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.
I wrote a novel, and I am still editing it.
