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    Raising your chances that at least SOMEONE will feel the baby kick

    March 19, 2008

    Miss Elizabeth being mauled by 50 kids

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    Had he any hair on his chest, the macaroni would be stuck in it

    March 18, 2008

    Macaroni Baby

    I see a pattern emerging.  I sit at my desk, I turn around and see a child eating.  Occasionally I put the child there (as in this instance).  Occasionally, not so much.

    This is my sick baby.  He has lost 10 percent of his body weight in 72 hours.  Which sounds a lot more dramatic than he has lost 2 pounds.  You would think that based on his shirt, he has lost 50% of his body weight.  He is practicing my mother’s motto–If you want people to think you have lost weight, wear big clothes.  Why it is unbuttoned down to his belly button so that you just want to put a heavy gold chain around his neck and call him “Paulie,” I don’t know. 

    I would like to lose 10 percent of my body weight in 72 hours.  But not by having a nasty gastrointestinal virus.

    This is the one moment he was happy today.  He basically wailed the rest of the day unless I walked around the house with him, singing the ABC song in his ear.  I took him to the doctor and he promptly began to feel better.  It reminded me of all those times our beater car would break down in high school and then my dad would drive it to see what was wrong and it would run better than a ’57 vette.  I hated that.  But I was glad to have the screaming stop.  That was positive. 

    Now he is sleeping.  Maybe I should sleep too.  I have to get up and take pictures of the kids of the kids at The Boy’s school tomorrow.  I’m sure his behavior will be stellar.  My mom said “too bad you don’t have a button maker.” 

    Well, it’s funny you should mention that. 

    My mother now has button machine envy. 

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    It appears that Preschool has jumped the shark

    November 8, 2007

    Oh, come on. You knew with the impending strike that there would have to be at least one t.v. analogy.

    Growing up, we weren’t allowed to wear makeup. I think we weren’t supposed to wear it until we were like 15 or something. It was my mom’s attempt to keep us from becoming hussies (no comments from the peanut gallery necessary, Husband). I used to sneak mood lipstick in the 8th grade but I always got busted.

    Then something happened. I remember my mom trying to take a picture at Christmas of the 4 girls years later and she said, “You girls should put on a little lipstick.”

    Sorry, Mom, but that ship has sailed. I’ll bet we don’t have $40 worth of makeup between the four of us now. I take that back. Kate might have some good stuff. But we really don’t care. I always say it was because we had to wait too long. By then it was too late. Makeup itself had jumped the shark.

    I’m having a makeup experience right now.

    I’m on my fourth email. They started out pretty innocuous.

    Dear Kristen,
    Please sign up for your parent-teacher conference on Friday. We can’t WAIT to tell you how The Boy is doing.

    They progressed.

    Dear Kristen,

    Well, if you are gonna watch both my kids so I can talk to you about school, then ANYTIME is convenient for me.  Since I have to schlep them both along, let’s dispense with using the word “convenient,” okay?

    Now they are seeming a little panicked, like I might be attempting to blow the whole thing off.

    Dear Kristen,
    We noticed you haven’t signed up for a time slot. Please give us a CALL!!

    I don’t even know what the last email said because I didn’t open it.

    Here it comes, Internet. Parent-Teacher conferences are tomorrow and I’m still not signed up. Before you FREAK OUT on me, I’m going. Honest, Mom, I’m gonna go. I just think it’s a little sheisty that the whole place is set up to keep you wondering what the hell is going on and then they are all, “you’d better get here quick.”

    School policy: You can’t observe the class until November. It’s better for the children to be able to get into a routine.

    Then there is drop off and pick up. It’s great in a downpour, but because of it, I haven’t met one person. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for a BFF but it would be nice to find someone to carpool with so that I’m getting a little more than 30 seconds in between drop off and pick up. My sister, the former preschool teacher, explained that this process is so the teachers never have to talk to the parents. Ever.

    But the kid is happy. Delirious. He comes home and obsessively pours a gallon of milk into a shot glass. Clearly pouring is in the curriculum. It’s not like I haven’t tried to find out what’s going on at school. I’ve asked The Boy but therein lies the problem. He is A BOY and he is TWO. What the hell can I get out of him? I have asked The Boy but he says things like, “I play with Denny.” It takes me two weeks to find out there is no Denny but there is a Danny. Is he talking about Danny? “NO, MOM. DENNY.”

    Notwithstanding the multiple notes sent to school about why he is coming home soaked in urine, and of course, that incident where they lost him, I have officially given up. For all the good that is going on at the school, they are clearly missing the communication factor with us. One of my friends asked me the other day what The Boy was doing at school and I may have responded that they could be running a crystal meth lab, for all I know.

    Or building a rocket, based on the crap he is muttering under his breath these days. Look, the kid has come home dry for the last 2 weeks, they haven’t lost him in at least 2 months and he is doing all these creepy mechanical things with his blocks. What more do I need to know?

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    And they are wondering what the hell I teach him at home

    October 10, 2007

    After spending an hour and a half trying to get out of the house to take The Boy to school today (is there a reason that whatever I request mandates a resounding “NO!?), we sat for a few minutes in the drop off line because shock of all shockers, we were early.  When the teachers came out to snatch the children from their cars, I allowed The Boy to drive the final 20 feet up to the front of the school.  All I’m gonna say here is that he may need a couple of extra lessons in driver’s ed.  Really.

    Miss Liz, recently knocked up and looking slightly green, opened the car door with a forced smile that said, “I sure as HECK hope your car doesn’t smell like curry” and helped The Boy get out of his seat of power in the front seat. 

    With that, I heard a clink and realized that a Mommy Needs a Cocktail shot glass had just fallen out of the car and onto the pavement.  Miss Liz gave a small, strangled laugh and I lunged to get the glass.  No use drawing The Boy’s attention to the situation.  All I needed then was his cheerful/helpful, “Mommy Need a, Mom?”

    Yes, Baby.  Mommy Needs a 

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    What in heaven’s name are they teaching him at that school?

    October 6, 2007

    The Boy:  Papa, look at the marigolds.
    K:  What did he say?
    D:  I think he said “marigolds.”
    K:  He did NOT say “marigolds.”
    Grandpa:  Yep.  I think he said “marigolds.”
    K:  What did you say, Eat?
    The Boy:  Look at the marigolds, Mama.  They pretty.
    D:  He said “marigolds.” 
    K:  Are they marigolds?  What the hell does a marigold look like?  Isn’t that thing a mum?
    D:  I don’t know what a marigold is.  Dad, is that a marigold?
    Grandpa:  (reaching over to pluck it)  Yep.  It’s a marigold. 
    K:  Quick, quick, Eat!  What’s the cure for cancer?

    You know.  It was all fine and dandy when he came home the first day of school wanting to look at the world through the triangle he made with his fingers, but I think it’s a little crazy now.  And I shouldn’t complain because he came home from school the other day and asked to sweep the floor for me and to fold the laundry.  I could be well on my way to the ultimate in laziness.  But let’s all admit that it is a little disconcerting.  What’s next?  Calculus?

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    Um, Mrs. Derek, could you please come pick up your son from school?

    September 20, 2007

    Oh, that my name was Mrs. Derek.  I think it would make my mother-in-law feel better.

    Oh, that those who bear the responsibility of putting The Boy to bed at night would also be the one to get the call to pick him up because he is “crying inconsolably” and “just appears to be really, really tired.”

    You’d think that a 10 pm bedtime 3 nights in a row would be sufficient sleep, wouldn’t you? 

    I mean, if you lived on MARS.

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