Loaded, but Unlocked

I remember being a kid, really I do. I especially remember being a middle schooler, which is convenient when I need to access the absolute lack of logic that rules in the 'tween years.

I remember, for example, when I was in 6th grade and it became clear to me that someone was stealing from me during P.E. class while we were out on the field or court. I recall money going missing from the front pocket of my backpack in the locker room. And I remember the novelty of trying to determine what was once there by virtue of what was now not. I was pretty sure, for example, that I had a lot more pens before. And now someone was stealing my money, and probably some pens. Of course it took a couple of times of No Lunch Money before I recognized the pattern as Theft versus Loss.

And of course, none of these occurrences or missing items resulted in me discontinuing my practice of Not Locking My Locker. We had a locker room, and we each had a locker. And I put my stuff in that locker, and I put a combination lock on the locker.

But I Did Not Lock the Lock.

Because, you see, Unlocking a Locked Lock took up precious time at the end of P.E. class when I could have been brushing my hair so as to look hot for math class. (Of course I didn't take a shower. I never saw our middle school locker room showers wet, in fact).

Not even money missing from my backpack made me experiment with, say, LOCKING MY LOCKER. But I did talk my P.E. teacher into letting me stake out my locker while the rest of the class went out to play Capture the Flag, which is how I caught the girl who was a Non-Suit Grit* stealing from my locker. Never had I been so freaked out in my short life, catching a peer-turned-thief, red-handed, taking my stuff. And never before have I felt more like a Goody-Two-Shoe Narc as when I turned her in.

And though I could ask myself again why the heck I didn't lock my locker (DUH!), I see our students at my high school drop their backpacks IN THE MIDDLE OF THE QUAD, in piles by trash cans, and leave them there as they walk off campus to go get lunch. I suppose they take their wallets with them, as they need their money for food. But I know they leave iPods in backpacks, because we've had some stolen right there in front of all of us. I even had a student indignantly report a theft from his abandoned backpack to me one day, only to see him attempt to leave his backpack there again the next day. When I made him wear it on his four-block walk to lunch, you would have thought I was Zeus, handing the rock back to Sisyphus for yet another trip up the hill.

And then there are the unlocked lockers. I'm not the only middle school graduate who doesn't lock her locker. There are plenty more where I came from.

I was following up on a theft from an unlocked P.E. locker today with one of our gym teachers and he said, "Well, you know what we tell these kids about protecting their stuff: A LOCKER without a LOCK is just an -ER."

*Likely to be seen smoking cigarettes at the park behind the library, across from school.

Drum Circle

I am not a lover of Sunday nights, when the weekend wanes and the week waxes. When family time transitions into work time.

Tonight is the last night of Spring Break. And at the end of a nice break, I tend to pout. But I also have some pretty terrific times with my kids to think about as I set the coffee maker, pack lunches, and set out clothes for the next day.

For example:

My eldest daughter and I had an afternoon with her new baby cousin and aunt and uncle after her VCUG. She was exhausted and so was baby boy, and they napped together on the couch while my little sister and I enjoyed being moms together--a new dimension to our shared experiences.

I had a wonderful morning at Sea World with my two-year-old and her younger cousin, reminding me of the value of spending individual time with each of my daughters. At some point I wondered what we would see there besides Clydesdales (we always head first to the HORSES, ironically, at SEA World), since she was afraid of some key exhibits:

"How about penguins, kiddo? Want to go in there?"
Daughter pokes head around corner to peer inside Penguin Encounter entrance. Shakes head:
"Nope. I scared, Mama."
"What about Polar Bear Arctic Adventure?"
Daughter hears sounds coming from Polar Enclave, stops in tracks:
"Scary, Mama. I scared!"

I somehow talked her into seeing the sharks (really folks, it's PENGUINS we should fear) and into watching the Seal and Otter Show.

She chattered with me as we roamed the park, like my little toddler friend who'd come to town for the day. Her cousin was a smiling, rather silent accessory--sleepy and willing to go wherever we strolled him. As she ate a bowl of ice cream in a Commemorative Shamu Cup before we left the park, my daughter sighed and licked her spoon and said, "Thank you, Mommy..."

On Friday my girls and I checked out a Drum Circle I saw advertised at my youngest daughter's school, a preschool/intervention program where "typically developing" children are integrated with peers who have been diagnosed with autism. A man named Sundiata runs a weekly music program there, and I learned that he was the link to the Drum Circle. This guy has built a career out of drumming with kids, particularly kids with struggles. How amazing is that?

I had never been to a Drum Circle, though I have taken my daughters to an African drumming class at our city's multicultural center from time to time. This drumming event (held at a residential school/treatment center for troubled youth) was a kick-off to a study being conducted on the effects of drumming on children's stress.

Concentric circles of chairs were set up for 150-200 people, each chair equipped with a drum, maraca, cowbell, or shaker. The founder of Remo drums, Remo himself! was there--and the different kinds of drums available for everyone, anyone, to use were SO COOL.

So, it's pretty hard not to become a Drum Circle Disciple. Like the grey-haired lady with funky braids who was up and dancing, uninhibited, from the start. I don't have a lot of rhythm, but I could feel myself Getting It the more I drummed and grooved.

The great thing about kids? They are born without inhibition and with a natural rhythm that seems to diminish over time, until you're 40 and stuck in your chair wondering who's watching you bang on your drum like a happy fool. I loved it when my little two-year-old's hips swayed to the beat and when my eldest daughter joined the conga line. I loved watching the kids from the center breakdance in the middle of the circle, do the Worm, and cheer each other on.

I can't wait for our Summer Concert in the Park Series, when neighbors of all ages dance barefoot to jazz, bluegrass, and funk.

But summer break is Not Here Yet.

I Say Discord; You Say Harmony

During an eensy weensy venting coven of wives on a friend's front lawn, a few of us talked about the Lists we'd like (or have threatened) to make, including:

1. List of All The Things I Have to Nag You To Do (aka List of All The Things You CLAIM You Do Around Here, Husband)
2. List of All The Things I Will Now Take On Because I Can't Listen To You Complain About Them Anymore
3. List of All The Things YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW I DO
4. List of All The Things I Remember To Do, Thank Goodness, Because They Would Never Even Occur To You to Consider (and everything would soon go to hell in a handbasket, by the way, Buster, if it weren't for me gluing it all together)

When we were out of lists, and somewhat tired of ranting, one of the married women offered this synopsis of her last marital feud:

So we fought, and we argued, and we went to bed too tired to fight anymore. In the morning I woke up, fairly defeated, and said, "Husband, do you kind of get where I was coming from last night?"

And he said, "I do, honey, I do! And do you kind of understand where I'm coming from, too?"

And I patted him on the arm and said, smiling, even lovingly, "No. No, honey, I don't."

This Is Her Brain on Nitrous

Yesterday was the VCUG to determine if our daughter's second STING procedure worked to correct her kidney reflux.

There are at least two yucky aspects of the VCUG, according to my daughter: "Tube in My Bum" and "Peeing on the Bed."

She, not unlike myself, has an uncanny ability to overly anxiously anticipate events, so that when they turn out to be only slightly less awful than imagined, a giddy celebration is in order. I guess that's an upside of being Really Worried About Everything, All the Time.

But the VCUG on Nitrous Oxide was better than without, though it took more time.

Nitrous oxide. That's the same as a "whip-it," right? Like the whipped-cream can thing? That's what, a 30-second high, max? And we talk kids out of it by telling them it kills brain cells?

Well, my daughter was on a non-stop whip-it for 30 minutes. They told me that they would give it to her for 5-10 minutes and then take her off...and put her back on if necessary.

Ha! Umm, NECESSARY.

My daughter can worry right through the 100% nitrous dose, apparently. She did get a little silly at some points, singing Little Mermaid songs and offering lopsided smiles. And then pointing out, definitively, "I AM NOT PEEING ON THE BED."

Nature took over, alas, as they pumped her bladder beyond believable proportions, and she Let Go, at which point I looked at the screen and saw the tell-tale dark line of urine heading right back up to her kidney. Which means, STING? No dice. Not on the right side.

We will learn more at her "Talking Only, Right, Mommy?" consultation appointment tomorrow.

Meanwhile, she is busy giddily celebrating that peeing, on a bed or elsewhere, is not as bad as it seemed YESTERDAY.

Moment of Beauty

Captured on camera, not so skillfully by Fer: Rainbow of eggshells awaiting compost.

The innards? Deviled.

*YUM*

Happy Easter!

To Have and To Hold

Two high school girlfriends and I created a reunion of sorts when one of our dear friends from the Class of '89 married a lovely man last weekend and we converged on Maryland for the event. One of us was a hip New Yorker, the other a pregnant mother of a preschooler, and then there was I, pretty psyched to be childless-for-weekend woman WITH a Pregnant Friend (aka Designated Driver). Add a rental car, several maps to various destinations, and two nights in different cities and different beds, and you have one exciting weekend for three broads with normally mundane lives (well, okay, Hip New Yorker is heading to Paris next week).

Of course, we drank wine (two of us at least), shared mascara, and appraised one another's outfits. We also spent a fair amount of time on Maryland roads, walking down memory lane and smirking at signs on tackle shops ("Looking for Bait? Here 'tis!") and churches ("Satan only suggests; you choose").

But our best moments were mugging for photos in the stockades at the wedding's historic site, and on the dance floor, boogieing down and requesting songs on the couple's Do Not Play List (I understand the "Hokey Pokey," but the "Electric Slide"? Yeah, we were shot down. We did manage to get the hapless deejay to play "Tootsie Roll").

We drove back to the airport/train station with the newly-marrieds' party-favor CD as soundtrack, featuring tunes from Psychedelic Furs, The Proclaimers, and Modern English, which made us feel like not much had happened to our bride friend in the music department in the 19 years since we graduated.

The wedding ceremony was absolutely lovely, and I include some wonderful quotes here:

• From Yeats, "When You Are Old": "One man loved the pilgrim soul in you,/And loved the sorrows of your changing face."
  
  

• "So Much Happiness" by Naomi Shihab Nye: "Since there is no place large enough/To contain so much happiness,/You shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you/Into everything you touch. You are not responsible./You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit/For the moon, but continues to hold it, and to share it,/And in that way, be known."
  

• From "Epithalamion: A Blessing for the Newlyweds" by Michael Glaser (Maryland's Poet Laureate): "...may you return each evening/to a home of joy and peace/where you are free to choose/the place of your own kneeling,/where you worship at the edge of each other's open door."

Superman that...WHOAH!

Tonight our school district's nonprofit fundraising foundation is holding its live telethon. This operation has evolved into an event of complicated proportions for one small-town school district, with live acts performing on stage interspersed with taped spots of various grade levels and campus personalities singing and dancing.

While students are the obvious stars of the show, employees aren't safe either, with security guards, teachers, and custodians showing up in skits, music videos and district bands. The administrators were cajoled into organizing into a live act/dance, which was meant to resemble something from Stomp! and serve as the finale for the telethon. But when we showed up for the first rehearsal under the tutelage of our high school's dance teacher, the act had transformed into a Dance Melange, featuring songs from three decades, including the "Electric Slide," the "Tootsie Roll," and "Crank That (Soulja Boy)." Which is where the trouble started.

Now, it's important to understand that I spend a fair amount of time at high school functions, especially dances, where the soundtrack is Nasty Lyrics and the dancing is Freaky. OF COURSE, I am concerned about the misogyny and subjugation of women inherent in rap songs. Of course I am shocked by suggestive music videos.

I am a Visual Learner, though, which means, if all I hear is the music, and it's Hard to Understand, I may not appreciate that I am unwittingly nodding my head to something that means Unprintable.

This leads me back to "Crank That (Soulja Boy)." The first time I heard this song, at a dance in our Multi-Purpose Room, I was cracking up at my students doing the "superman" move in this song--like Grover the furry blue monster stretching his arms out in front of him in hopes of flying. The song seemed silly to me, but was clearly catchy to my clientele.

Which is why THEY (high school students) advised our dance teacher to incorporate this song into the Administration Dance. And we learned it, yes we did, and I rehearsed it over the weekend in preparation for our performance. I pretty much enjoyed this dance move. The "song" started growing on me. It helped that there is a tutorial video on YouTube (It's going worldwide, FYI).

I even advertised the fact that the principal and vice principal would be dancing to this song at the telethon and our students better donate money.

I should have listened more carefully. Verbs like "cranking" could possibly suggest something, well, sexual...and I didn't know that "superman" was a verb. And you heard it here: Most of the references to "ho"s sounded like "whoah"s to me. And anyway, if you decide to research what "superman"ning a "ho" is, you, like me, might ask yourself, seriously? Is that real? Because that is Just Ridiculous.

FYI, based on my research, there is some internet debate on whether or not there is deeper, skankier meaning to Crank That (Soulja Boy), or whether Soulja Boy is just a dance move.

Bottom Line: our admin dance ensemble was cancelled, unceremoniously, the day before our big debut, on the basis of Inappropriate Lyrics.

I will admit to being slightly disappointed.