for this most distasteful of chores.

"Why would you have to go through the trash?" I asked, "You would never throw it away!"

"I might have forgotten and thrown it away," Mom replied.

"I don't think so, Mom... it's too important. You wouldn't do that, even if you were distracted."

"You never know. I've been really distracted lately."

She told me to wait while she checked one more place. "No, it's not there..."

"Where?" I asked.

"A place I didn't check yet. It wasn't there."

"Oh... have you checked all your purses?" I asked.

"Yes. All of them. If I don't find it soon, I will HAVE to go through the trash before it gets picked up tomorrow." She was sounding anxious.

"When did you use it last?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

"I used it to mail back Haley's phone charger. I had to double check. I know the address, but I just had to double check. So I had it open. When Haley was here, she left her phone charger."

"So it's all HALEY's fault," I said. But Mom didn't laugh. She was clearly very agitated. I told Mom that I always have to check too, because I forget the zip code.

"Well, THEN what did you do with it?" I asked, trying to sound thoughtful, "after you double checked?"

"If I KNEW that, I would know where it is," said Mom.

"Did you take it with you to mail the phone charger?" I prodded.

"No. At least, I don't think so. No. I can picture it... it was open."

"So you didn't mail it to Haley with the phone charger?"

"Mail it? Why would I mail Haley my address book? No. No. I don't think so," Mom replied. But the pause in conversation lead me to suspect she was considering that possibility. Then she was probably mulling over how she was going to call Haley and ask about the address book.

"Okay. Well, think carefully about where you were when you had it open. Then what happened next?"

"I don't know. Maybe I just won't think about it."

"Yeah, Mom.. if you don't think about it, you will remember."

It sounded like a plan.

"I will go take a shower. The hot water will sooth me. Maybe I'll remember."

"Good idea," I said, trying to sound cheerful.

"I really don't want to go through the trash," Mom said again. "I really have to find it. EVERYTHING is in that book."

"Maybe you should do that prayer... to the Patron Saint of lost things."

"The saint of lost things? Who is that.... I can't remember." Mom was born half-Catholic and dragged to Mass often enough but that wasn't helping in this situation.

"What was it that Auntie Chickie said about finding lost things... the prayer?"

"I can't remember," sighed Mom.

"Okay, I hope you find it," I said, before hanging up.

It came to me later, something about dog hair. My aunt had read this wacky thing about using dog hair to find lost items. My Mom and sister and I had chuckled over it.

But I was about to call Mom to tell her about the dog hair when she called me back.

"I found my address book," Mom announced with relief. "It was in the car. In a plastic bag. I looked one more time."

"Oh good.... so you DID take it with you," I said.

"I don't know why, but I did. Thank goodness. I didn't want to go through the trash."

"Dog hair, Mom," I said.

"What?"

"Dog hair. Auntie Chickie said that Dog Hair helps find lost things."

"Oh. Okay. Whatever you say," said Mom, clearly not remembering the whole laughing-out-loud conversation we'd had in November about Auntie Chickie and the Dog Hair.

Mom signed off and probably spent a few minutes wondering about dog hair. I, for one, will be brushing Seamus tonight and mailing Mom some dog hair.

You just can't be too careful. I mean, that book has EVERYTHING.

Strange Fruit

There is an abundance of this botanical specimen growing all along the Lake Hughes portion of the Pacific Crest Trail. Its interesting shape demanded a picture.

Mike, a fellow teacher and one of my hiking partners for the day, carefully picked it and began opening it with his pocket knife. His efforts were hindered by my dogs, who wanted to get at it. The fact that we found it interesting was enough for them.

It looked and smelled a lot like a cucumber on the inside and Mike and I double-dawg dared each other to taste it. "I'm sure it's fine," I said.

"I bet the Indians ate it," added Mike.

"I don't THINK so," said Heather, Mike's fiance. She tossed the halves into the underbrush.

Further along, we spied some fruit growing off a different shrub - this one looked remarkably like apples, only smaller and not as round.

"Looks like an apple," I remarked to Mike and Heather.

"It's NOT an apple," she replied.

"Hey! Remember when we picked one on that one hike?" recalled Mike, suddenly animated as he aimed his camera. "It tasted...what? Kind of sour?"

"Yeah, it was sour," I said, continuing to walk. "It had kind of a dry after taste."

"You tasted it?" asked Heather with incredulity. "You are kidding, right?

"Yeah..it was kind of sour," said Mike.

"Not like an apple at all," I added.

"Good heavens," said Heather, with a tone in her voice that lead me to believe she didn't share our courage and unsettling willingness to try new things.

"We're still here," said Mike, rather smugly.

"It's a wonder," said Heather.

"Why? What's a wonder?" asked Mike.

Heather sighed and shook her head. "It's a wonder," she said, "that the human race has survived this long."

Cave Explorers

Today, the dogs and I joined Mike, Heather, and Nellie (Mike's mom) for a hike along the Lake Hughes portion of the Pacific Crest Trail.

The trailhead going northwest has some interesting features, including some mine shafts that look a lot like caves. I knew Mike, a fellow teacher and hiking enthusiast, would love them.

Nellie and Heather weren't so sure, choosing to stay outside while Mike prepared to explore a little. Unsure of what wildlife may be resting inside, I kept a handle on Duke and Seamus, but Augie would have none of it. If Mike was going inside, Augie was going inside, preferably AHEAD of Mike. This is a pack leader kind of thing that Augie finds extremely important.

"Don't go in there," warned Nellie. "You don't know what's in there."

"It's okay," Mike assured his mother, as he entered the opening and disappeared into darkness.

"Mike! Don't go in there... come back out of there," coaxed his mother.

"It's okay, mom... really," said Mike, from somewhere in the bowels of the earth. Nellie said something in Spanish that I loosely translated to mean blood, guts, gore, snakes, and certain death.

"Heather!" called Mike, an echo radiating off the walls of the cave and wafting outwards to the bright sunlight. "Come on in. It's nice."

"Um. No," replied Heather, "I don't think so."

"It's great.... oooh look.. there's a jar with something in it...."

"Um. No. Not unless you found yourself a flashlight," retorts the fiance, not moving a muscle and fixing the cave's opening with a baleful stare.

Nellie murmured something that sounded like "mi dios" and again exorted Mike to come back out.

"Hey! There's fresh scat in here," called Mike, with much excitement. "And look.. a nest!"

Heather put her hands over her face and sighed. Nellie looked like she was ready to start praying the rosary.

"Mike, you come out now," she said. Nellie is living proof that mothers continue to worry and cajole, long after their offspring pass thirty.

When Mike emerged, he had a plastic jar with numerous messages written on scraps of paper and crammed inside. He pulled them out, examining each one like an archeological treasure.

After taking pictures of the messages, Mike and Augie returned to the back of the shaft to return the jar to its original place.

"Your dog insists on being ahead of me," said Mike, attempting to find his way with only the camera flash and the light from his cellphone to guide him.

"He's showing dominance," I said.

"So...he'll protect me?" Mike calls from the darkness.

"Uh.... I don't think so. He just likes to be first," I said. And sure enough, Augie emerged from the cave first, with Mike behind him. I'm sure Mike appreciated the view of Augie's butt as he tried to climb out.

We continued along the trail, stopping to wonder at the wildflowers and occasional lizard.

"If a snake surprises me," I said, "I may utter an expletive. I apologize in advance."

Mike and Heather laughed.

Nellie looked worried.

I hope it was because of the possiblity of more caves, snakes, and lizards... not because of me uttering swear words.

Too Many Cats

Because the kids are grasping addition and subtraction concepts so readily, I decided to challenge them a little bit and assess how easily they are transitioning to more abstract approaches to solving equations. They are still in kindergarten, but their sense of number is developing rapidly.

Most of them still require something concrete to solve for the sums and differences, as I expected. Some of the kids just whip through the problems and ask for more. Being a glutton for the punishment only small children can dish out, I decided to bump up the instruction a knotch and see what happens.

I worked with the class in small groups to help them figure out how to solve equations that don't give them anything to count or cross off. I showed them how to use their fingers or to draw dots on the paper to help computation.

Kael was doing pretty well on his own but was stumped with 0 + 6. The "finger" method wasn't quite working for him, so I tried to make it more concrete.

"How many cats do you have, Kael?" I asked.

"I don't have any cats. My gramma won't let me."

"Okay.. so you have what...? Zero cats?"

"Yeah. I can't have any cats. My gramma is allergic to cats."

"So, you have zero cats."

"Yeah, I can't have a cat. My gramma... her eyes get all puffy and then she can't breathe......."

"Okay, Kael," I interjected, sorry that I ever mentioned cats. "So you have zero cats. Let's say that SIX cats came into your yard."

I quickly drew six little dots to represent cats.

"Now, how many cats do you have?"

Kael stared at the six dots.

I waited.

"Kael. If you had zero cats and then six cats walked into the yard......how many cats do you have?"

Kael stared at the dots some more. Then he looked up at me with alarm and replied loudly, "TOO MANY!"

The Sneezes that Seizes~

This morning I awoke and remembered that I ate some ice cream sandwiches when I got home last night. I do not know how many and perhaps this is best. Naturally, I feel fat and bloated.

I went downstairs to have breakfast before swimming, which starts at 9:00 on Saturday mornings. The best part is that we get to stay and swim longer, something I dream about all week. I was looking forward to swimming immensely. Last Saturday we couldn't swim because Robin was busy. Next Saturday, I have plans.

There are allergens in the air so I sneezed. It was one of those Big Bad Wolf sneezes. I blew loose a rib or something. I am grateful I didn't pee, but upsetting the balance of ribs, muscles, and joints in the upper core region isn't that much better. Especially since I am supposed to be in good shape.

I babied myself during my breakfast and then went to get my swimsuit. It was hanging on its nice wooden hanger in the laundry room. I reached way up to get it down and promptly finished the job on my upper back and ribcage.

Now, I don't think I would have been so upset about this had I not sent my upper legs into spasms earlier this week attempting to repeat a stair-stepping move over and over again with my kindergarteners, all of whom wanted to do "20 of them holding Teacher's hand," followed by "lunges because those are so much fun." I repeated sets of 20 many times during recess that day. I felt virtuous, until the muscle soreness set in the next day. And the next.

So here I am, virtually immobile in my lower body and wracked with pain in my upper body. I remind myself again how lucky I am that I didn't pee. Some people pee when they sneeze. I didn't do that. I am in good shape!

Swimming, I tell myself, is going to feel SOooo very good in the warm water. I can stay late, as usual on Saturdays, and swim, swim, swim. My damaged upper body will unseize and my throbbing legs will untighten.

I mince my way to the car and drive carefully the half mile to the wellness center. In the left turn lane, the car stalls because I forget to keep enough pressure on the clutch. I park and it takes me awhile to disengage from the driving position.

I decide against my water fins for today and hobble into the lobby to sign in. I am SOOOOoo very much looking forward to swimming. I need to get into that water and just..... be.

There is a note on the sign-in sheet. "Sorry. Water fitness ends at 10:00 today."

I make a noise that must have sounded somewhat like a gasp. I stare at it. Then I flick it with my finger - since my fingers don't hurt. "Sorry, Kim," says Renee at the front desk, "Robin has an appointment this morning." Yeah, yeah, yeah. But what about ME?

When I get into the water I am so upset and I hurt so badly I can't look at anybody. And the water? It is tepid. It is lukewarm at best. It is NOT warm and comforting. It seems SOMEBODY forget to adjust the thermostat last night. I silently curse SOMEBODY because this water is not meeting with my very rigid expectations.

I begin my warm-ups and burst into silent tears, feeling like an idiot. Everyone is staring at me. Nobody wants to say anything. I know they are thinking that somebody must have died or that one of my dogs is sick. I can't say anything because I feel so stupid for crying in the first place.

I say nothing until Elyssa asks if I need a hug and I tell her I feel ridiculous. She responds that I look ridiculous, so I laugh.

Then I tell her I sneezed this morning and something came loose. Half the class is menopausal women so they all laugh in commiseration.

"Yeah, we understand," calls Barbara. "Just don't sneeze in the pool."

;-)K

The Unbearable Lightness of Napping

Otis J: The picture of contentment.

Food Fight~

Today, when the kids were finishing up Group Time, I let them play for about 10 minutes while we finished up a few things. I walked over to the rug area and noticed that several students had dumped ALL the classroom beads onto the metal trays we use for magnetic letters. Every single bead in the classroom - mini-beads used for stringing and patterning, beads used for counting and sorting, and the larger beads used at the beginning of the year.

"Yikes," I said, "what are you all doing?"

"Making food!" replied Alyssa.

"Yeah," said Jason with way too much enthusiasm, "we're COOKING... making food!"

Several other kids nodded in agreement, happily pretending to mix, stir, and allocate portions.

"Okay," I said, "But this mess will have to be cleaned up as soon as I get back from the restroom."

They nodded their assent and continued to "make food."

"Don't burn anything," I warned as I left.

Five minutes later, I returned to the classroom. Mrs. Aguilar was standing at the rug area, hands on her hips, looking very unhappy. My parent volunteer was shaking her head and the student assistant was hiding her face in her hands, trying to control her laughter. There were beads EVERYWHERE, all over the place. They were under the tables, in the workroom, strewn about the rug, and scattered in all directions.

"What happened?" I asked.

Jason and Alyssa answered with much excitement.

"FOOD FIGHT!"

Senseless Death~

This morning I opened the L.A. Times to find the death of a 21-year old local boy in on the front page. He was killed in Iraq. His body was flown by the military to the local airport. The photographer took the picture as the mother and sister were leaning over the casket.

I read about this stuff all the time. A couple weeks ago, it was another SoCal boy - I cried then and I just let loose this morning. His mother was hugging a flag-draped box. Cold comfort when your child is dead.

I don't know this boy. He attended the local Christian high school. The hearse carrying his body drove by the school and teachers and students lined the sidewalk to pay their respects.

I know devastating loss. We all probably do - and the older we get, the more familiar we become with the shock, the pain, the grief - and the anger.

When my father died, I felt all these things and continue to mourn him. But he was 67 years old and in poor health for years. In a way, his death wasn't senseless in the way this boy's death is senseless. My father lived his life the way he wanted to live it - this boy never had that chance.

The Times reported that the young soldier joined the army against the wishes of his parents. He wanted to be a teacher and spoke of it often to his high school counselor and often returned to the school after graduating to sit in on his favorite teacher's class.

Not thinking he was ready for a full-time college career yet, he joined the army. He wrote to his father while in Iraq, telling him he still wanted to teach. He just wasn't sure how to go about it yet.

I think of the mother and grandmother and the sister and the father. I think of them and the awful grief they endure, because of circumstances. What happened to their son was certainly nothing they planned or wanted. What happened to him was the result of policies by people in power - who get to make these decisions. Death was not on this boy's mind when he joined the army - life was on his mind. He needed time to think and to grow. He thought joining the army was a good thing.

I also think of this teachers. They taught him. He sat in their classrooms and he joked around and he did his work, or he didn't do his work. They scolded him, they talked to him, they made marks on his paper. They read his words. Maybe they smiled and shook their heads when he cocked his head just so.

I work with teachers who have lost students to senseless death. We don't talk about it much. We just say something in passing, or poke a finger at a picture in the paper and someone says, oh yeah, I had him. Or somebody plants a tree in memory of a child who was the passenger in a car that was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The tree grows and half the students don't know this girl's name anymore. Her teachers remember, but nobody goes out to the tree - or trees. There are more. But most people at school don't remember anymore. Just the families recall.

My first class of students will graduate from high school this year and they don't look or sound anything like the little kids who rolled around on the rug and painstakingly learned how to write the letters of their names. I have lost only one of them to senseless death. She was ten years old and died in an off-road vehicle accident. She would be in high school now, being a mean girl or sending text messages to her friends. But she died a completely preventable death and I grieve for her when I think about it.

I can't know how this young soldier's teachers feel. I think they are very sad and some of them are taking his death harder than others. Sometimes it is just a matter of personality. There are teachers who love each and every student and there are teachers who keep them at arm's length, letting close only a chosen few. Me, I love them and let them go. I cried when my first batch of firsties left for middle school. Now, I think, I won't see them anymore unless they come back.

I think that some of his teachers are proud of him and his sacrifice for our country. Like me, they are patriotic. But maybe they are unlike me in that I am getting cynical about this need to be in another part of the world, policing them, when we have so many reasons to spend that energy, that time, and and that money here at home.

The money it cost to transport his body to the regional airport could have paid for tuition, books, and clothes to wear to an interview.

He wanted to be a teacher. And he can't come back.

Snakes on a Plane....

....well, cobras anyway. Or huge anacondas with murderous eye gleams. Or, mambas. I don't care for those. Especially the green ones with those whippet-thin bodies and lightning fast reflexes.

That is what it would take to get me to JUMP from a perfectly good airplane. This is a philosophy that has suited me well in all my years and I rarely have to revisit the whole idea. I mean, you never know if you are going to be happily ensconced on a plane, reading a magazine, when some drunk herpetologist's menagerie gets loose and begins to wreak havoc on the plane.

Well, my niece is going to jump from a plane for her 18th birthday. She and I share a birthday, which I feel a bit guilty about since her mother, my only sister, had to push and shove and grunt and break blood vessels for hours in order to give birth to my niece on my birthday. Although touched by the sentiment, I just knew it would come back to bite me in my significant ass one day, snakes not withstanding.

My sister told me, via eMail, that I could "contribute" to this little endeavor as an 18th birthday present, considering, she writes, that I am having "a significant"
birthday this month. I replied that I would happily send a check. But thoughts linger.

How often, I wonder, will my niece and I have SIGNIFICANT birthdays the same day in the same year? I guess not ever. This is the year she turns 18, old enough to vote and be drafted for war - but not old enough to buy a drink or play cards in Nevada. This is the year our birthdays are like Halley's Comet. They mathematically coincide and need to be celebrated in a big way.

I am supposing that my contribution isn't just monetary. I ask my sister for birthday suggestions and infer that I am to abandon my perfectly good nasty-snake theory of jumping from planes and actually hold hands with the niece and JUMP?

It would be historical. I turn 50 - a half century. She turns 18 - legal adulthood. We would do this in Lodi, of all places. A place familiar to me because of a song that was played on the radio each morning my father would drive me to school during the period my mother was in the hospital. I was around 10 years old. I rode in the front seat of the Mustang. A band sang about Lodi and being stuck there. Lodi is a place where wine is put up and people get stuck.

I find the whole idea of jumping put of a plane in Lodi beyond preposterous. Ludicrous to the Nth degree. My formerly-hospitalized mother would kill me if the fall did not.

I have, in my lifetime, conquered my fear of snakes. Except for the ones mentioned above. But I consider that fear an issue of safety and sobriety. It is reasonable to be fearful of green mambas curled up where they don't belong and just waiting to do damage - like chasing significant birthday holders from planes.

Diego and Power Tools: Don't Forget.

Like most teachers, I work hard to plan classroom activities that promote learning in many curricular areas. Literacy is first and foremost, but I can integrate it with science most days of the week. Then there is math, something we do every day because the kids need to develop number sense so they won't get taken advantage of by eMail SPAM and sneaky mortgage broker scams.

Every morning, after we complete our morning business and I determine that most of them still have no idea how many days there are in a week, I briefly explain what we will do during group time. Group Time is my favorite part of the day. It is a series of open-ended learning experiences that engage the kids and allow me to assess their progress.

Today, I begin explaining what we are doing. Diego, who has been practicing a triple back-flip on the rug, leaps up quickly on his knees and asks, with very wide, smiling eyes and much enthusiasm, "What about woodshop?"

I am speechless for a moment or two. I've yet to discuss wood-working with them in any way. In fact, I am 100% certain the subject has never come up. Not even in a story. So his question surprises me.

I do remember, though, that earlier in the week, Diego had asked for a piece of wood. I tried to steer him towards the blocks but this just annoyed him more. What he wanted was a PIECE OF WOOD so he could BUILD A CAR.

So, maintaining my professionalism, I repeat his question.

"Woodshop?" I ask, maintaining a straight and very quizzical teacher-face.

"Yeah.. you know. Where you... you... where you.... build things like book cases and drawers and things."

"Well, Diego.... I don't think we can do woodshop today," I reply.

"Why?" he asks. He is completely guileless, in his own world most of the time but sharp as a tack on most academic measures. He just doesn't understand some things - like the failure of his classmates to hand over their snacks at recess, or their general unwillingness to give him anything of theirs that he happens to want. That just boggles his mind.

"Gosh, Diego," I say, "I didn't bring the power tools."

"Oh," he says and then sinks back down onto the rug. I am half afraid he will ask me why. But he doesn't and this avoids a circular conversation that I can't get out of unless I use a teacherism or change the subject very quickly and get all excited about it.

During writing time, I model for the children how writers make lists and then show them how I make one when I want to remember things.

"Good," he says, while using his journal as a waving-palm fan and warming up for a triple somersault with a twist.

"Yes, Diego.. it IS good. This way we don't forget things."

The children proceed to write and I wander around, looking and listening.

A minute later he yells to me from across the room.

"TEACHER!"

"Yes, Diego?" I answer, deciding if I should admonish him for shouting across the room when he is supposed to be writing.

"Don't forget."

"Don't forget what, Diego?" I ask.

"Don't forget. You have to write it."

I am busy trying to redirect two boys who are mistaking their journals for medieval weaponry.

"Write WHAT, Diego?" I ask, hissing to the dueling knights and tossing each journal to a different location in the room.

"Don't forget. The POWER TOOLS!"

Comprende teflon?

My dear friend Ann had a classroom story to tell last week. All the better when you consider that a teacher just can't make this stuff up.

Ann has been beside herself lately with the lack of listening skills exhibited by her second grade students. We often vent to each other about how stuff goes in pretty well but comes out sounding a lot like crickets. Ever the intellectuals, we just don't understand why the kids don't process what we try to teach them. Nothing, we complain on the drive home, seems to stick. Except how to clog up the toilet with paper towels or how to spray water all over the floor from the sink.

In frustration, Ann put down her overhead pen the other day, in the middle of a lesson they just weren't getting, and talked to the kids about the importance of LISTENING and keeping what is said IN the brain. Being an engineer by training, Ann wanted the children to remember this important information and went about it scientifically. She decided to use "analogy" as her method and then repeated herself, with much seriousness, "Boys and girls, we want to have VELCRO brains, not TEFLON brains."

Once the crickets clear, she showed the children an example of VELCRO, which just so happens to be on her watchband. She made that hideous velcro noise that all teachers hate and said again, "velcro - this is VELCRO. Things STICK to velcro. We want words and ideas and information to STICK in our brains like VELCRO." She makes the awful noise again with the velcro on her watchband. (When I tried this the next day with my kindergarteners, we never got past the "making noise with velcro" part.)

Then, she added, "Boys and girls, we don't want our brains to be like TEFLON. TEFLON coats a non-stick frying pan." The children assure Ann that they understand the properties of teflon and velcro.

Having finished her explanation and demonstration, she returns to the lesson that was interrupted because of teflon brain activity. Within 10 seconds one of her second graders, Tillie, asks again what she is supposed to do. This, despite the fact that the procedure HAS been explained several times, modeled, and reinforced with the velcro/teflon analogy.

"Tillie," says my dear friend wearily....."WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"

"I don't know," replied the girl, swishing her dark blonde ponytail and fixing Ann with a look of total indignation, "I don't understand Spanish."

:-)

Visualizing Victoria~

I am happy to report that I have finally talked with Victoria. This lovely young lady has been Dustin's girlfriend for quite awhile now, but I have only seen her in fleeting flashes or heard her laughter as they visited in the next room.

In the old days, when people came to visit, they would come to the door and knock. Then whoever was closest to the door would open it and exchange pleasantries while the intended recipient of the visitor gathered thoughts, straighted hair, and tucked in clothing.

I guess that was BD - Before Dogs. Dogs have a tendency to loudly announce visitors at the door and then carry on for some time afterwards, each demanding to be acknowledged, petted, and admired. Sometimes belly rubs are called for - and this really elongates the "entrance" and makes a lot of noise.

So, Victoria calls from her car and Dustin does the old O.J. Simpson ad, leaping and bounding through the house to let her in before the dogs have her arrival figured out. Sometimes it works, but these aren't hound dogs for nothing.

I have "met" Victoria, of course, but only in passing. I think each encounter involved me wearing my pajamas and working furiously at something on the computer while she looked like a deer in the headlights. I guess I am THAT intimidating. Especially if my jammy top doesn't match my jammy bottoms. It has been known to happen.

So, the other night, I finally get to talk to Victoria the Dancer and Speaker of Russian. What to say when you find out that somebody is a dancer and speaker of Russian? Something stupid - like, "Gosh, I have been wanting to teach my kids how to dance but I am SO not a dancer." How lame, and made worse by Dustin saying, "What are you saying, Mom?" (No, not that I want Victoria to teach my kids dancing. AS IF the girl has any spare time at all.)

And the Russian? Heck, that is quite the feat. The Russians use an entirely different alphabet. I know because I get SPAM from cyrillic-writing people all the time. They must be under the impression that I speak it, read it, write it, and spend money in it. Otherwise, why would I get it?

So I admired her prowess with dancing and her tenacity with her studies and the speaking of Russian. I also admired the ability to pronounce those pesky Russian names and read those feather-light tomes of Russian literature.

Last night, Dustin and Victoria went to the ballet. She actually convinced him that was an endeavor worth his time and energy. He bought a new sweater and wore coordinating VANS.

I was very proud.

So many books, so few shelves...

Today is the day I promised myself that I would organize my books and find places for the piles that have somehow sprung up around my house.

I am not sure how this happened, but there are books in many places where books don't generally hang out. This has occurred over time - a matter of days, and weeks, and months. I will admit that several trips to Barnes and Noble, armed with gift cards, have contributed to this local diaspora of the written word.

There are, however, problems with just putting the books away. I like my books organized by genre and author. I have become lazy during the past few years with reshelving the titles I pull for this purpose and that - and my system is not as svelte and delineated as I like. So, in order to add the bevy of new books to the library, I have to find my system and start repairs.

Complicating matters is the fact that Dustin's college texts now constitute their own shelf, but they haven't been placed with my college texts, and this creates dichotomy and divisiveness. It bothers me every time I look at it.

Another problem involves my family pictures. When I first arranged the framed photographs, there were places for all of them and the effect was aesthetically pleasing. But as I began shelving new titles, the pictures got rearranged. Now they look crunched and uncomfortable, which was not what I had in mind when I carefully placed them.

Bookshelves are for books, not knick-knacks or bric-a-brac. It is fine to have a framed photo here and there, if there is room, but it simply doesn't DO to have the visages of treasured family members scrunched in among the books - as if I were trying to find a place for them.

When Dan installed the latest set of bookshelves for me, I happily placed the pictures and they looked okay. Not fine, not wonderful, but okay. It was a temporary arrangement because I knew it was only a matter of time before books would take over, kind of like crab grass and wisteria.

The walls hold photographs, artfully arranged. But with the addition of more books, their days of hanging around in here are numbered. Too many frames on the wall and the room begins to look cluttered.

I may need more bookshelves. It is only a matter of time. I am thinking that construction, to expand this room eastward, may be in order. In the meantime, I may have to canvas the house for the placement of possible book annexes.

Hot Potatoes

My sister and her husband were preparing dinner tonight. I asked if there was anything I could do to help and Sue told me to open the oven door and "check on the baked potatoes."

I opened the oven door, looked at them, and my glasses got all steamed up. I shut the door and told her they were still there and send their regards.

She got all exasperated with me and told me to FEEL them to see if they were done.

I told her they were HOT and I sure as h*ll was not going to stick my hand in the oven.

"Then use a POTHOLDER," she says, "if you are that much of a big baby."

I nosed around the kitchen but couldn't find a potholder.

"I can't find a potholder," I said.

"Just FEEL that d*mn potatoes to see if they are done," she says, with that TONE in her voice.

"No. They're too HOT," I say.

"Big baby," she says.

"Not either," I say.

Then she sticks her hands in the burning hot oven and feels the potatoes and pronounces them DONE.

She proceeds to pull them OUT of the oven and put them in a bowl. She does this without a potholder, just to spite me.

"Are too," she says

"AM NOT!" I say.

Under her breath, during dinner, she says, "ARE TOO!"

"I am NOT!" I hissed back.

Nobody in the family is sticking up for me.

Would YOU stick your hand in the oven to FEEL baked
potatoes that have been in there long enough to burn the
first layer of skin off your hand?

Keep Your Hands and Arms Inside the Car at all Times~

To put it mildly, I have a very active and talkative class. I seem to be blessed with one every year, but the current crop burns more calories with jaw-flapping and body movements than any previous class I have taken under my teaching wing.

Instructional time, in their view, is perfect for gossiping, back-flips, and arm wrestling. They talk through lessons. They talk through stories. They talk through math activities and center time. When visiting the bathroom, they sing. LOUDLY.

During Physical Education, I can keep them active, but it is nothing compared to the gymnastics they practice while on the rug for whole-group instruction. I am often tempted to hold up a score card after maneuvers that deserve taping for the U.S. Olympic team. I'm thinking Raymond may be scholarship material.

They really outdo themselves when lining up. This is the time most appropriate, in their view, for pushing, shoving, bouncing, jumping, can-can dancing, and breathless communications about who is who's friend and who is currently out of favor. This is the time for touching, poking, leaping, and hopping like rabbits. It is also the time for loud wailing and gnashing of teeth as "the chosen ones" find out they are out of favor.

Walking in a line has been especially difficult for this class. Colored masking tape on the rug did nothing for them. Line "rules" are viewed as "suggestions" and nothing more. Repeated practicing, with arms folded and feet quiet, lips pursed, and shoulders straight, result in a perfect line - one time.

Lining up means picking up sticks from the grass, manipulating every prodruding handle on the custodian's truck, and ballet leaps that are noteworthy - and loud. The side wall of the cafeteria is rubbed continuously or kicked with loud grunting noises. They don't walk ANYWHERE to which they can run.

I admonish. I scold. I have them do it again. And again. Repeated practice means more sticks, more leaps, more kicks, and more efforts to rub the concrete off the cafeteria wall. Repeated walks "in order to get it right" mean more practice with foot moves that look mysteriously like cross-country skiing. I often add these minutes to my plan book and label them, "P.E."

Today, I forewarn them about appropriate line behavior. We are walking to the cafeteria and it is ESSENTIAL, I tell them, that they walk with quiet hands and quiet feet. I stand over them with my best teacher scowl and I say, "No kicking, no running, no jumping, no leaping, no bouncing, no binging, no hopping, no hair pulling...."

"AND," yells Diego, in his best immitation-teacher voice, "NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY!"

Knitted Brow

It is extremely disturbing for me to accept this, but... books lie. Especially the covers of Do it Yourself books or manuals. They are the worst - almost as bad as the tabloids in the supermarket check-out line or the endless parade of women's magazines that promise, I mean PROMISE that you will lose weight if you just follow this simple little formula buried on Page 183.

If you look closely at the print under the lying-through-the-teeth title of the above book, you will see, on the left side two little words that simply suspend belief: Simple Instructions. There is more but I really don't need to include any more because this is a simple enough little promise, isn't it?

The instructions are NOT simple. They are not clear, self-explanatory, easy to read, simple to understand, or broken down either! They are deceitful. There ought to be some kind of regulation about this blatant disregard for the truth here.

My intentions are completely ordinary. I want to learn to knit, again. I have these fantasies of creating knitted masterpieces for every member of my family - future heirlooms, treasures to be stroked lovingly with fond memories long after I am gone. I would like to throw together little scarves and sets of mittens, and sweater dresses for a few of my closest friends.

"Oh, you MADE that?" they will gush, when the handmade and exquisitely detailed garment is pulled from the coordinating tissue out of the carefully selected box. "Yes," I will say modestly, "I did."

So, maybe I got a little ahead of myself. First, I need to learn to "cast on." This is the process of actually getting the yarn onto the knitting needles. When the instructions were clear as mud the first time I read them, I decided to roll the skein of yarn into a nice ball, just like the professional knitters do - one must always start things off the right way.

Then I read it again.

"Do you know how to make a slip knot?" I asked Dan, who can actually tie fishing lures with needle nose pliers and both his thumbs. "No," he replied, looking quizzical. After all, I was a Girl Scout and should remember how to tie a slip knot. So I just played around with the yarn for awhile and then suddenly made a slip knot. I couldn't tell you how I did it - I was just ONE with the yarn. My fingers have muscle memory.

My guess is that you are then to create a series of slip knots all down the knitting needle. I say this because the book takes time to congratulate you on the slip knot, "it counts as your first stitch."

In Lesson 1, there is the "Thumb Method" and the "Two Needle Method" for casting on. I appreciate the variety, but I think they should have taken a little extra time to make at least ONE of these methods crystal clear to the novice user. They could leave the other method out.

After making the slip knot and placing it on the needle, you are to hold it with your right hand. Then...


Place short end of yarn (measured length) over the left thumb from front to back, and bring yarn from ball up and over left index finger, then hold both yarn ends in left palm with the 3 remaining fingers.

There is a picture. It took me 20 minutes, but I finally got what was in my hand look kind of like the picture. But then it gets worse.

Insert tip of needle under yarn on left thumb from front to back. Bring needle over and under strand on left index finger. Draw needle and yarn back through loop on thumb. Slip thumb out of loop and gently pull loose end to secure new stitch on needle.

One question: What new stitch?

I tried again. And again. I decided to let the whole thing "cool" for a couple of days.

I called Dustin over to help. He can take apart and reassemble a car engine. He can figure this out, I thought. Dustin furrowed his brow and read and looked at the knitting needles. Then left me for a date with some cute little Asian girl he met at work.

"Give up on knitting, Mom?" came his smart-aleck voice from the couch the other day. To my credit, I did not say, "Shut up!" to him. I bit my tongue and then replied, "No. I just time to figure this out."

"Oh," says Engine Boy, running upstairs to do something productive that I am pretty sure won't include knitting.

I took the whole "Learn to Knit" kit with me to bed the next night and sat there trying again to get this right. I didn't.

I am not stupid. I have two master's degrees and I was accepted into a Ph.D program for gawd's sake. I can write a perfectly-formatted APA-style position paper. I win big bucks on Jeopardy! every night. But I don't get this and I have to blame the book people. "Simple Instructions and Clear Diagrams" my smart toe! They lie, lie, lie! Just so they can sell their books and more yarn and silly little accessories, knowing you will be too embarrassed to bring the whole thing back for a refund.

The worst part isn't that I can't figure out how to knit using a lying and cheating book. It isn't the money or the embarrassment over the whole thing. The worst part is that the Lovely Brandine figured it out with a book on Christmas night. She called the next morning, very proud of herself.

Her book didn't lie. She just picked up those needles and did it.

I am sure I will be fine once I get past the "casting on" part. With all the muscle memory in my fingers, I am sure to just begin to knit - one stitch at a time, needles clicking away.

I either need Brandy's book or an empty drawer.

Save a tree: Invite by Phone

HP Photosmart C6180 All-in-One Printer: $750.00

One Package embossed and perforated, printer-ready wedding invitations: $5.95

One ultra black inkjet printer cartridge: $29.99

One package matching lavendar envelopes: $6.95

One permanent marker, silver: $2.25

Blessed privacy as you plead with printer and hurl epithets at computer: Priceless

Missing: One Public Outcry

Our governor, in concert with the California state legislature, has announced an unprecedented $4.8 billion dollars in funding cuts for education. The day this happened, I waited for the outcry but it never came.

Are we so overwhelmed by big numbers that $4.8 billion dollars means nothing to us? Are we so complacent that the mere idea of such a shortfall, in the world's eighth largest economy, means nothing? Are we so used to the appalling mismanagement of public money by elected officials that we barely yawn before flipping the channel to something more "interesting?"

We were collectively appalled by budget cuts to public health. The remedy, say public health officials, is to cut back on public health services. We were indignant when the governor threatened to close down state parks. Several media outlets carried the story of the Will Rogers family threatening to take the park back if such a thing happened. Then it was quietly announced that the state would merely increase admission fees to state parks. No cuts in services needed.

Other state services will also feel the knife. It stands to reason that cuts in services will occur or prices for such services will be raised. There will be grumbling, perhaps, if not an outcry.

What about public education? Where is the outcry for the 107,000 layoff notices being printed for almost a third of California's teachers? I am not hearing it.

Public schools cannot cut services. We are mandated to give each and every child who arrives at our schools a free and appropriate public education. We do not charge admission. We don’t invoice for the countless extra hours devoted to students and their families. School employees never begrudge providing that most basic gift of an enlightened society: an education. We take our students in, we care about them, and we teach them.

So, California’s mismanaged state budget will be balanced on the backs California's teachers, auxiliary staff, and school children. Teachers and remaining classified staff will be expected to shoulder an increased workload - adding hours to the typical 9-12 hour day. More family and personal time will be spent grading student work, planning lessons, preparing and evaluating assessments, and completing progress reports. (Contrary to popular opinion, the school day does not end when the students leave.) There will be more extra-duty assignments, more committees, more meetings, and more mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion. Why? Because most teachers are not satisfied with "good enough" and will continue to work harder than expected in order to give our children the best.

What about our students? Do you think an increase in class size won't affect them? Think again. This isn't the good old days when most discipline problems were handled at home and the parental rank and file stood firmly behind the teacher when a student misbehaved. This is the era of entitlement and litigation. This is the era of parents defending what the previous generation would have called abhorrent and abysmal behavior - sometimes at all costs.

An increase in class size means the likelihood of behavior issues directly impacting the quality of the education of every child in that classroom. Time spent dealing with inappropriate, rude, and disrespectful behavior will be at the expense of quality instruction. This means less time teaching and less time learning. The research is clear on this one, folks: Time spent learning is important. The quality of instruction is critical.

My school district has three schools. We stand to lose 29 teachers, according to the worst-case scenario put forth by our superintendent. Wilsona Elementary School has, through hard work and extreme commitment, raised its Academic Performance Index (API) to an unprecedented 762. This means that Wilsona Elementary, a Title 1 school that serves at at-risk and geographically isolated community, is ranked #10 in the Antelope Valley. Almost half our student body does not speak English as a native language. All of our students qualify for free lunch.

Now, we will be punished for doing an outstanding job. Along with every other public school in California, we will lose a third of our staff, be required to shoulder a disproportionate share of the collective burden, and be expected to maintain this API score with no additional assistance forthcoming.

I keep waiting for the outcry. I pray it is brewing into the “perfect storm” of common sense and a re-evaluation of fiscal and ethical priorities.

The Ubiquitous Doctor's Visit

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that there is a certain ubiquity to visiting a doctor's office. While some procedures, office decor, personalities, and competencies can be found along a predictable spectrum, it all boils down to the commonalities - the sameness of each and every experience.

This struck me yesterday as I waited for quite a long time to see a doctor at a local walk-in clinic. I avoided the Urgent Care I was familiar with because I knew it would be horribly crowded and I would need to take provisions. I didn't feel strong enough to haul provisions.

I have a "real" doctor. But in all the occasions I have visited his office, I have never actually seen him. I saw his colleague when I had pneumonia in 2001 and the nurse practioners when I visited with minor ailments, but never the man himself. I didn't go there yesterday because they were "closed" for two hours for "lunch." I knew from previous experience that I probably wouldn't get an appointment anyway, due to the flu bug going around, and tendency of his office to over-book. Time and again I have sat there, wedged in between other hopeful and weary patients, competitors for time and attention. There was a time or two when I visited and there was nobody there - yet I waited at least an hour to see somebody. I couldn't help but wonder if the "somebody" I would see was piddling around back there, ensuring and maintaining the balance of power. The balance of power here will never, ever, be in favor of the one seeking medical care. Unless you are President Bush or Leonardo diCaprio.

So I went to this clinic with the tentative hope that I could see a doctor. I have been sick with the flu and its plethora of unpleasant symptoms for two weeks as of tomorrow. The traveling virus lodged itself over the weekend in my ears - probably migrating from my throat, where it had moved in and set up camp, in preparation for colonization.

There were few people in the waiting room and they all had appointments. As I waited, I reflected on the things that make these visits, although conducted rarely, familiar and predictable.

1. The procedures: There is always a clipboard with paperwork attached. This paper work requires signatures and information. It asks all kinds of irrelevant questions that I doubt the doctor actually sees. I think the answers serve as fodder for the morbid curiosity of the staff member who inputs the stuff into the computer. You have to fill out the paperwork on the clipboard if you haven't seen the doctor in awhile. I can understand this to a degree, but really - the dates of my childhood apendectomy and gall bladder surgeries never change. I make the effort to make the appointment and keep it - surely they can make the effort to keep that information in some sort of permanent file. Ask me if I hemoraged last week or had any major collisions with immovable objects. That makes more sense. Ask me about my aversion to needles.

2. The Waiting Room: Doctors with decent cash flow often hire decorators to spruce up the waiting room. The best feature of my "real" doctor's office is the fish tank. It is a saltwater wonder, filled with beautiful fish, exquisite hardscape, and clear, clean, bubbly water. It sits on a shelf that separates two waiting rooms. Other than the fish tank, the decor is interchangeable, dark, and lacking in warmth.

Most of the decor from "decorators" looks like it came from the same stash used in hotel rooms. The furniture, the bland "artwork," the shelving, knick-knacks, wall-mounted television - all the same. The color scheme is a variation of pastel with little to no interest or texture whatsoever. One of my doctors has a mural on the wall, which is interesting but loses flavor after about five years. I am past that now and really wish I had the nerve to offer my decorating services. But this doctor has access to needles.

Most doctors seem to just have a family member or a staffer add "daycore" to the waiting room. Off-balance pictures are placed willy-nilly with medical supply posters suggesting we ask the doctor about this drug or that treatment, and some variation of potted or artificial plants. The magazines are spotty in variety and not recent. It is all I can do, at times, to not get up and fix things. "How 'bout some color on this wall?" I want to shout.

3. The appointment: The cardinal rule about appointments is that they are merely suggestions or guidelines. God help you if you are late for the appointment. The punishments vary but suffice to say that there will be one. But for the staff, appointments are merely a mechanism for adding you to the pool of waiting applicants. There is a point of "critical mass" the scheduler will not exceed. They don't want you waiting outside, for example, because they don't want to be to be viewed as "tacky." Which is humorous when you juxtapose the condition of the waiting room.

They think nothing of giving you a time, expecting you to be there, and then closing the little window with an invitation to "have a seat" so you can develop bedsores while you wait. And wait. They open the door and call a name and for the longest time the name isn't yours. Sometimes it belongs to somebody you didn't realize was there. You wait. Nobody talks. You adjust yourself in the seat, pulling up the legs, crossing and uncrossing ankles, slouching, jerking upright, and perhaps getting up to peer at something.

4. The second wait: This occurs once you have been weighed and measured and led to an examining room. The weighing and measuring always occurs, even if you are coming in for an infected hangnail. The fact that you are wearing five pounds of clothing is never accounted for by the staffer who does the weighing. The disapproval and barely masked glee that registers when your weight comes past the point of social respectability, oozes as the staffer records it on the chart. Don't bother to bring up the heavy clothes thing or the fact that you ate before arriving. The patronism just oozes. The ironic thing is that they are usually housed in scrubs or clothing that disguises their less-than-perfect physiques. If the staffer is obese, the irony fairly drips.

In the examining room you wait. How long you wait is variable because sometimes the staffer stays with you and continues with the measures and terse questioning about why you are here today. Sometimes the tone of voice is a kind of boredom verging on hostility. You carefully explain but for naught because you have to tell the doctor all over again. Clearly, the doctor has not read or heard any of this - which makes you wonder why the staffer asked in the first place. Maybe it is triage.

Then you wait and it is not comfortable. Sit here, lay there, perch on this chair, it doesn't matter. You will wait. The doctor rarely comes right in and this is a fact. You are moved from the waiting room just to keep the assembly line moving. There are mild diversions, if one is brave enough, like the rolling stool, the drawers and countertops, the posters on the walls ("The Amazing Knee;" The Circulatory System;" "Advanced Heart Disease.")

In the veterinarian's room, there are cross sections of dog and cat anatomy, kitchy plaques about dogs having owners and cats having staff, and posters explaining obesity in dogs or the importance of regular teeth-cleaning. This doesn't distract the dog or cat of course. The dog or cat is too busy dropping hair and fur all over the floor, in anticipation for what is bound to be animal cruelty that borders on abuse.

5. The knock: The knock comes after you are finished with all the diversions in the examining room. Rarely, the doctor will catch you looking at the poster or sitting on the stool. Sometimes they look bemused. I think you garner a few points if you look like you have used your time productively. If you had to disrobe for the visit, there is always fear that "the knock" will come while you are in a state of nakedness. This never happens, but the fear remains.

6. The protocol: You must never complain about the long wait or the discomfort of the room temperature, or the tackiness of the waiting room decor. This just isn't done. You are free to go elsewhere and this is understood. Doctors have emergencies and some patients don't arrive exactly on time or require more attention than the time allocated. You won't get an apology for this - it is just understood and accepted. This protocol shows up on the final examination in medical school. Any inclination to do things differently is beaten out of them by the fourth year.

I made the mistake once of questioning the nurse practicioner about the long wait, which was almost an hour, when I had made the appointment more than a week earlier. She looked appalled. "We have patients!" I felt like a third-grader questioning WHY the cursive "Q" looked like the numeral "2."

I explained my rationale for asking but her countenance told me I had crossed a line. Their failure to properly plan somehow constituted inconvenience on my part and the fact that I questioned this was simply beyond her comprehension. It was lucky my visit didn't require a needle that day.

7. The aftermath: The visit itself is a nanosecond compared to the wait time. Questioning, examining, perhaps another question, brief discussion, diagnosis, protocol for treatment, and follow-up. Then, like a flash, off the doctor goes and you won't see the likes of him/her again - unless you are brazen enough to catch him/her in the hallway with a new question. The staffer completes the visit and you either leave or schedule another appointment.

I am often tempted, when I look at the appointment books they keep, to ask the scheduler to block out the appointment in front of me - so I won't have to wait so long.

But one never knows if the next visit will will require a needle.

:-)K

Needful Things

The kids in my class need some things. I don't mean material things, I mean experiences.

I came up with a list because I am a great list-maker. I love marking things off a list. Sometimes I will put something on the list that I've already done, just so I can mark it off the list. What an accomplishment!

My kids need things that suburban kids get without a second thought. Suburban parents think about signing their children up for something and then they do it. The cost is there, but it won't be at the expense of groceries next week or paying the electric bill.

I am not defending the choices some of my parents make when it comes to money - but people in generational poverty think about money differently than people in middle class. That doesn't make it right, it just explains it.

I have a list of things I want my kids to have:

1. Music lessons: I want the kids to learn how to play an instrument. The latest brain research about music shows that it uses some of the areas in the brain used for mathematics. Music enriches life and it is a skill that nobody can take away from you. I haven't met ONE person, ever, who complained about having music lessons when they were younger. This is not to say that they didn't balk at practicing or try to get out of a lesson or two or three - but the payoff in adulthood is priceless. I get all goosebumpy just thinking about all those extra neural pathways that get built when one learns to play a musical instrument.

Here's the catch and here is why I can't mark this off my list: I don't know how to play a musical instrument. Other than "Silent Night" by numbers (9, 10, 9, 7... 9, 10, 9, 7...) and the two-fingered version of Chopsticks, I can't play a thing. And singing? I am the reason God invented CDs.

2. Art: All of my children have such potential. The directed drawings we do on a regular basis are getting better and better. Their recent portraits of President Lincoln are breathtaking. They are so good I am mounting them and laminating them. If money were no object, I would mat and frame them.

They love painting but get so few experiences that most of their attempts are filled with the enthusiasm that results in repeated applications of paint. Then they wonder why everything looks brown and their masterpiece resembles a Brawny paper towel. This same problem occurs when they use chalk, water colors, and tempera.

I don't know the first thing about properly teaching children about art. They need real lessons from a real teacher of art, in a setting that doesn't rush them because of all the academics we are forced to cram into our school day.

3. Dancing: They love to dance and so do I. But having no formal training, and being only lukewarm-successful on any dance floor, ever, the only thing I can do is move around with the rhythm and hope for the best. I loved Tap Dancing as a child and teenager - so much so that I still "tap" when the urge compels me. But, here's the thing - I remember about five tap steps. That's all. The tap shoes I could get - I could find used shoes online and rassle up some music. But 5 dance steps does not a dance teacher make.

4. Sports and P.E.: I need to teach them how to play certain games. This I think I can do. But I need to learn how to be a P.E. teacher for my kids and I learn best by doing. My sister shows me stuff and then I forget most of what she said by the time I get back to school.

5. Gardening: This I can do but you would think the school was being asked to excavate graves or something with the tepid support I get when I broach the subject. We can't compost because of mice. Never mind that mice won't bother a properly maintained compost pile - somebody once told somebody else that mice are attracted to compost piles. With mice come snakes and that is something we don't need. We can plant - but there is no water supply and no promise of a water supply and the dire warning that NOBODY will maintain what we plant in the summer. This I was told in an eMail.

The school will create a sprinkler lake in the front lawn every third day, allow sprinklers to cover sidewalks and driveways, fail to collect rainwater, throw out perfectly compostable food and let trash accumulate all over the campus - but no support for a teacher's effort let her children work with the soil.

That is my short list.

I would like to cross something off.

Missing: One Voice

I am staying home today, on orders from my colleagues and principal. I have been sick with this virus that is bringing down about half the school and local population and I just can't seem to shake it. Other people shake it. But I am not shaking it. It is shaking ME.

The symptoms are varied and they take turns being prominent from day to day. The sore throat usually lays low, but for several days in the past week, it has been at the forefront, making swallowing and eating difficult.

The coughing joined the symptom group around Sunday. This I could have done without. Coughing encourages the aching, which goes along with the fever and sore muscles.

Every morning I have to check around the bed to make sure I haven't coughed up any necessary body parts, whole or in chunks. My cursory knowledge of human anatomy tells me I might need them - if not sooner, then later.

This morning, I awoke with no voice. This became apparent when the brown dog, relieved that I was FINALLY awake, began his usual face-kissing routine. I had no voice to order him OFF me. I finally had to fling his rather dense and beefy weinie-dog butt off the bed so that I could get up.

If I try really hard, using deep breathing and strong exhaling, I can croak out a voice that will last for 4-6 phonemes before giving way to the hoarse and vague whisper that has become my verbal communication for today.

The cough is also nasty in that it makes my muscles sore - I hurt in the core area and lower back from trying to bring up my left lung. Fortunately, the left lung is fastened securely in place and doesn't come up too easily.

Last night I finally slept most of the night. I think it was because I was dead tired and so achy I fell into bed after Jeopardy! ended didn't wake up until 10:45am, much to Seamus's relief.

I always feel guilty missing work. But word of my suffering made it around campus and finally, somebody took action. I went into the lounge for some coffee after my lunch, and found the entire third grade team, the custodial staff, the reading coach, and one of the Instructional Assistants staging an Intervention. Not only did they call me in sick and order me home, they went, enMasse, to see Ann and tell her I could not take her home and that one of THEM would be doing that duty. Then they went to the principal, who actually came by the classroom to reiterate the order.

I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Especially since they have all had it or shook it off quickly. Maybe there is collective guilt there, I don't know. But nonetheless - I feel loved. Did I mention warm and fuzzy?

Maybe it's the fever breaking.

Or, maybe I am having a hot flash.

Safety First~

During my first year at my current school, I was a fish out of water and miserable with the change. I was teaching a first grade class when I had been hired for Kindergarten, and wasn't exactly 'feeling the love' from the Queen of First Grade.

I focused on these kids and worked late hours to ensure they got exactly what they needed academically. I tried to ignore the climate of the school and tended only to my own classroom. This is how I got through the year.

One day, the kids did a wonderful job with an art project. The pictures were beyond awesome and I told them so - then I decided to hang them up. It was one of those afternoons in which everybody was working quietly and on-task - so I took advantage and began pinning up the artwork.

There was a spot over the window PERFECT for the remaining pictures but very inaccessible without breaking every safety law ever enacted by a school. But I was adamant about getting those pictures up so I decided to step up on the chair and then up onto the table.

Then came the part next to the "over the window" section - it was above the sink.

"Teacher, you be careful!" warned Stephanie. I think she even wagged her finger.

"Yeah," echoed several of her classmates. I assured them that I would, of course, be careful.

I stepped onto the chair, up to the scooted-over table, and then up onto the sink area. I hung the last of the pictures with a grunt of satisfaction. They were all watching me at this point, so I hammed it up a bit, throwing my arms up and shouting, "I'm King of the World!"

Most of them laughed but a few just shook their heads and kept working. My silliness was a constant source of embarrassment to those few - although I often found them cracking a smile when they thought I wasn't looking.

I stepped down to the chair, but missed it - whacking my back on the sink area, hitting the table, and landing on my a$$ with a huge "umpft" - the wind knocked out of me.

I lay there stunned - the children didn't miss a beat. They rushed over to me, and knelt down. They were noticeably upset, and a few of them tried to tug me upright while others clambored onto the table to peer over at me and make sure I was alive.

I kept hearing, "Are you okay, are you okay?" from the group. The room was dead silent. I struggled to sit up and say something teacherly.

Then Stephanie pushed her way through the kneeling students, put her hand on shoulder, peered into my face, waved her free arm and said, "I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL, didn't I?"

:-)K

The Quail Family

We are lucky to have a covey of quail living in our neighborhood. They used our backyard as a nursery last summer - all the little baby quail running around were sight to see.

I strongly suspect it was a Mama Quail who pecked Otis in the head to protect her babies. It worked - Otis never went back outside until the Quail Family moved to the front yard.

Several times a day, the family returns to the backyard to eat. Keeping them in birdseed is becoming quite the chore - there are at least 20 members of this covey right now.

After filling the feeders, I noticed that the quail cannot get onto the swinging versions. Their body-types don't allow for the balance needed to sit there and eat. "I'll have to put some feed on the ground for them," I said to Dan, "I want them to get enough."

Dan looked at me strangely. I guess the fact that these quail appear ready to hibernate with plenty of "storage" had something to do with it. "They eat what the little birds knock over," he said.

A few days ago, when the weather was decent, Duke spent the afternoon lounging around the backyard. The quail got used to the littlest dachshund and came to feed once they ascertained that Duke's bird-hunting days were over.

Today they are roaming around out in front, looking for eats and trying to remember how they get into the backyard.

Cat Drool

As Otis's Chief of Staff, I am in charge of his health issues and make all decisions pertaining to his comfort and care. In return, he sits on my lap occasionally and impresses my friends with how "friendly" he can be.

He also throws his entire body down, sideways, across concrete when he sees me and we are sharing concrete space. I would like to think that, like the dogs, he is showing me respect by doing this, but I sense that he is really showing me that HE can throw HIS body down on concrete.

Lately, Otis has been drooling. At least, I think it is drool and not a runny nose. My suspicions were confirmed last week when I heard my husband, the cat's most-favorite person, yell out in digust, "Did you just DROOL on me?"

This got me to pondering WHY the cat is drooling. As a rule, I don't think cats drool. Dogs drool - nothing is beneath their dignity - but cats? I am not thinking it is a normal turn of events.

I am worrying that, after all these years, Otis's lack of oral hygiene has caught up with him and he needs dental work. The dogs get their teeth cleaned regularly but not Otis. It is hard enough to get Otis into his travel crate for shots on a yearly basis. There have been years he has gone without shots because drawing blood from the hands that feed him was preferable to a trip in the CAR in the CRATE. Feline leukemia, parvo, and rabies were preferable to a trip in the CRATE. Not that he understands the nature of disease, but he acts like he does.

Do I feel guilty that, as a pet owner, I have neglected my cat's teeth? Yes. But Otis has sharp claws, a tenacious temperament, and he really, really, hates the CRATE. The path of least resistance was easier and didn't hurt as much.

Otis won't let me examine his teeth without a fight. The rare glimpses I get of his front fangs assure me that they are not show-cat quality. But the drooling has to be coming from somewhere - and I am suspecting that all is not well in his mouth. Plus, and this is a big clue, Otis has terrible breath.

Otis never USED to have bad breath. Rare whiffs near his mouth area have always been rewarded with the pungent aroma of Fancy Feast, never yicky ol' Cat Breath.

I am going to have to call the vet tomorrow and make THE APPOINTMENT. This will most likely be within a week's time - enough time for planning HOW to get him into the CRATE without great bodily harm. All adult members of the house will have to help. We may need to call in neighborly reinforcements.

Or - I can hold out hope that he just has a runny nose.

The Ointment Flies

It's tough to decide who to vote for on Tuesday because each of the candidates have flies in their respective ointments. It's hard to see the ointment for all that fly.

Obama: It rhymes with 'Osama,' 'llama,' and 'Not Your Momma.' "Barak" sounds like something you do after a good meal. How do you keep a straight face with a name like that?

Hillary: Her voice grates on my last nerve. If she were president she would be talking all the time. My nerve would be shot. I would be a wreck.

McCain: He has a trophy wife. He looks ready to drop dead any minute. He also gets this rash on his face that looks angry. Angry rashes upset me. And what happened to the original wife?

Romney: He's from a church that thinks women are second class citizens. There are a lot of women in congress. Will he even TALK to them? Will he ask them to serve coffee during important goverment meetings? This would grate on that last nerve AND upset me.

Huckabee: He tied his dog, in a crate, to the top of the car for a family vacation. He told the media that the dog "loved the wind in his face." At 65 miles per hour? Head ON? He used political pressure and got his son "off" on animal cruelty charges when he hung a stray dog at Boy Scout camp. Apparently mistreating animals is okay with him. Don't serial killers start out that way? That's all we need - rumors of a serial killer in the White House. Any person from the DC area could be a victim. We just can't take that chance. And if he had a "first dog" like all the other presidents, I would worry about it all the time.

Ron Paul: Who IS this guy? He reminds me of Pat Paulson's many runs for the presidency. Pat Paulson never won. That should say something. Ralph Nader doesn't win either. And Ron Paul ain't Ross Perot.

Guiliani: He was a good mayor. He needs to stay that way.

It's hard to get fly wings out of ointment. Your nails get all ointmenty.

Celebrating Hands and Feet

My sister says that it is important to love our bodies. Healthy individuals must look at their bodies and praise what is good about them. In order to be cooperative, I hereby praise.

I like my hands and my feet. My left hand looks a lot younger than my right, although I am pretty sure they were born at the same time. My nails usually grow well and I get a lot of compliments on them.

My hands don't match. The thumbs and middle fingers look like they belong to different people - related, but different. The index fingers are slightly different, much like the ring fingers. Only the pinkies match.

Maybe I absorbed a twin during gestation and ended up with one of her hands. A gestational souvenir, so to speak. When I think of this, it makes me sad. One shouldn't "absorb" one's siblings. It just isn't nice. (This makes a lot of sense since I tend to fall right between democrat and republican.)

My right second toe was broken a few years ago and this makes it a bit crooked although you have to do a real 'toe exam' to figure this out. This toe is smarter than the others because it knows the cold weather. Experts will tell you the broken joint is now susceptible to arthritis but the real reason is that it is just a smarter toe. Some digits are just like this. One must celebrate smart digits.

My fingers have gained weight. Although they are slimmer than they were 40 pounds ago, they are still too pudgy for me to wear my original wedding ring. This ring is a Size 4 and my current ring is a 5. Since I am 30 pounds over my marriage weight, I can see how this can happen. At least a couple ounces are stuck in my ring finger.

I had to have the ring cut off one day a couple years back because it was about to give me gangrene. I was certain of this and insisted that the nice jewelry gal cut the ring off. She didn't want to and said she was pretty sure I didn't have gangrene. I told everybody I had a spider bite that swelled the finger but I lied. I didn't wish to tell people I was too damn fat for my wedding ring anymore.

When I retrieved the ring from the jeweler who cut it off, it was nice and shiny and all welded back together again. I would really like to wear it. Instead, I wear a vintage ring I found online that is very simple and goes with another ring Dan bought for me years ago. It looks like a wedding set but again, I lie to the world.

This year I will buy toe rings and ankle bracelets to celebrate my feet. I am also considering microdermabrasion for my "older" looking hand. This way it will look as smooth and lovely as my "younger" hand.

I hope my absorbed twin won't mind.

Writing a Paper: Dreamscapes

Five summers ago I had nothing to worry about but decorating my new house. It was a fun time, picking paint colors and buying more antiques and arrangning things. My dreams were variations on the house theme with many rooms and infinite possibilities. The house in this dream is not my house or any house with which I am familiar. It is the house in my mind - with endless rooms and some unknown places and rooms nobody else knows about that I want to use. The decorating possibilities, I must say, are fantastic. There is a whole section on the bottom floor that is in a constant state of construction. One area is a double room I really want to use someday. There is construction debris everywhere - plaster, sawhorses, and piles of building junk.

Lately, the dream-state house is a mess. I am happy to report that this house is not the house I grew up in that I have to clean before my mother, The Queen of Clean, gets home. Nor is it the home of my grandmother, which was in my dream night before last. (I needed to get things out of it and I could not. It was a very stressful dream.)

As usual, I am attempting to clean up a horrendous mess. The disarray looks manageable but it takes the whole dream before I can find any semblence of order. The stuff in this dream is outstanding. I mean, it is stuff I would really like to have. I just can't remember what all the stuff is - I just know it is excellent stuff.

Once again, there are children in the dream and I am responsible for them. None of these children belong to me and they are not my students. In my dream state, however, they are my students-children and they have really made a mess this time. Last night, I had to get the house in order for Christmas. Then I had to get them all to bed and they were not of a mind to do this. At times, the "house" began to look a bit like a variation of my first house - the one the boys really grew up in and shows up a lot lately.

At the end of the dream the areas I want cleaned are finally in order and I skip off to a "guest room" where I can sleep until the morning comes. But I haven't laid out any of the presents or worked on any Santa stuff - yet I know the students-children will have a delightful Christmas morning, but it won't be my doing and there will be a mess for me to clean up. There will be harsh judgment about my lack of preparation, but there is only so much I can do and I have to get to sleep.

There is water everywhere around the house and pools inside the house. I work my way around these and notice the tastefully exquisite decorating in this guest room. I can't recall anything about it, which is totally frustrating because I come up with the BEST decorating ideas while dreaming. My best window treatments ever were designed during a fever-induced dream while I had pneumonia and fell asleep during a Home and Garden Television program.

The dream is an endless variation of itself. Sometimes I am in "June Lake," one of my most favorite places, but this doesn't look anything like June Lake. There are trails that run next to emerald mountains and flowing streams and these are so beautiful they are surreal - and nothing like any place I've ever been except that I have been there numerous times. This place is "my most favorite place" and I feel bad saying it because June Lake has always been my most favorite place. I know June Lake well but I know this place better.

The dream house is sometimes in June Lake and sometimes near a huge airport and mall complex where there is a restaurant I like but can't seem to get to while it is still open. There are clothes I like - but I cannot find them because I have to leave - the place is closing.

I wish in this dream I could write a paper. It is the paper due next week that I do not want to write. I can't get a handle on it and stress is building by the minute. Most papers flow and then get tweaked and flow some more. Then, they are almost done and I can let them "get cold" before I go back in and stick a fork in them.

I need to find all that outstandingly excellent stuff that was in the kitchen. If I arrange it just so, maybe that paper will be finished.

Chomp Marks

I am working in my classroom today, puttering around and cleaning up areas that usually get wiped down and organized about twice a year.

In cleaning up my easel area, I begin organizing my magnetic money and pattern blocks - things the kids had gotten into despite admonitions to the contrary. There is enough dust on the easel shelf to build a new easel. All the magnetic manipulatives are scattered about. So I gather and sort.

Then I notice: My magnetic pennies have CHOMP marks on them. That's right, BITE marks (looking like molars, but I'm not Grissom).

My questions are these:

1. Who did this?

2. Why?

3. Why chomp down on MOST of them and not just a chosen
few?

4. When did this happen - over time or in one sitting?

And here is the scariest one of all...

5. Where was I and what was I doing so as not to notice a
kid trying to eat magnetic money?

Of course, If I ask the kids about this they will claim to have been out of the country at the time it happened. If I press the issue, one of them will blame Diego and the rest of them will chime in with sudden "eye witness" accounts.

If Diego THINKS eating magnetic money is a good idea, he will either agree to the crime or put the event into his long-term memory so he can be sure to sample the pennies when I am not looking.

Skeery.