Changing the Mood

Is it time to buy a pig and do some DNA experimenting? Maybe I could make my own swine flu vaccine and become a millionaire.

Oh, right, I'm not allowed to have livestock in my neighborhood.

Well, then, in that case, perhaps I should panic like the media wants me to. panic. panic. panic. ahhhh. Really, it's no different than a normal flu. I do not have a weak immune system. As a matter of fact, because I work with children, my immune system has super powers. I have nothing to worry about. I could, however, go buy all of the face masks in the region and then sell them at a roadside stand at a substantial mark-up. It's a capitalist society, right?

My greatest hope here is that the swine flu does become a pandemic, and the numbers escalate so high around here that we have to end the school year early. It would be like a giant snow day, but not because of snow--because of pigs. A giant pig day. Apples and mud for everyone! Oh, the fun we'd have! The kids and I would have no reason to leave the house until September. If I stock up on groceries TODAY, we would risk nothing. Tons of fun in the backyard. Oh, and I hope no one dies from the illness. See, I'm not all THAT selfish.

In keeping with the spirit of my pig day, I encourage all of you on the Delmarva peninsula to travel to Mexico, or at least to the University of Delaware (where the bug is crawling). Go, meet, great, be merry, catch some germs, and end my school year, but be sure to leave me alone.

Oh, crabcakes! I just realized that who six-degrees-of-separation thing. Many of the children I see every day have parents who work at the university. Oh, it could so easily crawl my way. I will not, however, panic. It just makes me angry. I don't like being sick and will be quite unhappy with anyone who makes me so.

So, in closing, keep it to yourselves, people, because I want to enjoy my pig day. No one wants to spend pig day at home feeling sick.

What Happened to the Rabbit?

I woke up Easter morning and couldn't wait to see
What the Easter Bunny left downstairs for me
I woke my mom and dad and my sister too
I knew then exactly what to do
I tiptoed down the stairs and peeked around the corner
I needed to stop my sister--I really needed to warn her!
Strewn about the place were little bits of fur
An ear was by the back door; then it all became a blur
I hit the floor hard with my head
That's what got my parents up from their bed
My sister woke then, too, to see what was the matter
That's when the dog licked his lips and made a move to scatter
Right there on the kitchen floor beside the Easter baskets
Were the last little bits of bunny, too small for any caskets
I realized then the scene was not the least bit funny
My lowdown, dirty dog had eaten the Easter Bunny

Can't Walk a Straight Line

I've noticed a few things about being a mom lately, things I guess that have always been present in my unconscious mind but that have recently been pushed to the forefront.

1. I seem to have developed some kind of bizarre magnetic pull. No matter in which direction I turn, at least 2 children and 1 dog follow. For example: before we leave for school each morning, I turn off the lights. The three of them follow me from light switch to light switch every single morning, almost like I'm leading them on a new adventure, but I'm not. It's the same routine we follow every school day.

2. I have not been able to walk in a straight line in almost 8 years. Wherever I go, someone is in the way, or someone has left a toy or jacket on the floor, or someone bumps into me, knocking me off track. It's like living on an obstacle course--everywhere you go. Keeps me on my toes. Hope the straight line thing isn't a DUI test that I ever encounter. I'll fail from lack of practice.

Mass Carnage on the Windowsill

I know, it's blurry, but it's tape lined with pinhead-sized clover mites.

The invasion of the clover mites continues. The saga lives on. They sent their first round of troops, who evidently reported back to the colony that they met no resistance. Consequently, the rest of the army moved on in. My windowsills have become living entities. They ebb and flow like a blackish-red spider-filled wave pool. My children spend countless minutes sitting on the kitchen floor watching the tiny bug parade. Indeed, they are fascinating to watch. They climb up, up, up... and lose their suction only to plummet to the sash again. In my debilitating fear of all things crawly, I have managed to ignore the tiny things for a while. I've even pondered their existence: is their entire purpose really to slink around my south wall, completely unimpeded, only to die of eventual starvation? Because, really, let's not fool ourselves--I don't have any living vegetation in my house. I quickly and efficiently kill all houseplants, either letting them die of natural causes, such as dehydration, or by throwing them out the door in a frantic I-found-an-aphid freakout.

Well, I finally got to the breaking point and put tape on the sills. The edges have turned black with death. And I feel terribly guilty. I keep imagining their squeaky, high pitched cries for help. Kinda like A Christmas Story: "Stuck? Stuck! Stuck! Hey, don't leave me! Don't leave me! Come back!" Should I really have killed the harmless bugs?

Yes, yes, I should have! You know why? They are slacking off! From my previous post, you know my yard has been overrun by clover (which I'd like to transplant next door, but we won't go there now). If these billions of bugs were doing their job, they would be out there eating that clover, not in here surfing on my sashes. And you know the worst part? I, The Woman, have been forced to vacuum AND clean around the kitchen sink. There's so much wrong with that picture that I don't even know where to begin.

iTunes Genius

Ok, I am a dork. A big one. Has iTunes Genius made you a page yet? I ask because I opened iTunes, and there it was. I felt like a cross between a 70 year-old woman and an 8 year-old girl when I saw mine. Mixed in with Bing Crosby, Perry Como, the Andrews Sisters, and Ethel Merman were Katy Perry, the Cheetah Girls, Miley Cyrus, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Eminem, John Mellancamp, the Beastie Boys, and the soundtracks to Cars and Speed Racer. Can you guess which ones are mine and which belong to my little people?

The overarching reality here is that in becoming parents, most of us give up our identities. My own used to be important to me. I was very accomplished, good at what I did, and well respected in my school system. I wrote the language arts curriculum, and many of your children and grandchildren are learning what I said they should learn. Then, I had a daughter, and later a son, both of whom I would not trade for anything, and to much of the world, I am now Tootsie and Bubby's mom. So, instead of writing the curriculum, I am teaching my little people how to take care of themselves and others by being a role model. Part of that, I have learned, is not forcing them to like what I like and instead fostering their own personalities. If that means I learn to like Rascal Flatts, Mr. C, and Miley Cyrus, then so be it. Years from now, maybe your descendants will follow my little people's leadership. Then, I can go back to my Perry Como and the Beastie Boys.