Thoroughly Jostled

Yes, I'm back. I am willing to own up to the selfishness of journaling. But in the overall sweep of Kate's selfishness, it's small potatoes. And, as Nikki commented, everyone who blogs understands the need for this selfishness. Others selfishly watch TV or prune their Bonsais. I selfishly blog.


Check out the dark circles under this kid's eyes! The Girl Scout snowshoe weekend at Camp Trefoil was cancelled because we had a snowstorm. (I know! We wouldn't want any little girls to get...what? Snowed on?) The troop leader called to tell me that she was going to have the girls sleep over at her house in an attempt to salvage the weekend. Sara did not sleep at all. Here is what she told me after she get home, tearful and overtired, snapped at her brother and collapsed, sobbing, onto her bed:

"Shannon snored all night, and Caitlin wouldn't stop texting, and Mo was being meeeeeeaaaaan [sob-surge]! And I couldn't stand the snoring and neither could Jessie so we went to sleep in Mo's room but there are too many stuffed animals and Jessie kicks and Mo's parakeets were making little noises and Caitlin had her period and she wanted to go home and..."

HOW many days ago was I extolling the virtues of the twelve-year-old girl?

Before the meltdown though, the girls, temporarily recharged by pancakes, walked over to Bywater Park for some sledding. The troop leader called me and I tossed our sleds in the truck and went over to join them.

This was the main attraction: entertainment provided by watching others go down it and going down it 0urselves ("UHuhUHuhUHuhUHuhUHuhUH..."). Well, I was the only grown-up who did it (remember Dad's credo: DAZZLE the children!), and I had a great time, but I was reminded an hour or so later that I still have a deep-tissue booty bruise going. My booty would like to be treated with a little more respect.


This picture shows Sara going down on her tummy, which I did not do. I have been trying to ignore the fact that Leftie has been bugging me for a couple of weeks. Blah. I haven't been to see Dr. Perfect for about nine months. Now that the days of stitch-picking and scissors-wielding are over, I rather look forward to seeing him. At least before the appointment, Dr. Perfect always makes me think about sex. Ladies, if you saw him, you would understand this. The fantasy continues as he breezes in with his blinding smile and drawls, "HelLO there, Mizz Kate!" Then he always glances at my feet. I am a "hands" person; he seems to be a "feet" person. Invariably, he will comment on my cute boots in the winter; my toenail color in the summer. But just as I'm musing, "I wonder if he has a foot-feti..." I am jarred from my reverie.

Doc: [rubbing hands together to warm them] OK, let's have a feel over here. [ramming three not-that-warm fingers into my armpit and digging around energetically]

Kate: Erk! Ack!

Doc, pausing in his excavations: Does that hurt?

Kate: You're jabbing your fingers into my armpit. It's just a little disconcerting. This is my disconcerted "erk".

Doc laughs and rams his thumb up between Leftie and my rib cage, poking as he goes.

Kate: Aigh!

Doc: Was that your disconcerted "aigh"?

Kate: [high, breathy] No, that hurts.

By the time he has finished and breezed back out again, I am disillusioned about our romantic/erotic potential. Who wants a guy who can't even get past second base? I'll be good for another nine months.

Timing is Everything

Well, 10:10 PM; so my work day is over.

It was liberally sprinkled with hectic-ness this evening. (I'm a linguist, so I get to make up words whenever I want. It's a perk.) There was a moment in which I was filling in attendance rolls that Mark needed right away, and 1) a driver showed up to tell me he was delivering the giant Utah Partners for Health Mobile Clinic and he couldn't get into the packed parking lot. "Where do you want me to put the clinic, ma'am?" 2) The computer lab assistant sauntered in, plopped into a chair and began to describe the fatal error message she got when she tried to log students into Rosetta Stone. "Kate, I'm staring at you. I'm staring at you because we're having a really BIG problem." 3) Some people came to tell me that they wanted to sign up for the diabetes management class we're holding in March. I had to hold up fingers. "OK. You're problem number 1. You're problem number 2. You're problem number 3." Triage.

I'm used to this, but I must admit that my timing has been a bit off all day. Simon is not around, and I'm adjusting to the differences. I had the kids ready when it was time for Si to drive the chorus-mobile; but after I had taken care of all their needs and done my chores, I was pinched for running time. By the time I got to the rec, I was able to run for ten minutes; then it was time to go to my appointment with Dr. Derma, so he could admire my belly-splotches. I'll get used to the new routine eventually... except when I need a jar opened. Believe me, I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself.

Many things happened today that made me smile.

Hermila C. showed progress on her literacy post-test. She is in her late fifties and is non-literate in her native language because her parents didn't think she needed to learn to read. Last time she took it, she just stared at the test paper and couldn't do anything. This time she was able to write her name and address. That may not seem like much, but it's huge. Slowly, slowly.

I ate a spectacular apple for lunch. It reminded me of the ones we used to buy from Pieper's Orchard when I was a kid.

The rash on my belly is no big deal and will go away when my life calms down. Dr. Derma gave me some stuff to put on it as well. I only go to the Derma maybe once every five years, but I enjoy these visits. He owned the cabin next door when we lived at the old place, but it was his vacation place and he didn't get up there very much. We looked after it for him a little, and he would let us use it as a guest house when we had a lot of company. He told me today that I seem to look younger every year! I need to go to the Derma more often.

Sara and I had the following conversation at the store:
Sara: Mom, that lady just yelled at her son cuz he tried to buy a bread bowl.
Me: Why would he try to buy a bread bowl, and why would she care?
Sara: I don't know. But she told him to put it back. Then she turned to her friend and said, "I've heard they cause cancer."
Me: BREAD BOWLS cause cancer?!? What a load of malarkey!
Sara: Mom! Not BREAD bowl. RED bowl.
Me: She thinks red bowls cause cancer? Why would a red bowl be any different from any other color? That's crazy.
Sara: Mom! Red! Bull!

Raichle is back from her weekend retreat at Lava. She has a new attitude and an amethyst crystal. She is purged of her pain and no longer cares about her creep-ass boyfriend who dumped her after eight months. By e-mail. On Thanksgiving Day. She brought in this book titled, It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken. Hilarious! I was flipping through it and laughing my ass off. Did you know that you can buy custom ring tones at www.gregbehrendt.com. You can set them to ring when your ex calls, and a voice will proclaim:
1. "Really? You're gonna answer it? Is that what we're doing now? Backsliding? Really, we're just gonna toss our self-esteem out the window?" Or...
2. "Let it go to voice mail. Let it go to voice mail. You are too busy getting on with your life. Let it go to voice mail."
I love working with younger women.

Oh, and a new joke from my student Victor M. Don't get too excited. Victor is a kindly Peruvian gentleman in his late fifties. By day, a presser at a dry cleaner. By night, teller of some of the worst jokes ever thought of. Victor and I love each other. I always get lots of hugs and kisses; big, grippy handshakes. Victor is very hard of hearing and has ginormous hearing aids. When he laughs at his own jokes, the hearing aids squeal loudly. At any rate, this was the one he told me tonight.

OK, Teacher.
Act One: 50 Argentines in the moon. ("on the moon", says Kate)
Act Two: 100 Russians in the moon. ("on the moon", says Kate)
Act Three: 1,000 Germans....on... the moon. ("Good," says Kate)

Three acts. What is the name of the movie?

50 Argentines, 100 Russians, 1,000 Germans. "Full Moon".

Don't blame me.

Sara is Twelve Today

"Twelve" is awesome. The best! This particular twelve-year-old still plays with her American Girl dolls; but she designs racy, biker-chick outfits for them out of duct tape. She is serious about art and will spend hours perfecting a horse-drawing. She will also use the oil pastel crayons to streak her hair. She has a collection of piggy banks, all of them empty, because she can't hang on to money to save her life. She drops into the Gad Chutes at Snowbird, but cannot seem to navigate her laundry pile. There is nothing she loves more than playing practical jokes on me and having me get even. She is going to be an archaeologist - this has been the plan since she was five. But mummies freak her out. Shipwrecks, yes; mummies, no.

She still wants to crawl in bed with me on a Saturday to have a snuggle and read poetry. She comes back from birthday parties freaked out because there were kissing games. She and her friends go up to the school parking lot to ride their rip-sticks for hours at a time. She is afraid of the old dolls in the basement. For how much longer do I get to enjoy these little contradictions?

She doesn't get a "friend" party this year. It's her turn for a "family" party. She gets to decide what that means.
For her, that means tuna melts on English muffins. Partly because she loves tuna; partly because she knows Nate hates tuna.
No birthday cake. She wants chocolate fondue. Suits me fine; but it is hard to stick 12 candles into a plate of cut-up stuff.

Shit! It looks like a conflagration! By the way, I have a wonderful camera, but take most of my blog photos with my phone. That's because loading nice photos onto Blogger takes forever! Does that bug anyone else?

Then, off to Classic Skate! My friend Moira came to meet up with us; partly to skate, and also to hear me dish the dirt about how I'm doing. I filled her in on 83% of the gory details of my messed up life, and I was amazed to find her... supportive! When we talked a little last week, I thought she took a different position. Mostly, though, we skated. I don't recall that I have ever roller skated before - maybe once? But ice skating helps. I got faster and faster, and I could skate backwards. But I couldn't switch from backward to forward rapidly, like I can on ice skates. And I can't pick up my foot to do a cross-over. If I really want to be able to play roller derby, I need to be able to do that. Moira wants to practice! Maybe we'll go a few more times! Classic Skate is great, if you wait until just before they close. At 7 PM, the place is packed. Look out for:

1. Little bittie children on little bittie scooters, darting among the adults like minnows;
2. People who are really, really good;
3. People who are really, really bad;
4. Polygamous sister-wives, holding hands as they skate four abreast and two deep. In long skirts;.
5. The 14-year old boy, six-foot-four and all flailing limbs, windmilling all over the track. In sunglasses;
6. The jump ramp, which seems to be ever-moving, ever-shifting. You never know where it will be next and whether you will be forced to go over it.
7. Strollers.
8. Tricycles.
9. Anyone who comes barrelling up behind you, screaming things like, "Cowabunga!", "Oh, my God! Look out!" "AH! AAAAAH! PEOPLE!" or "SORRY! SORRY!"
10. Ego. I was getting pretty zippy and thought I would cleverly hockey stop to show off for Moira, which sent my flying onto my ass. I am going to have the biggest fucking bruise. Luckily my backside is the kind that...well...absorbs shock. I would be fine if I hadn't landed on my phone. As it is, I think my run tomorrow is going to be interesting.

Unless I forget to mention it, we played laser tag, which made me think of nothing so much as being a really free-spirited Costco checker.

Happy birthday, Sara! Can you stay twelve forever?

[I was strong again today! I know now; regardless of how my problems are resolved, I will be OK. I suspect there are some more sad days coming before I'm through this pickle one way or the other. BUT. I can accept whatever comes because I have super friends, good Scotch, upbeat music and dark chocolate.]

Up To Three

It's a cult: I'm convinced, now.

OK, this all started last summer, when I found a Cabbage Patch head on the front lawn at Butler Middle School. Pink yarn hair, piggy eyes, icky face. Sara pushed it with her toe and said, "That is so wrong." I left her at soccer practice, snuck back and picked up the head. She had no idea, and when she found it under her pillow that night, loud was the screaming... One of my better moments. I definitely buffed my nails over that one.

A few weeks ago, Sara reported that she had found another head (pink yarn hair, again) across the street from her school. Getting this one involved cat-burglary: I had to hoist her over a fence onto private property. Lots of hysterical whisper screams on her part: "MOM! WHAT IF SOMEONE COMES AND SHOOTS ME!?" "If anyone confronts you, throw the head over the fence to me and try to look casual."

She rigged that head so it would fall into the shower when I pulled the curtain shut. I made sure it was still soaking wet and really cold when I put it in bed with her the next morning.

And again, today. I was driving toward Cottonwood Cyclery and a flash of pink yarn caught my eye. I pulled a squealing U-turn (Better hurry! Don't want anyone to beat me to it!) and retrieved the lovely specimen above. When I came home after my run, I hunkered down low in the cab of the truck. She came out to see why I wasn't coming into the house, and when she got nice and close I screamed and thrust it out the truck window at her. It has been run over by a car, so it's head is seriously fractured. It is so creepy, according to Sara, that she won't keep it in her room.

All disembodied... all with pink yarn hair... all within a half-mile radius of each other. Someone is using them for occult purposes.

[PS. I controlled the heartbreak monster reasonably well today. I would say five out of ten. I would have done better if I had gone to work, but the kids were off school. There were some very rough moments, but I was functional. Still focused on making the changes I need to make to get my groove back.]

Over the Supper Table

Sara asked us if it was hard to make the pig eat the sausage fillings. As in, "It's gross, the way they make the chicken and mango sausage. I can see the pig being excited to eat the mango, but not the chicken."

THAT Came Out Wrong

Sara thinks it's funny that, while working with clay the other day, one of her friends said, "What am I making? I'm making POT."

Ooooooohhhh. That is so funny when you're eleven.

This reminded me of the funniest thing Sara has said in years. We were floating down a river on a raft last summer and she jumped off to find herself in a deep dark patch of aquatic plant life. She scrabbled at the side of the raft and shouted, "I can't climb back in, cuz I'm on weed!" Go tell it on the mountain, Sweetie.

Wild Hare? Wild Hair?

Beats me. But which ever one it is, I've been catching it for the last few weeks. The Migration Policy Institute is offering up their recognition of exceptional Immigrant Integration projects; and despite the fact that only four of these are awarded nation-wide, I couldn't resist the lure of fame and fortune. Ah, the sweet taste of futility. Lift the glass to my lips.

So, I've been writing. And writing. And swearing and beating my head against the wall and writing some more. I haven't been to bed before 2:00 AM in a week. But it's done now, and sent in.

Time to bake cookies. Paint my toenails? Look at myself in the mirror and think, "Ya' look like hell! Go to bed!"

Five things that amused me today, now that I have the award monkey off my back:

1. Hearing about a grown-up pinata, filled with condoms instead of candy. I want to have a pinata at my next party.
2. ABBA. They never fail to amuse. They are belting out "Dancing Queen" right now.
3. Myself, arguing with the State Director of Adult Education about whether the state should lay down oppressive regulations on the use of volunteer tutors. I bludgeoned her with language so intense that, when I finished, I dubbed myself Poet Laureate of the Utah State Office of Education.
4. My batch of biscotti I made tonight. They expanded a little more than I expected and when I took them out of the oven, the cookie sheet kind of looked like a doormat.
5. Nathan, as always. I was listening to him squabble with Sara on the way home tonight.

Nate: So, I heard you on the playground today, Sara. I heard you call me a nigh-anderthal.
Sara: Nee-anderthal. And I didn't call you one, I said you laugh like one.

I say nothing; but I wonder, as you do, how a Neanderthal laughs...

Nate: Well, I wasn't sure whether to tell on you to the teacher or not. Mom, what is a nigh-anerthal?
Sare: Nee-anderthal.

I explain Neanderthal.

Nate: Right. OK, Sara, now I know what it is. And turns out, I AM offended. I'm telling the teacher tomorrow.

And it MUST be wild hare. How crazy can a hair be and why would anyone chase it?

The End of an Era

There was the year of the skeleton costume!

And the Anakin Skywalker year, with the bat costume.

This year, Nate wants to be David Beckham. And I'm actually feeling bereft, despite the fact that I whine about Halloween costumes all through the month of October every year. "But Nate, don't you just wear your Beckham jersey and some other soccer stuff? That's a BORE!" No, 'cause I'm doing a Mohawk for him. That's all that is required of me this year.

Sara? WILBUR WRIGHT. I kid you not. All that is needed is a jacket, tie and a bowler hat. "Well, and planes, right Sara? You need to fill your suit pockets with paper planes and bombard the other kids during the costume parade." She asked permission to do this, and was denied. Against school rules. Someone could lose and eye, I guess. Or start feeling like they want to join a gang. I explained to her the virtues of apologizing instead of asking permission. I helped her make the planes as well. "Do you want me to get sent to the Principal's office?!?"

Geeze, Sara, if you are going to be sent to the Principal's office once in your life, please let it be for exuberant plane throwing.

But What About This Delicious Chickpea Fennel Stew I made For You?

OK, so, how big a deal is this, really? It's bugging me! I could use some advice.

Ever since Sara was born 11 years ago, I have made a point to have a Family Supper Table (F! S! T!). I work evenings twice a week, but on every other night of the week, I've made a home-cooked meal from scratch and we've eaten together. I try out one or two new recipes every week, I experiment with unsual ingredients. It has kind of passed as a hobby for a busy working mom who doesn't have time for hobbies.

But now, Nathan wants to play club-level soccer. This means that, in addition to his Tuesday afternoon practice for our little local soccer program, he would also have practices on Monday and Wednesday nights. 6:30-8:00, so he would need to be out the door a little bit after 6:00 PM. If I were a stay-at home mom, I wouldn't have a problem with it. I could get supper on the table by 5:00 or 5:30. But I usually don't walk in the door until that time. We usually eat a little late: maybe 6:30 or 7:00. I just don't see how I can keep up the family meal thing, unless we eat at 8:30 PM, and that's kind of late for me.

I voiced my concern about the loss of two more nights of eating together, but Nathan and Simon are not concerned. They can't believe that I would care about this. I've tried warning them of the dire effects it could have on the family if we don't eat together. The life of crime that awaits Nate if we don't share a hot nutritious meal. How Sara will start having sex f we don't all come together once a day.

How often does your family eat together? How do you make it work? Working moms, how do you get your meals together in time? How do you keep it healthy and not resort of carry-out? Got wisdom?

Bad from Beginning to End

This day SUCKED! It sucked so much that I need a gin and tonic IV.

1. I woke up to the sudden realization that my credit card was gone. I had not wanted keep an eye on my purse at my school's picnic last night, so I took the credit card (in case I needed to run to the store for hot dogs or something) and tucked it in among some paperwork in a plastic shopping bag. And of course, at the end of the evening I unpacked the shopping bag and tossed it in the recycling without thinking about the credit card. Si was pissed off, and gave me a lecture. I thought I had better rush to school and dig through the recycling, so I left without breakfast and was three quarters of the way there when I had a sudden memory. Sure enough, I had decided at the last minute to conceal the credit card inside my camera case. There it was, safe and sound. Too far from home to turn around, have my breakfast and read the paper. Got a nice early start at the office,though; and it was such a pleasant place to spend a really long day.

2. Since the AC at our school is on the fritz, my office got hotter and hotter all day, topping out in the 90s by mid afternoon. I ate, like, 5 Popsicles, but still could not stay awake. I melted at my desk, in a torpor that I was unable to shake.

3. At 5 PM I was thoroughly melted, and it was time for me to drive north to the lovely town of Hooper, where Sara was playing in a soccer tournament. Rush hour. Traffic inching along at 10 MPH almost the whole way. Although I left an hour before kick-off, I managed to arrive near the end of the second quarter.

4. Having found my daughter's match, I was finally cool and relaxed on the grass by the field when the whistle blew for half-time. [Let me pause for a minute to say that the guys who are coaching and the soccer-moms who are organizing the tournament are a bit freakish about the whole thing. Lots of self-important striding about and yelling. I am a bad soccer-mom. I mostly sit on the sidelines and daydream, languidly clapping when others clap.] Okay. So the coach's wife yells, "SNACK!" That is the signal for the "snack parent" to produce the sliced oranges that are ubiquitous at Utah kids' soccer half-times. It was not until that exact moment that I remembered that I was the "snack parent", and that my carefully prepared snacks were still in the fridge at Guadalupe Schools back in Salt Lake. Oh, that sick horror, when you realize that you are the forgetter of the snack. The coach at this point is YELLING, "WE NEED FRUIT AND WE NEED IT NOW!" [Um... does this strike anyone else as funny? The coach is like a TV ER doc: "FRUIT! STAT!"] Well, dirty looks at Kate when she has to confess that she has forgotten the snack. The kids didn't care, but of course the parents use this as a measure and a mode of judgement. The coach's wife was digging around, crying, "Is there anything we can use as a snack?"

Not to make excuses for my sorry self, but I have often wondered why we feel it is necessary to feed children during any type of physical activity. Water, of course; but is it necessary for a child to have a snack at half-time, followed by another snack and a sugary drink at the end of the match? How do other children all over the world manage?

Well, I am good at staying cool under pressure. I asked at the hospitality tent where I might find the nearest grocery store. "Wellll, now...." (She wasn't chewing a straw, but it would have been fitting...) "Just go down the road a piece, 'til you come to the Sinclair station, then turn left and go a piece more until you get to the KernsMart." A "piece", as it turns out, is about five miles. I made it there and back with granola bars and drinks in time to watch the last minute of the match.

I stopped by the school on the way home and rescued my original snacks from the fridge. Sara has to play yet another match in Hooper tomorrow. We have snacks to spare.

She WANTS Braces?

OK, things have sure changed since I was a kid. Back then, braces were made of birch bark, and kids only got them if their teeth were so bad that there was a chance:

1. they wouldn't be able to eat and might starve;
2. teeth were growing in through the roofs of their mouths;
3. there was a good chance that they would never mate.

Now, everyone is in pursuit of the "perfect smile".

Sara's dentist said that she needed braces. It's a racket, I'm convinced. He's getting kickbacks from his orthodontist buddies. We took Sara to two different orthodontists who said, "Probably not." Yay!

Well, this is the other difference from when I was a kid. Sara WANTED braces. She was devastated that she wasn't going to get them.

"But, Mom! All the kids have them!"
"Sara, you don't NEED them."
"But, I want to fit in."
"You don't understand. You already have what they are trying to get. You should be glad!"
"Please? Pleasepleaseplease? The other orthodontist told Daddy that it would only cost about $136 a month!"

Chocolate Porcupine

So, we were out to dinner the other night and Nate ordered one of these. Actually this isn't the exact same thing: Nate's was way bigger and slathered in ice cream. I asked whether his eyes might not be too big for his stomach. No, he saved room. I hate it when kids save room.

He couldn't finish it, of course, so we brought quite a bit of Porky home in a box. In the meantime, I had decided that I need to go back on my diet. I do fine with it until it's almost supper time. Then, I have a really hard time not snacking. I'm so hungry. Three days after the arrival of the now forgotten porcupine, I was making supper and feeling...let's say, peckish..and also rebellious (diets have that effect on me). I saw the box in the fridge, opened it and dived in. I mean, I was scooping up the chocolate in my fingers and cramming it in my mouth, looking right and left like I was some kind of burglar, even though I knew everyone else was out at soccer practice. Yummmmmmy!

Nate ate very well at supper and popped up from the table with a meaningful look at his dad. "Yes," said Si. "You ate such a good supper. Now you can have that chocolate porcupine." "GOOOOOOOOOODYYYYYYY!!!!!" Nate ran for the fridge, arms outstretched for the handle.

Aw, shit. So he hadn't forgotten it after all.

"Nate! Just a second! Come here for a minute!"
"Just a sec, Mom. I have to get my yummy porcupine!"
"No, come here first. I need to talk to you about....the... porcupine."

Simon's eyes went wide. My in-laws both turned to watch. Simon says, "Did you EAT the..."
He turned purple with supressed amusement. I shot him the evil eye.

"Nate, come here and sit on Mom's lap for a minute." [Simon snorts.]
Nate gives me that grin that means he is about to burst into tears.
"You see, Nate, I thought you had forgotten about the porcupine, so I-"
"You ate it!?! OH MY GOD, MOM!"
"Well, I'm very, very sorry. I had no idea you still wanted it. It was wrong of me to eat it. [Meanwhile, I was thinking how tasty it had been and wondering if I really repented.]

Nate BURST into tears. "Burst" is a very good verb to describe the way that Nate cries. The tears positively squirt out of his eyes. They were raining down on my arm.

"Well, now, Nate. Maybe we could have a trade..."
"WHAT KIND OF TRADE?"
"Well, would you like to have a couple of the chocolates I brought back from San Fr-"
"THOSE ARE ALREADY MY CHOCOLATES. YOU BROUGHT THEM BACK FOR MEEEEE!"
"Oh, that's right. What about three of my favorite Hob-Nobs from England?"
"I DON'T WANT A COOKIE!"
"Donut from the grocery store"?"

The tears stopped instantly. INSTANTLY. So abruptly that I'm surprised a rainbow didn't shoot out of his nose.

"DEAL!" He took the edge of his shirt, wiped the tears off my arm and ran off to play. "Hey, Sara! Guess what?"

Regarding Sara

I was looking back through some of my older posts. I have been blogging for quite a while, I guess. When I started, it was so much easier, because my kids were petite and cute. They had chubby cheeks and little bittie teeth. They said adorable things and loved everyone. Now.... they are older. They are not cute very often. More and more, I think, "Help! I'm in over my head!" I miss the days when the most pressing question was, "Baby food from a jar, or make my own?" Parenting is getting complicated, just when I thought it was supposed to get easier. Here are the questions that I must ponder this week regarding Sara, who recently turned 11.

Pressing questions for the mother of an 11 year-old girl.

1. Does this flat-as-the-Kansas-prairies child really need a bra? Actually, the answer is yes, I guess. The pediatrician said she would feel more secure about herself if I let her have one. Those two were in cahoots - I could tell. OK, we went to Target and found the training bra aisle. It took some searching to find ones that weren't padded (No WAY! How can you enhance something that DOES NOT EXIST?), but we managed to get some little vest thingies. By the next day, she was already complaining about straps showing. Welcome to the rest of your life, kid.

2. How much help with a project is too much help? Here's her Oregon "float" for the long-awaited Fifth Grade Parade of States.
I think it turned out pretty well. You've got the covered wagon theme going, and the flat bit up by the handle is the "ocean", complete with fishing boat. Then there's a map suspended from the wagon bows. True, her dad built the wagon bows and figured out how to make the mountain. He showed her how to paint it, but she did the painting and all the rest. Anyway, at our house, parental help is dicey anyway. Notice that the wagon bows are already going catywumpus. That's because we decided to pull it to school this morning using the overland route, which was a little bumpy.

Simon also suggested adding a few of the state's products, and found a bottle of Oregon wine in the rack. We drank it up, and he put the bottle on there. The only other product they bothered with was a piece of wood. C'mon! He just wanted the wine bottle on there to see if he could get a reaction from the school administration over some zero tolerance policy; or at least cause some clucking among the Latter Day Saint teachers and parents. Since he is out of town, I took the wine bottle off the float and threw it out. See Sara? Parents aren't really very helpful after all.

3. What am I supposed to do about the badly behaved girls in her Girl Scout troop? There are three brainless, blathering girls in there that I don't even think realize that they are at a Girl Scout meeting. They spend the whole time yelling and monkeying around. It drives the other girls crazy. The troop can barely get anything done. The leader says it drives her nuts, too, but that, "These are the girls who really need Girl Scouts the most". Hmmm... That's a very nice sentiment. The leader is a better person than I am. I find myself fantasizing about chaperoning a camping trip and scaring them so badly with bear stories that they run away and never come back. Maybe a little scratching at the tent wall in the middle of the night, with some growling and huffing sounds...

4. Am I supposed to be freaking out about middle school already? She has one more year left in elementary school, and then it is time for the dreaded middle school experience. Turns out that, just as she is supposed to start there, the building will be torn down and rebuilt. The kids from her school will be bused to another middle school several miles away, where they will share the building with the kids from that school. Granted, it is a really spacious school, but some parents are already pulling their kids out of our local elementary and putting them in elementary schools that will be served by middle schools unaffected by the disruption. Of course, that means that they can't use the school buses and will have to drop off and pick up their kids every day. I work full-time. And Sara doesn't want to be separated from her friends. If I let her be bused to the other school, am I the Antichrist?

5. Does she need braces? The dentist says so, and referred us his orthodontist buddy. But of course, it might all be a conspiracy. I had braces, but there was no doubt I needed them. My mouth looked like a glacier that was about to calve. How the hell am I supposed to know if she needs braces?

6. And the big one for today. Do I think this haircut looks cute? She loves it. Sure, Sara. I would never dream of telling you that you really...

...look just like your brother! See? Don't you think her teeth look fine? I mean, once those canines come in.

Puberty Pack

That's what Sara got as a gift for attending the girls' Fifth Grade Maturation Program today. A little brown paper package tied up with string. Too bad it didn't contain any of my favorite things. I took a peek in there and it was full of maxi pad samples and a stick of deodorant. I thought about sneaking a few other goodies in there: acne cream; a razor; definitely some chocolate, a monthly necessity. Problem is, if Sara is the late bloomer that I was, the Hershey's will be white and powdery by the time she opens it. By the way, the boys got one too. It contained only a brochure. What a rip! They have to register for the draft, and they get a lame puberty pack.

I remember this same talk when I was a kid, although I was in seventh grade. Things have changed a lot. Almost all the moms (and one lonely father) were there. The school nurse had a Puberty PowerPoint. The girls giggled. A lot. There was nothing in this talk that Sara didn't already know, but she spent a lot of the time with her eyes wide and her hand pressed to her mouth to suppress her embarrassed mirth. I guess it was because the other girls were there. She's way more matter of fact at home.

That is another big difference. The whole event reminded me that my own mom was LOUSY at talking about boys, periods, bras, etc... And she was a registered nurse! You would think she could manage better than to surreptitiously leave a 10-year-old pamphlet with a coffee ring on my pillow, entitled "How do I Talk to my Daughter About Menstruation?" Pfft. That's the thing, Mom. You actually do have to talk to her at some point. Mine never did-the maturation class and the pamphlet had to suffice.

There was also a lot of matter-of-fact discussion of how supporting the school office is to girls who get their periods at school. No worries, just come to the office and we'll get you fixed up. Sara is worried, though. Will she get her period in school? Next week? I laughed. If family history had any part in this, kiddo, you have YEARS on unencumbered freedom still ahead. I didn't start until just before my 14th birthday.

This is an uncomfortable memory for me. I try not to think about the episode, because it was rough. I was in Shell Lake in northern Wisconsin, attending Swing Choir Camp on my own. I was just out of eighth grade, and every other one of the 100 or so participants had at least one year of high school. Lots of them were Seniors. I was in a room with three loud-mouthed, wise-cracking girls who were 15 and 16. They loved to talk about their exploits with boys, beer, staying out all night...I had no stories of that sort to tell. When they talked about me, they would draw a "square" in the air with their fingers. So you see where this is headed. It was unfortunate: that first period was a really heavy one, we were not that close to a drug store. I had to go to my roommates, tell them the difficulty and ask for help. Which they gave freely. One girl had a huge box of pads and just gave the whole package to me. [C'mon! What were you expecting? Carrie?] It didn't make me any cooler, though, I can tell you that.

I was expecting something controversial - after all, this was sex-ed in the most conservative state in the country. You wouldn't believe the amount of hot air that gets blown over maturation programs in Utah. I kept hoping that some mom would leap to her feet and express shock SHOCK! that the nurse said the word "sperm" in front of her daughter. Nope. Bummer.

The only part of the program that gave me hope was when the nurse was telling the girls to lay off of makeup until they were at least 16. "You know the girls who are already wearing eyeliner and mascara and lipstick in fifth grade? The ones wearing the hootchie-cootchie clothes? Those are not the kind of girls the boys really like. They will not want to take those sorts of girls home to meet their families." Oh, boy! Now for the excitement! Surely a hootchie mama would leap to her feet in her platform heels and defend her little girl's lipstick choices? Alas, no drama to be found in maturation class. Sara tucked the Puberty Pack under my arm and sent me on my way.

Feeling brave? Want to share a menstrual tale of woe like the one above? Click on Comment and get it out of your system. I promise I won't throw a tampon at you.

So Easily Embarrassed

Eleven-year-old Sara is beginning to think I am the most embarrassing person on Earth. This is going to be a fantastic developmental stage, in my opinion.

It was a busy weekend. On the list were:

1. Bake Brown Soda Bread;
2. Turn in Girl Scout Cookie money;
3. Watch Nathan's soccer match (while freezing to death);
4. Make a slow-simmering Guinness Beef Stew...
5. ...and a big pot of vanilla bean pudding;
6. Host a dinner party (why else would I be cooking like a maniac?);
7. Do the week's laundry;
8. Shop for the bits and pieces I need to make a "Pele" costume for Nathan, for a school project;
9. Clean out the window wells;
10. Play in a soccer match.

This last thing was a little (more like a LOT) out of my comfort zone, as I have never played soccer before. Watched WAAAAAYYYY too much of it, yeah. Played it myself, no.

Sara's friend, O. (He's my boyfriend, Mom! Why don't you just say it?) likes to do this sometimes. He will rustle up as many friends and neighbor kids as he can persuade, and issue a kids vs. parents challenge. I called his mom to make sure I understood correctly. I was expected to PLAY? Did she understand that I didn't really know how? "Neither do I," she said. "We just kick the ball toward the goal. No rules. We cheat like crazy."

OK; since we're not taking it too seriously, I told Sara, I might consider a costume of some sort. Her eyes widened. "What. What!?! What KIND of costume, Mom?"

"Well, I could wear a funny hat, but it will fall off right away." [ponder, ponder] "I know, I'll wear my sweats with my bikini over the top."

"No. You will not. You are not allowed to do that. That will embarrass me." Ooooh. I am mentally rubbing my hands together.

The next couple of days were very long for Sara. She tried baleful glares at me across the supper table. She tried begging and pleading. She cried. She tried hiding my swim suit. She insisted that she knew I was not really going to do it. So of course, on game day, I got myself all dressed up and she was beside herself. Simon played along nicely: "WHOOOOO-HOO! What a hottie!" I did my butt-jiggling dance around the kitchen.

Eight-year-old Nathan appeared and said to Sara, "I know how to handle this." He left and came back a moment later with a ten-dollar bill from his birthday money. "Mom, if you take off the bikini, I'll pay you ten bucks."

Oh! Deal.

Later, at the match (if you can call it that), I was relating this tale to O's mother. She was hugely disappointed that I had relented, and has committed to wearing her swimsuit over her sweats next time, if I do.

Do I have to give Nathan back his $10?

Infirmary

Both kids were still awake when I got home from work late tonight. It is past 10:00, and Sara has her light on?

"Hey! What are you still doing up!? Lights out!"
"I have a stomach ache."
"And keeping your light on makes it go away? Where does it hurt?"
"It's just gas."
"Well, have your gas in the dark."

Then I'm walking down the hall and I hear a little voice call out, "Mommy! Mommy!"
"Nate! You're awake, too?"
"Yeah. My knee hurts!" He pulls the covers down to show me the affected area. "Right here."
"Huh. You probably tweaked it a little playing soccer."
"Tweaked???" He looks intrigued. I can tell that he's hoping that "tweak" is something we can fuss over for another half-hour. "What do you do about a tweak?"
"You go to sleep."

Meerkats

Sara's 11th birthday, make-your-own-pizza, chocolate-fondue, Pin-the-Fangs-on-Robert -Pattinson, seven-girls-spending-the-night blowout is OVER! They were pretty good (I only had to remonstrate with them 3 or 4 times), but most of them really were up all night. I am sure of it because the loud thumping of their not-so-little feet shook me out of bed at 5:10 AM.


This is exactly how they looked when I found them all standing stock still in her little brother's room, illuminated only by his night-light. Except the girls were all chewing gum. Imagine meerkats with tiny jaws all chomping in unison. Nathan was oblivious, snoozing away. "What [the hell] are you doing?" "Treasure hunt," said Sara.

Find the Diary

I told Sara that I would return her diary today, and I did. "Don't worry, you'll find it on your bed when you get home from school; and then I want you to quietly put it away and stop taunting Nathan with it."

How unfortunate for Sara that today is the day that Olga, housekeeper and domestic mainstay, makes one of her bi-weekly visits. All she needs to do in Sara's room is vacuum. To do more would be impossible. Once I got everything up off the floor, this was the state of affairs on Sara's bed. How is it that kids this age are happy living in squalor? So, I'm chucking stuff up onto the bed, and I see a little snip of pink satin peeking out from under her closet door. I open the door and am confronted with a MOUNTAIN of CLEAN LAUNDRY. Now I find out that every week, I'm washing, drying, folding and delivering a basket of fresh clean clothing to her room, and she is simply tipping it out topsy-turvey onto the floor of the closet so she can put another week's worth of dirty clothes into the basket. So...her dresser is...what? Empty?

I piled up all the clean laundry of several weeks into the basket and put the diary way down in the bottom. She will look for that diary all over her bed, but she won't find it until she puts her clean clothes away.

Dear Dumb, Dim, Damn, Doomed Diary

No, actually, Sara, I still make the rules. Any questions?

I am at the end of my rope with Sara's diary. Now, I thoroughly support journaling. Sara comes from a long line of diarists, and it's important for a kid her age to have a place to vent. I also thoroughly condemn reading other people's diaries. My mom read mine if she found them- figured she had the right to know. It used to make me crazy, and she STILL brings up the things she read sometimes. But this has brought me to the edge of reason.

Here's how it goes:

• Sara takes out the diary and a bright pink gel pen with a fuzzy thing on the end of it. After recording her neon unbosomings, she locks it up and checks to see whether her little brother is watching. Of course he is. Little brothers have a sixth sense when it comes to sisters' diaries.
• Sara makes a point of telling me that the special secret lock on her diary isn't even the diary's TRUE lock. There's a special trick to opening it, according to her. Nathan listening? Yes, he is. I warn her that she really ought to put up fewer billboards about the damn thing if she wants it to stay private.
• Nathan makes a full frontal assault on her room and comes out squealing with victory. Little Brother Coup #198: Dairy has been STOLEN. Naturally, this is followed by pinching of pressure points, smacking and head butting.
• I retrieve the diary from the scrum and tell Sara to find a hiding place for it. I point out to her that, every time she talks about it, she is throwing chum into shark-infested waters.
• "Oh, Naaaaaathaaaaannnn! I have a new hiding place for my diiiiiiiaryyyyyy.... Somewhere you'll never find it!"
• Guess what? He found it. Opened it. Read it. Only the first entry, of course. The point isn't actually to learn the secrets of his sister's heart; it is to let her know that he answers her challenge and ups the ante.
• Return to earlier bullet point on pressure points, head butts, etc...
• Now the diary has a new hiding place. "Mom. Please. Just tell me where you put it." "No diary for 24 hours." Mom, I need to write in it every day." "Write on a separate piece of paper and tape it in the diary tomorrow." "I'll bet I could find it if I looked for it." "I'll bet you could too, but you're not going to look for it."

I was in a hurry, so I didn't really hide it much. I just put it in my bed. Like, under the covers. She would never dream of taking my bed apart. I'll give it back tomorrow with another admonishment: just put it away, take it out quietly without the fanfare, write in it and put it away again. You're making this way too fun for Nathan.

Anne Frank did not have these problems, I'm sure. Only because she didn't have a little brother.

She Blinded Me With Science!

Well, no news is good news regarding my father, if you have been following that story. My brother called this morning to report that he had had a fairly peaceful night and that his infection was coming under control.

******

Therefore, I can focus on other things, like the science project Sara and some of her classmates are working on. This was one of those things where Sara told me, "So, I'm having a meeting for my science group. We're all getting together to make a working model of an avalanche." "Oh? When? Where?" "Here at our house. At 11:00." Details like materials needed, general plan, informing parents...forget about it.

Half an hour before the meeting, one of the kids' mothers called me up:

"Hi, Kate! It's Laurie S. Hey, is my girl supposed to be coming to your house today for something? She just got around to telling me about it now."
"Yeah. A group of kids are going to work on their avalanche model."
"Geeze. OK. Does she need to bring anything?"
"No, I don't think so. She had committed a fish tank to the project, but now another kid is going to bring that."
"That's good, 'cause we don't have a fish tank."

Sara and I had already talked about what substance would best imitate snow. Salt! Sugar! Styrofoam! 'Cause they're white!! It'll look so cute! We can make a little model of a ski resort with a little mini tram and...

No. Forget white. Forget cute. Use sand, I told her. I sent Simon out to get us a little sand. About five pounds ought to do it. Home Depot has sand in the winter, in 50 pound bags. That's what he brought home. Need sand, anyone?


I was pleasantly surprised at how well the kids behaved. I could ask them things like, "What's your hypothesis?", and they knew what I was talking about. One girl whipped out a notebook and starting making a record of our various successes and failures in recreating an avalanche. Only one kid (I'll call her Luna Lovegood, for all you Harry Potter fans out there) was not with the program. She just stood to one side, digging into the sand bucket, lifting hands full of sand high into the air and dropping it, crooning "It's snowing! It's snowing!" Sigh. So, here's our slope, as yet unsloped, with a snowboarder dude on top Quite a bit of discussion as to whether the avalanche should be triggered by a skier or a snowboarder. People in Utah have their loyalties.

A closeup. Ready for action. Luna is concerned that he'll have a hard time getting to the bottom with a Lego snapped to his feet.

And away we go. Sara's friend K. is holding a protractor to measure the angle of the slope. It's a Little funny doing this project with a bunch of Utah kids. They talk about things like "base", "wind-blown slabs" and "fracture lines" as if everybody knows about them. Lots of Utahns speak Avalanche, I guess. Probably little kids on Pacific islands know a lot of tsunami terminology that we don't know.

Aaaaaaaand... there he goes. Bummer! He wasn't buried! We really need him to get buried in order to make a point about avalanche safety.

Here's Sara holding the protractor. And a kind of sandy doughnut. This time, the thoughtless friend at the top of the slope is going to unleash death and destruction on his unwitting buddy below.

Does this look like a big mess to you? Actually, the kids helped me clean up and it was not too bad. Except for Luna, who made sand pies and soaked them with my water spray bottle, informing me that she liked sandboxes. She has one at home. Good for you Sweetheart. Would you like to go and play in it RIGHT NOW???