Because I can think of no better way to end NaBloPoMo, 2009 with the Muppets singing Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody.
What came home in two 3rd graders' backpacks yesterday --
I am thankful for my brother. He always lets me play his DS games. Second of all, he is nice to me. In fact, he always lets me listen to his iPod because mine broke. Lastly, if he wasn't in the world I would be sad. W. is the best brother, I love him!
While driving to school one brother told on the other one.
"I saw him sitting on his chair the wrong way. His bottom was on the back rest and his feet were on the seat!"
What followed was a cascade of confessions, tattle-telling and a 5-year-old younger sister begging that we not talk about this.
The upshot was that someone was copping a little attitude in his third-grade class, in part to keep up with the antics of his friends and in part because I gave him permission.
I what?
"Yeah Mom! You told me that I could say whatever I want when I am with my friends!"
Back up a year or so ago when the first, real ugly word came out of my sons' mouths. I was in a panic. How does one stop them from using obscenities, snarky sayings, crass gestures? How does one, as the saying goes, not think of an elephant when someone says elephant?
A dear friend had an ingenious response. She tells her daughters she can't control what they say to their friends but in their family home they have to use appropriate language.
So that was my response and we've done pretty well in the family, language wise.
What I didn't think would happen was he would take the comment to mean all actions with friends, outside of our house, including class time.
We have now clarified that what I meant was during recess. Class time means work time.
And I have to go apologize to a third grade teacher.
As the classic American holiday that celebrates family descends upon us I'm reminded of this photo I took with Ambassador when we went to Charleston, SC.
Instant ancestors. Who would you like to claim?
Boy: Woof! You sure gotta climb a lot of steps to get to this Capitol Building here in Washington. But I wonder who that sad little scrap of paper is?
As a kid I was a huge fan of Schoolhouse Rock - those ingenious 2 minute cartoons sandwiched between Saturday morning shows that taught math, science, grammar and history.
But my favorite, all-time knock down drag out favorite is "I'm Just a Bill".
Boy: Gee, Bill, you certainly have a lot of patience and courage.
Bill: Well I got this far. When I started, I wasn't even a bill, I was just an idea. Some folks back home decided they wanted a law passed, so they called their local Congressman and he said, "You're right, there oughta be a law." Then he sat down and wrote me out and introduced me to Congress. And I became a bill, and I'll remain a bill until they decide to make me a law.
In some ways the love of "I'm Just a Bill" clearly inspired me to go into public policy. It planted the seeds of a belief that government can make a difference. Like making school buses stop at train tracks.
Boy: Listen to those congressmen arguing! Is all that discussion and debate about you?
Bill: Yeah, I'm one of the lucky ones. Most bills never even get this far. I hope they decide to report on me favourably, otherwise I may die.
Boy: Die?
Bill: Yeah, die in committee. Oooh, but it looks like I'm gonna live! Now I go to the House of Representatives, and they vote on me.
Boy: If they vote yes, what happens?
Bill: Then I go to the Senate and the whole thing starts all over again.
Boy: Oh no!
Bill: Oh yes!
Since arriving at my current job in 2007, I have been trying to pass a new state law that creates a structure to ensure federally subsidized, yet privately owned, buildings with contracts ending somehow remain affordable. Versions of this bill have existed in some form or another in the State House for over 15 years.
Since getting a panicked phone call in April, 2008 I've been working to reopen a state loan program that helps to remove lead paint from low-income families homes.
Clearly I don't do this work alone. There was a team of folks and I was part of a great team in both cases.
The new almost law is An Act Preserving Publicly Assisted Housing. I write almost because while both branches of the legislature unanimously passed this bill and enacted it last week, we are still awaiting the Governor's signature. My organization worked in coalition with other groups - housing advocates, elder advocates, faith-based groups and others to get this bill passed.
The state government program, Get the Lead Out, reopened on October 28th with money we successfully advocated for during the last state budget process.
So in honor of both those items, and to explain my work, I bring you I'm Just a Bill from Schoolhouse Rock.
I picked the kids up from school and was driving home when the shocked voice of a 5-year-old directly behind me gasped,
"Did you cut your hair?"
Yes. I did. Don't you like it?
"No. It is too short."
Sigh.
Yesterday I forgot my cell phone at home.
If it was a normal day, one spent at the desk working on my computer next to a phone it would not have been a big deal.
But yesterday was not a normal day. Yesterday I got to watch, after a few years of my work and literally decades of other people's efforts, a bill get to the last stage of becoming a law. And I couldn't instantly tell people outside the State House about the progress.
The funny thing is that my counterpart from a sister organization didn't have his phone either. He forgot to charge it.
So we ran back and forth between the House and the Senate chambers to watch the different proceedings. While waiting to hear about the bill we talked, because we couldn't text or surf the web. It reminded me of how the State House was before the Internet, cell phones and texting.
You sat around with colleagues, watching history be made, and really talked. About people, the weather, upcoming efforts, gossip and jokes.
And I found myself missing 1996.
I have a new mantra for when I get dressed in the mornings.
W.W.I.W.? Because what would she?
Last week, during what I thought was the end of all illness among my brood but turned out to only be a brief respite (and meant the kids probably infected an entire region of the Commonwealth), we went to one of my favorite museums. I love it any day of the year.
Right now I want to live there.
The museum is hosting Rare Bird of Fashion: The Irreverent Iris Apfel. It is an incredible show of one woman's love of clothes and embracing color, texture and jewelry with abandon.
She combines haute couture with thrift store finds. She layers necklaces upon necklaces and then adds more necklaces. She thinks dressing should be an adventure.
So I have a new mentor. Someone I will talk to every morning and ask how bold, how outlandious I can be. Not that she will answer but it will be a lively conversation that I will have with my new imaginary friend.
Every morning I plan on asking what would Iris wear?
An exchange this past weekend when it became apparent that little lady would not be going to ballet class due to her fever.
"Mama, you can't forget to call my ballet teacher!"
Ok I will.
"No! You need to email her. That is easier."
Alright.
"Then she will text you back. That will be faster."
It has been one of those weeks.
Monday afternoon I picked up my guys at aftercare to find one of them dragging, his eye lids half open. He fell asleep in the back of the van during the two mile drive home.
And it has been downhill from there.
He had all the symptoms of H1N1 - fever, cough, a bought of throwing up, and general misery. The only good thing was it lasted for a day.
Then his twin brother caught it. He has had a fever - going up to 103 at one point - until yesterday. And their younger sister caught it. She actually psyched us all out. She too had a fever for a night and was fine for 24 hours. Then - bam - another bout with a fever. Both of them were checked out by the pediatrician and neither had a secondary infection which was a relief.
But being cooped up with no where to go, and kids that don't act sick even with fevers, is really tiring.
Not that this song fits with the situation, the title sums it up.
Ever since the boys were little they have admired construction sites. Big ones with large equipment. Two guys working on fancy brickwork for a sidewalk. Anything with tools and concrete and they stop to stare. More so as preschoolers but even today they will ogle at the men (and aren't they usually men?) in hard hats and work boots.
Back when they were three years old we walked by two men laying brickwork for a sidewalk. I was commending their craftsmanship when one of them held up his hand, pointed at my boys and said sternly to them "stay in school!" while the other gentleman nodded with great seriousness. As if three year olds understood what they were saying.
Fast forward six years later and this fall the boys and I, along with their 5 year old sister, looked up as we saw several men restore a smoke stack at an old brewery. The cherry picker was lifting a man up to on it. We stopped to admire both the work and the thrill of the rising equipment. Once again, the lift rider yelled down to my kids (we were the only people watching) "stay in school!" while several colleagues shouted in agreement.
Is there some pact that all construction workers sign to yell "stay in school!" at young children? Is there something embarrassing about working in construction?
Why does this keep happening?
The last game for the season was played by a team of kindergarten girls this past weekend. Coached by three high school students (with some backup by a player's dad) they were a force to be reckoned with.
Well most of them. One particular 5-year-old, the one related to me, would often end a kick of the ball with a perfectly pointed toe which would have made her ballet teacher proud. She never seemed terribly focused on the ball, often twirling or looking out to the sidelines for a wave. During the last game she ran off the field for a hug. She ran off the field while the ball was in play.
When given the choice of playing in a soccer game to going to ballet class, there was never any doubt she would be in a leotard and tights instead of shin guards and cleats.
But the morning of her last game, my daughter announced she "loves soccer!!" and plans on playing it forever.
I think she was just psyched to get a movable arms trophy.
Like everyone else with school age children, I have been worrying about flu shots. The boys got seasonal flu vaccines during their annual physical last month but not the H1N1. Little lady hasn't gotten either.
But it may not matter. Yesterday evening, one little man developed a wicked cough and fever. At 4:00 this morning he graciously added vomitting to his list of ailments.
Last night, he wrote out the following schedule for his sick day.
1. have breckfist
2. get mom's cofe (coffee) and my skoan (scone)
3. eat the skoan
4. charg DS
5. play DS
6. tack a nap
7.
I have a new singer I've fallen in love with. A legitimately new singer, one who wasn't recording in the 1980's. In fact she was in grade school in the 1980's.
Imogen Heap has me transfixed.
She has one song that has my daughter transfixed. She is happy when the song starts in the car stereo and has even taken to narrating the beginning.
[As the music starts my daughter says from the back]
"She's running down the street for the train...."
"She's in the station....."
Got to get on it sings Imogen.
"She MADE it! She's on the train" my daughter yelps triumphantly.
This morning, I finally got to sit through an entire service at church. This fall has been spent teaching the middle school class. Today was my first "day off" since September and I relished the chance to sit in quiet, sing some hymns and reconnect with dear friends.
The two readings included one by Tony Kushner, the Angels in America playwright, and a excerpt from Martin Luther King's Letter from Birmingham. I took some liberties:
I had also hoped that thewhitestraight moderate would reject the myth concerning time in relation to the struggle for freedom. I have just received a letter from awhitestraight brother in Texas. He writes: "All Christians know that thecoloredgay people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth." Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely rational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co-workers with God, and without this 'hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand ofracialall injustice to the solid rock of human dignity.
My walk from the office to the train station takes me past a square that is a hangout for homeless adults. In the summer I wear large hats to protect myself from the sun. One man, with his paper cup outstretched, would often comment on my hats.
He hasn't been out on the streets for long. I started seeing him in the spring in a nice sweater and khaki pants. He stood straight with his clean teeth and would hold out his cup. He looked like a nice grandfather with his full head of white hair and sweet smile. But as the months wore on he is now in sweatpants and his hair is a bit more matted. One afternoon earlier this fall he had a black eye. When I asked what happened he told me he had fallen down.
After their day at the back-up child care center my kids and I were walking towards the station. The gentleman who compliments my hats was smoking a cigarette (a new habit I think) and talking in earnest with another man. He noticed me, promptly hid the cigarette and smiled.
"Where is a hat?" he asked.
"Nope. No hat today" I smiled sheepishly. "I have my kids though."
He said hi and asked them how the children were. I introduced them.
"Hi kids. My name is Patrick" he said.
We told him to have a good evening and walked on. One boy grabbed my hand and urgently said "Mommy?!"
"What?"
He pulled me down so he could whisper in my ear. We were at least a city block away from Patrick.
"How do homeless people go to the bathroom?"
Knock, knock. Hello, Maine?
Hi, I'm SMID and I live in Massachusetts which has had marriage equality for over 5 years.
Funny thing? Even after five years of gays being able to marry, the sky is still where it belongs. No four horsemen nor large swarms of bugs have descended upon us. Everyone's marriage - straight or gay - continues to be the business of the two people in that marriage.
Why, Maine, why couldn't you just do the same?
Maybe this piece from The Colbert Report explains it.
| Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | ||||
| Nailed 'Em - Mormon Church Trespassing | ||||
| ||||
The kids were walking down a busy city street with me on their way to get my latte and their donuts. There was no school (yet another professional development day for the teachers) and I was taking them to my office to have breakfast in the meeting room then over to a back-up child care center for the day.
"I want to be a hobo for Halloween next year," announced one of my 9 year old sons as he held my hand. His brother was a few steps ahead while their younger sister was on my other side.
"No you can't," I told him.
"Why?" he asked. I knew my answer would appear in less than a city block.
The man emerged from one of the many nooks inside the buildings along this street. He wore a torn, dirty coat and his pants were too big. His beard was shaggy and filthy. His two bags bulged with their contents. He struggled to pick them up and moved slowly down the street.
"That's why you can't be a hobo" I told my son. "Hobo is an old-fashioned word for someone who is poor and homeless. Do you really want to poke fun at that man?"
"No" my son said quietly.
Unbeknownst to me his brother was overhearing this conversation. We passed another nook and this son asked "so homeless people try to find spots like this to sleep?"
"Yes" I answered.
And then we walked into the coffee shop.
The day after Halloween, the big city newspaper ran a piece about different families' post-Halloween candy policies. What to eat the night of. What to keep afterwards. What to throw away.
After about an hour of walking around the neighborhood collecting candy on Halloween this past weekend, one of my boys held up his bag and announced he had enough. We headed home, checked all the wrappings and let them eat four pieces of candy. After that it is two pieces after dinner. None goes to school in the lunch boxes. In previous years, the candy lingers for weeks until they forget about it and I take the leftovers to my office. Usually a little after Thanksgiving.
What do you do? How do you manage the candy? Do you think that leaving it around leads to hoarding and/or stealing? Or do you think it teaches restraint?
Curious minds want to know.
I am the first generation of kids that had the joy of PBS's children's educational programming. Seasame Street, Mr. Rogers and Zoom are all staples of my childhood. My own children have enjoyed their own PBS children's shows including WordGirl, Super Why and Fetch with Ruff Ruffman. A few years ago we even went to a local mall to meet the cast.
But nothing is really beating the new Electric Company. Sassy, smart and fun, I am thoroughly enjoying watching my 5-year-old as she absorbes the repetitive language lessons.
Two years ago in November I posted every day as part of National Blog Posting Month. It was really easy for me then, mainly because I had 2-3 posts brewing in my head and I seemed to have unlimited time and energy for blogging.
During that month in 2007, I would occasionally stumble upon bloggers who would mention that they were writing a novel in 30 days. Which just made my jaw drop.
A few would casually mention they were writing a novel AND posting every day for that month. Reading that almost made me close up the blog. I felt like such a wimp of a writer.
During 2008 I found a story forming in my head so I took the plunge last November and wrote a novel. One hundred seventy pages in less than 30 days. I'm still editing it, slowly, but look forward to getting the book to a point where I can share it with some folks and not worry about them laughing at me.
So for 2009 I think I will try to get back into posting every day for November. This has been a very full year off the computer for me. I miss blogging and want to play along.
Let the NaBloPoMo-ing begin.
I wrote a novel, and I am still editing it.
