Commas

I think, because I missed National Punctuation Day, that I need to use as many commas as possible. And exclamation points! Yes, I am aware, of course, that exclamation points are considered pretentious, but I, my friends, am feeling wonderfully, confidently pretentious! So, if I were to place a comma after, or is that before, each word, then, you, get, my, message, with, as, many, pauses, as, I, can, provide. (That was painful to type, to be honest.) Take each pause to think, just a little, about my purpose, which is, of course, the intent of a master, for I know my commas, and, therefore, so do my students, and so will my children, my fantastic, imaginative, follow-me-everywhere, be-my-best-friend children.

What? Did you say, "What, I ask, happened to the semicolon?" Oh, it's floating around here somewhere, but I just don't feel like using it today. So there, you pesky semicolon, pthththththth!

I have only one little comment about the colon: not too long ago, a student of mine took it upon himself to inform the class that the colon has several uses, indeed, and one, in particular, I had neglected to write on the board. Really, excrement, as well as its route of escape, is not one of my top concerns in the classroom.

Saturday!

My son woke me up this morning by whispering into my ear, "You're the best mom I've ever seen!" Which was so sweet! I could have hugged him forever, but it was followed by, "My tummy hurts. I think I have to poop." Moment over.

Today's agenda:

1. Play Super Friends: I got to be Wonder Woman's evil robot twin, but then, my son (who was playing the real Wonder Woman) caught me with the golden lasso. My only means of escape was to bump him around with my butt. That didn't last long before he insisted I become Batman, who is good and would certainly not bump anyone around with his butt.

2. Turn on Speed Racer, become an audience, and watch the little boy perform the theme song. Then, we broke out the instruments, and I got to perform, too. You know Speed Racer will see it through!

3. Balance a Frisbee-like toy on my head while I prepare a popcorn chicken and bacon lunch and randomly shoot the girl with Nerf darts.

4. Screaming, run from the dart-laden children who have wrestled the weapon from my hands.

5. Brave the spiders in the garage to find my Polyfill stuffing. Apparently the AWESOME nap mat I made for the boy is not up to par, I am told, because it does not have an attached pillow. How could I be such a neglectful mother?

6. Brave more spiders, the crisp, hollow shells of their dead prey, and their eggs to dig out and clean a storage chest from the garage to have a place to hide the countless little distractions that currently speckle my house.

7. Post to my blog.

8. Make the pillow and attach it to said nap mat.

9. Do a load of laundry so the nap mat is ready to go on Monday.

10. Clean the mess. I had a dream last night that I had two houses for some reason. The second one was beautifully decorated, had a sparkling pool bordered by palm trees and a lovely wrought-iron fence, and was CLEAN. I asked my husband if we could keep the second house because then we'd have a place to invite our friends. A non-messy place to invite our friends. I guess I can only dream of having a clean house.

11. Make some jello and apple crisp. Love to lick the jello bowl. Liquid jello--so good--drooling like Homer Simpson. And, hooray! I get to use my Apple Peeler, Corer, Slicer! How I love to say that name!

12. Grade tests.

13. Edit a document.

14. Make some dinner (there may be some toy balancing and darts involved, too).

15. Do dishes (meaning, throw away the paper plates).

16. Spend at least twenty minutes chasing that damn fly!

17. Play Speed Racer. I'll probably be Trixie and a bad guy who captures Trixie and ties her up in his garage. I haven't quite figured out the logistics of this, but I'll have it all worked out by dinner time. Then, we'll have some Kung Fu fightin' all through the house. I'll be fast as lightnin'.

18. Scrape a layer of dirt off the kids.

19. Dessert! My favorite.

20. Do some more editing.

21. Have dear daughter read Harry the Dirty Dog.

22. Put the kids to bed, hope to stay awake, fall asleep anyway.

Glinda, the Good Witch, Saves the Day, Or Does She?

This afternoon, Batman, Robin. and the Penguin met Glinda the Good Witch and the Tin Man.

When we last saw the two tighted heroes, the Penguin had viciously and mercilessly attacked the Dynamic Duo, blasting their fortress with bird pellets, leaving the caped crusaders helplessly bound together beside a crumbling cliff that had once been their secret Batcave hideout.

The camera opens to Batman and Robin working up a sweat in the intense afternoon sun as they wrestle, amid falling rocks and debris, to free themselves from the Penguins’s bird-pellet rope.

Batman: Holy dishsoap, Robin! Is that a gigantic bubble floating towards us?

Robin: It is, Batman. You’re right again! But how can a giant bubble save us?

Batman: Don’t you see, Robin? Dishsoap is a base. The basic nature of the bubble will neutralize the highly acidic nature of this bird-pellet rope, and we’ll be free.

Robin: You mean the soap will dissolve the ropes? Holy sponges, Batman, that’s brilliant!

Batman: (in a distressed, straining voice) Brace…yourself…Robin…That bubble may sting your eyes!

Robin: Holy suds, Batman, I can’t see.

Glinda descends in her bubble, but a falling rock collides with it, it pops, and Glinda falls to the ground rather ungracefully before the Crusaders in Distress could be scrubbed free of their birdly confines.

Robin: Oh, no, Batman, the bubble popped and giant fairy fell out.

Batman: Holy pink dresses, Robin, now we’ll never get free. We’re clean pecked out of ideas.

Glinda: (Brushing herself off, regaining balance) (in a high, nasal voice) What kind of munchkins are you?

Batman: Munchkins? Why, we’re the Dynamic Duo.

Glinda: Well, you must not be very good munchkins, for you are wearing black masks. (Gasp) You must be friends with the wicked witch!

After much explaining, and much skepticism on Glinda’s behalf, the Tighted Munchkins convince Glinda to help them.

Glinda: Well, my little munchky-wunchkies, I can send for someone who can help.

Robin: I mean no disrespect, but can’t you wave your magic wand?

Glinda: (with a HUGE smile) This silly wand? Why, all I can do with this is give you ruby slippers, and those would not at all match Batman’s clothes, but you, Robin, just may look quite fetching with a pair of red, sparkly slippers.

Glinda waves her wand, and with a puff of smoke, Robin’s shoes have become the beautiful ruby slippers of which he has always secretly dreamed. Robin is giddy as a schoolgirl.

Batman: (Rolling his eyes) Great, Robin, we’re tied up with bird poop, and you’ve gotten yourself a pair of red heals? Have I taught you nothing? Loafers, Robin, loafers.

Along limps the Tin Man, badly rusted, ax in hand. The rest of this happens pretty quickly because I’m tired of typing.

Glinda: Oh, how fortunate you have come, Tin Man. Can you use your hatchet to free our little masked munchy kins?

Tin Man: I can try, but I am so badly rusted that I am not sure how much longer I can swing my arms.

The Tin Man chops away, freeing the Dynamic Uno (remember, Robin is now wearing ruby slippers, so he’s not very dynamic anymore, but he could still be considered a crusader). Tin then freezes up, oxidized to the point of immobility.

Robin, emboldened by his new shoes, gladly offers to oil up the Tin Man. All are happy until the Penguin returns, entrapping Glinda in a giant penguin egg.

Is this the end of Glinda?

Will Robin be able to finesse the Tin Man into his previous buoyant self?

Can Batman get over his disgust in Robin’s bad taste?

Where are the fashion police?

Days to Celebrate

I can't believe I missed it: yesterday was National Talk Like a Pirate Day! I could have had so much fun with that. Bummer. The realization that I missed such a fabulous opportunity led me to research future opportunities, so here are a few.

Today is National Punch Day--any way you like it: with a fist, a beverage, or a tool.

September 21: World Gratitude Day and Banana Festival. Thank you, world, for the bananas!

Friday is National Pancake Day. Guess what we're having for dinner?

September 28: Ask a Stupid Question Day. Oh, the fun I'll have with this. Too bad it's a Sunday.

September 29: Poisoned Blackberry Day. I'd really like to know more about this one. Who created it? What specifically was the reason? How exactly are we supposed to celebrate it? If you have any ideas regarding how I can safely incorporate this into my English classes, go ahead and leave a comment.

October 3: Virus Appreciation Day. Hmmmm...

October 25: Punk for a Day Day. Oh, I think this will be my favorite. But, again, on a weekend. No fun dressing up punk at home. Who will I shock? The dog? It's likely my kids wouldn't notice (because I don't flash vivid colors with bad voice-overs and Japanimation, nor do I practice martial arts and train odd fuzzy creatures to become killing machines). Not that there's anything wrong with that.

October 29: National Hermit Day. I will go to work, but I won't talk to anyone or leave my classroom except to visit the potty now and then. Perhaps, I can wear a burlap sack and refuse to shower because in my seclusion, I have found the meaning of life, and it lies in filth, peaceful coexistence with parasites and other semi-woodland creatures, and itchy burlap. Maybe I'll alter the rules a little, for I don't know how I can get away with not talking to my students. Perhaps I won't talk to anyone over the age of 15. That's good. Maybe I can get the students involved and then have to answer countless angry emails because the children are nagging for burlap, refusing to shower, and hiding in their rooms. Maybe not.

October 31: Improve Your Psychic Powers Day. Don't leave me any comments because I should know what you're thinking by then.

Don't Grow Up

What will I do when my girl is no longer my little girl? Almost every day, she plays with her best friend. They spin elaborate tales of pet shop owners and dog groomers. They hang pictures, animals, and odds-n-ends over my banister. They've used up all six rolls of tape that I've purchased in the past year. Four pairs of scissors have disappeared in their possession. Every toy in my house winds up on my living room floor. Sometimes, they're bored; sometimes, they can't calm down. They laugh, they sing, they dance, they live pure fun.

Then, when it's time for the best friend to go home, they always follow the same routine: lots of foot dragging followed by an incredibly excited bike ride half a block away. Their bicycles drop onto the asphalt, and two giggly girls ding and ditch, hiding in the bushes beside the house, waiting for best-friend's mom to open the door. Today, I watched them from my kitchen window, and they were the cutest little girls ever, hunched over behind the bushes, wearing their enormous bike helmets, giggling away. I wish they didn't have to grow up.

Cloning

Oooh, oooh, oooh! Guess who's back? Speed Racer and Racer X! Thanks to fantastic advances in genetic engineering, they have been cloned, and all is right with the world again. Sigh of relief...

You see, Super G has everything, including a more extensive selection of toys than Toys R Us, and since Speed Racer appealed to no one in the world but my son and me, those toys are on clearance at the grocery store. After their crippling disappearance this summer, I looked for new figures online, but they have become collectors items and were ridiculously expensive, UNLESS you shop at Super G in the "take your life in your own hands and pray your car hasn't been stripped when you return to it" shopping center. There, Speed and Racer X are losers, sold only because they can't be returned to the manufacturer.

Who cares if they're losers and I'm a loser collector. Woo hoo! They're back. No longer will Spritle have to drive the Mach 5, and there's no reason for Chim Chim to place his grubby little paws on the Shooting Star. It was a travesty, but the cars can't drive themselves, you know.

Right now, Speed is lying in the butler's pantry sink, and X has been delicately tucked between the dog and his collar.

It's a wonderful world!

Word of the Day, Again

Two nights ago, my three year old boy didn't feel like going to bed when I declared it was time, so when I turned off the TV, he clenched his fists and growled, "F@ck!" He then repeated the word with each angry step he took on the stairs.

"F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!" "F@ck!"

Hope he doesn't stub his toe at school.

Funkytown Isn't So Funky Anymore

As I was driving the kids to school today, I was quite excited to hear the opening beats of "Funktown" on the radio. Granted, we were listening to Kids Stuff, but I thought maybe it was a semi-decent remake by the Kids Bop crowd sandwiched between Lauri Berkner (hate her) and Dora the Explorer's remake of Gloria Estefan music. Really, how low do you have to be before you accept royalties from Dora the Explorer?

Anyway, back to Funkytown. The music kept going, and I thought, "This will be a good day--good tunes (even if they're sung by Kids Bop) just before we get out of the car and I have to become a responsible grown up." But, no. It was Alvin and the Frickin Chipmunks. I hate them more than that recording of dogs barking "Jingle Bells." UGHHHHHHH! That's no funky town that Alvin squealed about. That's a psychotic medicated Prozac happy land. Funkytown is ruined for me. Forever.

I decided to spend the rest of the car ride pretending I was June (one of the Little Einsteins), my son was Leo, and the car was Rocket. We pat, pat, patted our way through the last couple miles of our commute. Since Rocket doesn't talk, I had to wiggle violently in my seat to rock the car. Then, Blue Jet stole a key, and we had to chase him to find it. We were successful in our quest and were able to allow Rocket to rest happily in the upper parking lot, among the birds who were there to receive a top notch education, too. My daughter just laughed hysterically at all of this and refused to participate. She was the smart one.

I would like to know how many of my students and their parents saw me rocking the car and patting for power. All I can say is either I am a really good mom who indulges in her children's imaginations or I have totally lost my inhibitions and I just don't care who thinks I'm nuts.

Art for Mom

Today was my three-year-old's second day of school. He has been in daycare since he was 11 weeks old, but now he has moved on to actual school. I walk him to his door in the morning and have the desk call for him in the afternoon. Today, at the end of the day, he came running up the hall, lunch box and bookbag in hand. As soon as he saw me, he lept into my arms and squealed my name. He then reached into his bag and hurriedly pulled out his artwork from the day. It was the perfect mother-son Hallmark moment. I felt the glorious rays of the sun beaming down upon us while angelic harp music filled the air. With adoring eyes, he eagerly handed me the picture, of which he was so proud. I excitedly asked him what it was that he drew.

Somewhere, a needle scratched clear across a record. The harps ceased; the sun took refuge. My little boy cocked his head, looked at me like I was and idiot, and cooly said, "Lines."

Duh?!

Down There (Not What You Think)

I hate the basement. It’s the perfect place to play: lots of open space, cement floor for skating and bike riding, heavy bag for punching out aggression, and funky silver insulation for pretending you’re in a spaceship. But, and it’s a big but, spiders have taken over, filling every corner, all eyeing me with evil intent every time I step foot down there. They’re everywhere. Even if I simply think about venturing into the arachnid abyss, I break out into a sweat. I get all clammy. I experience chest pains. It’s even worse when the kids want to play down there, and I become almost paralyzed with fear when they venture into the play tents.

I had to brave the furry, multilegged wild just a couple minutes ago. The air conditioned air smelled like wet cement, so I had to be sure things were dry down there. Had to find shoes—can’t visit spider haven with bare feet. Heart a-pounding, I dragged myself down the steps and walked somewhat near the perimeter. Couldn’t get too close to the spiders. There was the normal wetness near the sump pump, and I had to get close enough to the wall to ensure it was dry and the water had come from the pump pipe. Because it’s a little dim, I stuck my hand directly into a web, and I almost had a heart attack right there (after the icky spider dance). The only thing that prevented my untimely death was the fear that spiders would crawl all over my dead body. Shudder. I hate them, but I can’t kill them, as that would upset the delicate ecosystem that exists in the basement. There’s obviously food for them, or they would move out. If they’re exterminated, who knows what else I’d run into down there.

I can’t take it. And I don’t understand it. Why can’t I just put on my big girl pants and deal? Probably because I’m afraid the spiders have gotten to my big girl pants.

Thunder and Rain and Wind, Oh, My

Panic. Everyone panic. We are going to get some rain. Oh, no.

So, tropical storm Hanna is expected to reach us within 24 hours. The newspaper ran a HUGE story about what to do: stock up on batteries, milk, bread, flashlights, etc. It warned of flooding. It warned of wind—gusts up to a whopping 41 m.p.h. Oh, no. Thunder and rain and wind, oh, my.

I am not concerned. Granted, we have no milk, so we might all go through withdrawal if we don’t get more, but I think we’ll survive in the end. Bread—oh, we have bread. Tons of it. Nobody eats it, which is why we have it. We’re stocked; therefore, according to the newspaper, we’re good to go. We also have plenty of AA and AAA batteries. I don’t know what we’ll do with them. Maybe we’ll roll them around in the kitchen for fun when the electricity goes out and we can’t use the Internet. That’s my real fear: no computer. What on earth will I do without the Internet and the National Weather Service? Oh, my, God! What if the electricity goes out and we have no TV? Holy cow! How will I entertain the family? No Wonder Pets, no Total Drama Island, no Dora, no Diego, no Joe (but we really liked Steve better), no Yo Gabba Gabba (Teletubbies meets Soul Train—definitely watch it for the psycho factor). We may have to speak to each other and interact. Heavens no! Or, I could just watch the kids try to gag down some peanut butter sandwiches with warm soda (because we’ll have no milk and no electricity to keep the soda cold). Fun for the whole family.

We also have no flashlights, but that’s ok. Why do we need them? I like to sleep—we can all go to bed when it gets dark.

And, those of you who remember why it took three years to build my house already know that I have nothing to fear in terms of flooding. (Remember, the county was hung up on the bioswales and the flow of the run-off rain water. We could get twenty-five inches of rain in five minutes and still be ok. No flooding here.)

So why the panic? It’s rain and a little wind. The ironic thing here is that from September through June, the winds in my neighborhood average between 20-30 m.p.h. anyway. This is no change. So, everyone else can panic. Go buy all of the bread and milk in the tri-state area. Hold up the gallons to shield yourselves from the wind. Pack the bread along your leaky windows. Stock up on batteries for no apparent reason. Lemmings. All lemmings. I know the truth here.

The wheat farmers, the dairy farmers, Energizer, Duracell, and Maglite control the weather. Or the news. And they are seriously opposed to children’s television programming.

Swamp, Mountain, Volcano

So, this last week of vacation has been filled with swordfighting and Wonder Pet play. We have actually acquired a “fly boat” that says all of the sayings and sings all of the songs, and now my children sing everything. It’s nice to see them play together, rescuing cows from trees, sheep from fences, polar bears from deserts. There’s some good teamwork going on there. It usually ends with hitting an tears, but it’s good bonding. I also get to hear, “We need some food. This is serious,” sung at least twice a day. And, thanks to the Wonder Pets, my son has learned some new and important concepts. For example, yesterday he was playing on my bed (mind you, we’ve now been in the house a year, and the bed is still lying on my bedroom floor, unassembled). He told me he was floating on driftwood. He learned what driftwood is from the Wonder Pets. How fantastic. That will take him so far in life!

Oh, I almost forgot about Dora and Diego. What on earth am I going to do when school begins this week and I will no longer be able to run through the house saving whales, putting the moon back together, and going through the spooky swamp, over the magical mountain, and up the big volcano to save Benny. Spooky swamp, magical mountain, big volcano. Oh, and no more Swiper! There’s nothing so fulfilling as yelling at the top of your lungs, “Swiper is right behind you. For crying out loud, open your eyes, Dora!” At least I can use the Swiper concept in the classroom. Any one of those kids makes an attempt to steal someone else’s pen, and I get to blurt it out: Swiper, no swiping!

No more whining, begging, pulling on my clothes, pinching my arms, throwing toys at my head… What on earth will I do without my little people between 8:00 and 3:00 each day? Thank God I teach middle school. My students don’t want to get close enough to pinch my arm or hang on my clothes. I’ll miss spending all day, every day with my little one’s, though, I am sure, but Christmas vacation is only four months away.

Well, little boy is begging me to play Dora, so I need to go. Can you say, map? You have to say, map! Louder! He can’t hear you!

I’m going insane.