Some Pig

Thoughts, Hopes, Fears

Waiting for the Pats-Jints game this time around is like dating a guy you mad crushed on who broke your heart:  Caution is the watchword.  This time around, I'm trying not to get too caught up in the heady whirlwind of emotion.  I am being as coy about this game as that girl in your third period math class who used to act like she kinda sorta liked you, until she didn't, and then asked your friend why you were mad at her.  I am just...holding a little in reserve.  This time, I'm not haunting the NFL/Sports Illustrated/SB Nation websites looking for that one more piece of analysis.  I'm going to be all zen and relaxed and ... who am I kidding, if I thought about it, I'd be the original cat on a hot tin roof, so I've put a mental moratorium on all things pigskin - AFTER I get this one post off my chest.   So here, for your reading pleasure, are all the thoughts that pinwheel through my cranium in my weak moments when I allow myself to wonder "what if":

This I Know For Sure

I know half the Patriots will be on the medical list just to screw with everyone's head.  Brandon Spikes will have kwaashikor, Wes Welker will have piles, and the third assistant mailboy will have a persistent hangnail. 

I know "rock out with your Gronk out" is the best almost-obscene-yet-still-acceptable catchphrase I've heard in some time.

I know Hoodie will be dressed for success in his trademark sweatshirt; the question is, will he wear the formal dress hoodie with intact sleeves, or will he keep the streak alive with the cutoff Flashdance look?

I know TownieNews.com does the best job of encapsulating the bitter/loyal/arrogant/insecure/perpetually dissatisfied tone of the average Baaahstahn sports fan.  GFY!

I know I'm making whoopie pies during the game, because I spent the last two games in a frenzy of stress-induced cooking, so I can't stop now.  Besides, that way, if the game and/or the outcome suck, I still have something to look forward to. 

What Keeps Me Awake At Night

Osi Umeyura (sp?  not bad for off the cuff!).  That guy who caught that one pass on the back of his head.  Eli performing in front of Peyton in his big brother's stomping grounds.  Bad juju.  Gronk's ankle injury.  The thought of another NY franchise ruining New England's dreams. 

Cross Your Fingers

I hope Brady takes apart the Giants D like a butcher piecing a chicken, while Eli's bland, blond and pretty wife bows down in recognition of her inferiority to Gisele. 

I hope Gronk runs into the end zone five times with helpless Giant defense linemen hanging off him like baby possums off their mama.

I hope Hernandez adds subliminal messages to his sleeve tats that cause disorientation and mass confusion, resulting in two Giants running TDs into their own end zone.

I hope Vince Wilfork envelops Eli in his meaty embrace so many times, Eli thinks they're going steady.

I hope the Giants lose so badly, their 2011-2012 squad has to enter the witness protection program for their own safety.

I hope Anubis, the dog-headed god, stalks the Giants sidelines looking for souls to steal and turning Gatorade to ice.  I hope the spirit of Myra H. Kraft descends from the heavens accompanied by a host of angels who turn to harpies that shred the flesh of unwitting G-men while their harsh cries drive Jints fans insane.  I hope the earth cleaves in the Giants' end zone as Kronos and his Titan children emerge from the deep to bat down every point after TD the Giants attempt.  I hope Zephyr and Aeolus cause gale-force winds inside the dome every time Eli cocks his arm to throw.  I hope the primal scream of every Pats fan in the nation reverberates so deep, it registers on the Richter scale.  I hope Hel, Hades, and Loki cast dice on the sidelines for the souls of the Giants' front seven before summoning them to the underworld.  I hope the restless spirit of Billy Cundiff (yeah, he's not dead yet, but he's dead to a lot of Ravens fans, now, isn't he?) infects the punter's leg.  I hope, to paraphrase my friend and philosopher Jack, that the Patriots are up 72-0 in the fourth quarter, and Brady is still passing the ball on fourth down and a cab ride.  I hope for nothing more than a defeat so resounding in its entirety that every doubter, shouter, Belichick hater and Brady berater has no choice but to admit their erroneous ways, renounce all their worldly possessions and enter an ashram.

Okay, maybe not.  But another Lombardi trophy?  That I *do* hope to see.

And now, we shall not speak of this again.  Promise.

Pretty Ugly

Wow, now I know the Pats are among the elect; what else could explain their managing to pull a win out of that steaming hot mess of a game last night???  Divine favor is the only way to explain how they held onto a three-point lead to the end of the fourth quarter, especially considering that Joe Flacco played much better than Tom Terrific AND the Pats managed to give the ball, gift-wrapped and personally inscribed, back to the Ravens on Tom's long bomb shot into the end zone.  Several times during the fourth quarter, I said to myself, "welp, that's the game right there," both for and against the Pats, and yet things STILL kept changing in the weirdest of ways.  I can't decide if a butterfly somewhere in the Peruvian rain forest chose to flap its wings at an opportune moment or if Myra Kraft blew an angel's kiss over the kicker, but those are the only explanations I can come up with for an NFL kicker to miss a bread-and-butter shot like that in the final seconds of the game.  And how about Steven Tyler making it through the national anthem without popping an anyeurism on the high notes??? Yep, this game had heavenly intervention written alllll over it.

So we're (I say 'we' like I had anything to do with it, other than yelling at the girls to PLEASE STOP BOTHERING MOMMY UNTIL THE GAME IS OVER, IT'S THREE MORE MINUTES WOULD YOU JUST PIPE DOWN) going back to the Super Bowl, a fact that should have my feet a-tappin' and my heart a-singin', but of course now I'm miserable.  Why?  Because we're going up against the Jints!  Again!!  The mother-lovin' Jints!!! The streak-breaking, perfect-season-ending, Manning-at-QB, not-the-charismatic-one-but-the-boring-one Jints!  GAAAAHHHH.  What if the Exalted One is doing this to us just to eff with our heads???  I can't take two weeks of this, I just can't.  I'm sure Hoodie and Handsome are just as happy to be meeting Eli and friends again and I can't say I blame 'em; looking at the Niners last night, HOO BOY those were some big boys out there on the field, and they looked like they enjoy dishing out a pounding, but ... well, I don't think I could stomach two losses to New York.

Several years ago during the last Jints-Pats bustup, I remember watching the two teams come out of the tunnel. I was struck by how different their demeanors were:  The Giants came out looking on top of the world.  The Pats marched out like a pack of dour old parsons with a three-hour sermon ahead of them.   I did not think that boded well, and of course, I was right, because, well, DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.  And also, MISERY.  They are my boon companions.  But back to my point, which is, I hope that Hoodie and Handsome approach this trip to the big show a little differently.  What I remember of the previous SB victories was how much fun Tom seemed to be having out there, and he doesn't seem to have had as much fun lately in the big games.  It must suck to be in his shoes, with such outsized expectations riding on his shoulders; no one expected a 24-year-old kid who was a 6th round draft pick to get to the championship game, but everyone expects Arguably The Greatest QB of All Time to do it, which has got to weigh on a body.  I'm hoping Vince Wilfork, who always looks like a kid in the candy shop, and all the other noobs who are just ecstatic to be where they are, can infect the rarefied air of Patriots Place with some cheer for the next two weeks, because, damn, it's the Super Bowl!  Who expected us to get there this year, of all years?  I for one did not, and don't lie, a lot of you didn't either.  Or at least, if they'd been knocked out in round one or two, you would've shrugged your shoulders and said, "eh, they had a good run," and been pretty well satisfied with that.  Don't lie.

I am also putting Gisele on notice that she is to cancel all her fashion shoots and set aside her jet-setting ways for the duration.  She needs to turn up the loving helpmeet/adoring spouse act to Nigel Tufnel's 11 for the next two weeks, and if she won't, I know about a million women in New England who would happily go down on their knees to offer the home team their support.  PRAYING, I meant - sheesh, you people, this is a family blog, after all. 

P.S. All you supposed New England residents in southern Connecticut who support the Giants?  Go move to Jersey with the other Giants fans, or recognize your regional allegiance and get behind the local team.  Or else you're going to burn.  In hell.  That's a promise, not a threat.

P.P.S.  A friend and colleague of mine, who is dear and sweet and kind where I am not, posted the following last night:

I can't help it. I feel so bad for Billy Cundiff. Not that I'd take back the win or anything, but I just can't image how he feels right now. Can you tell I teach middle school?

To which I say, yes.  Yes, we can.

Letter From A Broad, Parental (Over) Concern Edition

Dear Parents,

I just want to warn you that I have a major assignment due next Wednesday.  In the world I live in, that means that sometime between the hours of 7:30 and 2:10, many of you will be getting frantic phone calls from your offspring asking you to please, please, please bring in the project that they left on the kitchen table/on the printer/ in their bedroom/ up on the computer/ on the thumb drive they left in their friend's mom's car, and if you can't make it in, could you please just open it up and email it to school and make sure Mrs. S. gets it?

My students learn a lot from the work I assign.  Some of it is the stuff I intend for them to learn, such as the three branches of government, the events that led to the Revolutionary War, and the impact of slavery on our economy.  However, a lot of it is stuff that you teach them, whether you realize it or not - lessons such as, Your Mom Will Always Dig You Out of a Jam.  Deadlines Do Not Apply to You.  You Deserve Preferential Treatment No Matter What You Do.  Now, before you get all in a twist about how dare I say such things about your amazing Malyssah and your genius Jaxon, hear me out.  One of the things we're supposed to be doing here in the public education system is teaching your child some life lessons, in addition to academic lessons.  Unfortunately, it becomes extremely difficult to do that when the adults keep inserting themselves between the actions and the consequences.  Think back on your own school days:  Do you remember the assignments that you completed thoroughly and handed in on time?  No?  Now what about the time you really, really screwed up, and had to pull an all-nighter/ face the wrath of your teacher/ take a zero and redo the assignment anyway?  I bet you learned at least one thing, that being, "I'll never do that again."  And chances are likely you didn't, or at least, you didn't for a good, long while after that.

So let's apply this to your own precious offspring.  Guess what?  They need to learn those life lessons just as much as, if not more than, they need to learn about the science or math or English or history or what-have-you.   I ask you, would you rather have them learn about the need to be on time, take care of their things, and get their work done in middle school, when the worst thing that can happen is they lose credit on an assignment, or would you rather have them learn it when they flunk out of college because they can't manage their courseload?  Or they lose their job because they don't understand how to plan for deadlines?  Or fail in their marriages because they're self-centered little egotists who think that everything should revolve around them and their convenience???  Okay, that's a little extreme, but only a little.  And don't bother trotting out the arguments about how the teachers are arbitrary, the assignments are inscrutable, and the grading system is unfair, because as anyone who has any powers of observation knows, LIFE is arbitrary, inscrutable, and unfair, and the sooner your kid learns how to handle that, the better off they will be in the long run.

I leave you with this final thought:  Every time you rush to the rescue, you are infantilizing your child and ensuring that he or she will never learn the skills s/he needs to be a fully functioning member of society.  If I proposed that I would take your child from you and refuse to teach him or her how to function, you'd claim it was child abuse.  So why is it any better when you do it? 

Think about that.

Love,

Mrs. S.

P.S. If you need help, practice saying the following phrases in the mirror to yourself so you'll be ready for the onslaught on Wednesday:

"You forgot your assignment?  Wow, honey, that's really too bad.  I guess you're going to have to tell Mrs. S. she's not getting it today."

"I'm sorry, honey, but I didn't plan to drive over to the school today, and I have a lot to do.  I'll see you when you get home."

"Wow, that's a bummer.  It's too bad you're not going to get full credit for that work.  Well, we'll talk about it later.  I have to go now."

And, if all else fails, there's always that old stand-by:

"I told you so."

After all, that phrase is a parental favorite for a reason.

Pigskin Panic

It's a hard time to be a Patriots fan these days, for reasons I will let someone who writes about these things much better than I do explain to you:

"I'm a Pats fan, which means I'm a spoiled, obnoxious, shortsighted, what-have-you-done-for-me-lately buffoon that can take a 13-3, #1 seed in the AFC season and spin it to make it seem like I'm forced to root for a Pop Warner team with a defense comprised almost entirely of players who wore floaties to the pool until they turned 21..." "...deep down inside me lives a paranoid, nervous, overly pessimistic fan. I've named him Hank, and I'm very embarrassed of what he has done to me as a football fan...Hank has forced me to spend Sunday mornings in a a sickening mix of pure elation and paralyzing anxiety, fully aware that what is about to occur over the span of the next three hours is going to fully dictate whether or not I feel one ounce of happiness over the next full week of my life. In no way is it healthy, normal, or mentally beneficial and at some point I'm going to have to make a serious life change."

You'd think that the Pats' convincing win over the Broncs would make for a week living on Easy Street.  And you'd be identically wrong.  The fact that the boys basically ripped through Denver like a hot knife through butter actually makes it all much, much worse.  Why?  You don't have to dig too far into our regional DNA to figure out that our Puritan heritage still has us in its iron grip.  For those of you who slept through that lecture in history class, the Puritans were the fun-loving folk who came over from England, that hotbed of sin and scandal, to live a theologically pure and unblemished life, and then proceeded to squabble with one another about what that consisted of.  And their theology is enough to make a strong man cry.  To grossly oversimplify, the Puritans believed that the only way to get to Heaven was to be one of the elect.  However, the kicker is that you don't know if God's chosen you to be one of the elect or one of the rabble, unless you're Catholic, in which case you pretty much know you're doomed.  But then, to add a however to the however, if you are the elect and don't know it, you can get yourself unelected in a fast hurry by not worshipping God the way you ought, and since you don't know if you're one of their number until you die, you'd better keep your nose to the grindstone just in case.  And then, on top of that, different church leaders had different ideas about what constituted the 'right' way to worship, so they were forever exiling one another over theological controversies most of us couldn't make head nor tails of. 

Now take this laff riot of a bunch and stick them in New England, a place where, let's be honest, folks, the weather pretty much stinks a great portion of the time, and you get a negative reinforcement loop.  Had a nice summer?  Watch out, it's gonna be a haaahhd wintah all right.  Beautiful dry spring?  Hope there ain't a drought this summah.  Lovely, clear, crisp winter day?  It'll freeze yah right t'yah bones tonight, ayuh.  Add that as background to the constant worry about whether or not your eternal soul is going to fry like a bug on an electrified fence once you kick the bucket, and what do you get?  A people who know suffering.  Who get suffering.  Who are good at it.  This is where the Pats come in.  What better symbol of New England's home team than Bill Belichick? The sight of BB in his 3-for-$10-sale-at-Walgreen's cutoff hoodies resonates with us. Just look at his face - here's a man who realizes that it can all turn to a pile of sh!t in a hot second because we are all sinners in the hand of an angry God, and that's when his team's winning.   No wonder he washed out as "Dr. Doom"  in the eternally optimistic Midwest; those people think anything can be fixed with a good casserole.  We like a guy who can look at a winning performance and see nothing but an endless string of flaws; this is the part of the world, after all, where loving parents used to drag their children up to the edge of freshly dug graves so they could look upon their eventual fate.  If you can't see the skull beneath the skin, or the fatal weaknesses in the O-line, well then, move the hell away to Florida with everyone else.

So the true New Englander-slash-Pats fan is going to find this week a living hell.  Is our team truly one of the NFL elect, or are we deluding ourselves right up to the gates of Paradise, only to watch God's chosen walk through?  Will we make it to the Promised Land, only to fall in the Slough of Despond?  Will we be tempted to idolatry, worshipping the trinity of Gronk, Hernandez and Welker, or will we remain strong in the one true Brady?  Dear heavens, will our defense hold up against the Ravens long enough to get us to the final matchup against the 49ers, or even Satan's own minions, the Jints???  Alec Shane's articles about the misery of being a Pats fan are brilliant, but he got one critical detail wrong:  If you're a New England fan, your inner pessimist isn't really Hank.  We're all channeling our inner Cotton Mather.

24 Hour Party Person

So what does our heroine do with herself of a Sunday, you may be wondering.  Or actually, you probably don't care at all, but since it's my blog post and I need an opening, this is what you get; you can have a giant helping of Take It or Leave It on the side if you wish, too.

Here is a list of what I have done with my day so far:

Got up

Forced children to eat, get dressed, brush teeth and comb hair

Herded children into coats, boots, hats, and mittens for trip to church

Taught Sunday School

Gathered up children for return engagement with aforementioned coats, et. al.

Brought children home (with stop along the way to procure present for birthday party)

Cleaned kitchen while Child #1 was supposedly cleaning her room

Made lunch for Child #2

Informed Child #1 that making paper flowers while listening to an audiobook did not qualify as "cleaning up your room," and that her attendance at the highly-desirable birthday party was incumbent upon her actually cleaning up her room.

Weathered floods of tears and wails of child claiming, "I don't know how to clean my room," (which is complete and utter horsesh!t because we go through this rigmarole every time I ask her to clean her room, and I mean every. single. time.) by giving distinct, separate orders for every motion she needed to make  ("Now pick up the clothes... ALL your clothes...now make two piles... put the clean pile away...no, you have to put them in the appropriate drawer...because I said is why...now put the dirty pile in the laundry...ad infinitum, ad nauseam.)

Gathered up Child #1, laundry detergent, and ginormous bedspread for trip to 1) birthday party; followed by 2) laundromat

Dropped off Child #1 at part and proceeded to laundromat to stuff ginormous bedspread into supersized washer (which required 24 quarters -  TWENTY. FOUR. QUARTERS!  I mean, damn)

Ran home and repeated the room cleaning-under-pain-of-duress routine with Child #2

Ferried Child #2 to her playdate, with a stop along the way to transfer wet ginormous bedspread to supersized dryer

Ran back to birthday party location to collect Child #1

Picked up now-dry ginormous bedspread

Dragged reluctant Child #1 to grocery store for direly-needed foodstuffs, and then to pick up Child #2 at playdate

Dragged reluctant Child #1 and #2 away from playdate

Cleaned up kitchen (AGAIN)

Walked dog

Lugged firewood

Restarted fire

Made dinner

Served dinner

Fin

And I haven't even begun to deal with our regular laundry yet.

Whoo, I don't know how I manage to lead this glamorous life.  I'm a regular Sheila E., I am.  What really kills me is the sheer, unrelenting nature of it all - I spend all day Saturday and Sunday catching up from the week that just ended and getting ready for the week that's coming, just so I can make it to the next weekend and start the cycle all over again.  Where's my day of rest, I ask you??  The Good Lord got one.  Sheesh, even Tim Tebow gets his Sundays off (and he's getting a lot more of 'em, after that last meeting the Broncs had with the Pats, heh heh); so why don't I???

I'm telling you this not because I want to bore you to death (too late!) or because I'm whining, but to illustrate just how plebeian and uninspiring my daily rounds can be.  It's no wonder I like going to work; work is a nine-hour stretch of time in which I'm guaranteed not to have to run errands.  [An aside:  This is also why I get all throat-punch-y when the latest megadiva to push out a crumbcrusher or two coos to the media about how much she loves motherhood and how it's such a privilege to spend every free moment possible with the child she simply adores and can't bear to be away from for even an hour.  You just know this mom ain't the one spending hours schlepping her kid to eleventy-seven birthday parties a month; she's letting the nanny put Mahlyssah and Jaxon into their Beaux et Belles mufti so the driver can truck them off to Dylan's Candy Bar.  Yeah, I'd think mothering was a trip to the spa, too, if I didn't have to, you know, do stuff for them.] 

But I digress.  Anywhat, I've decided that what I need is a soundtrack!!  And, since I am a great fan of irony, I've decided that this soundtrack needs to have a theme, that being one celebrating the nonstop whirl of the champagne-and-caviar life I lead.  In addition to the aforementioned Sheila E. tune, I was thinking of "Puttin' On The Ritz," either the real one or that disco version, and after that... well, I'm kinda stuck.  Maybe Paradise City?  Mo' Money Mo' Problems?  What do you think?   I'll let you know what I come up with, if I ever get enough time to pull such a playlist together.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be off.  My public needs me.  Those cat pans aren't going to scoop themselves, yanno.  You can entertain yourself with this while you think:

 

P.S. My hair?  Would totally do that, given the right (meaning bad) haircut and styling products.  And for several years, it did.

Letter From A Broad, Nice Ain't Easy Edition

Dear kids,

We are rapidly approaching the halfway point in our time together, and I need to warn you about something:

I am running out of nice.

If you continue at this rate, I will run out of nice in exactly five weeks, seven days, and 14 hours.  That would leave us...um...subtract three, carry the one, divide by pi....eleventy jillion weeks of school left with no nice left in the tank.

Trust me, people, that's a long, loooong time.

The worst part of this situation is that I can't point to one or two overriding reasons why I'm running out of patience with you lot.  I've weathered far, FAR worse groups than you guys, and was not nearly this annoyed at this stage of the game.  This is odd, since one of your distinguishing features as a group is that you're a pretty nice bunch.  However, you also have this tendency to do nothing for yourselves if you can ask me to do it for you.  You seem to be on a collective mission to nickel-and-dime me out of niceness - like Chinese water torture, drip by drip. However, I haven't been sent irrevocably around the bend yet.  My cup of nice could be returned to overflowing even now.  How?  Let me count the ways:

First, it would be nice if you came to school with your own writing utensils for a change.  For the love of Pete, you get up every morning, get dressed, get on the bus and go to school, five days a week, forty weeks a year.  It's not like it's a big surprise that, hey!  You're going to school!  And maybe, just maybe, you might need something to write with TODAY, just like you did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and the day before the day before that....

Second, it would be nice if you actually used some of the many, many resources we have to offer for you to keep up with your work.  Such as looking at the on-line calendar that I have to keep current.  Or checking the electronic grade book instead of asking, "what's my grade?"  Or, let's keep it simple, how about actually LOOKING ON THE BOARD when you walk in the room and checking the class information I post EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. instead of just yelling, "Do we have to do any work today?" as soon as you set foot in my door.  What do you think I'm going to say?  "Of course not!  We're all going to sit around eating fudge sundaes and playing video games"???

Third, it would be nice if you would do things ON TIME.  As in, you do the work, you complete it, and you turn it in on the date which we have indicated would be desirable.  As a double-extra bonus, maybe YOU could remember it, instead of my fielding a constant stream of requests from kids asking to use my classroom phone so you can call Mommy to bring it in (which, what the heck?  My mother would have laughed herself silly if I'd asked her to run home, get my schoolwork that I forgot, and bring it in.  Because in her book, your work = your problem.).  Let me spell this out for you:  When you do work late, that means I have to keep visiting and revisiting old assignments to figure out what's been turned in, what's still missing, what was turned in late, why it was late, and so forth and so on... all of which isn't very nice for me.

Fourth, it would be really, REALLY nice if you would treat me as an autonomous human being with concerns beyond the realm of your existence, instead of as a combination doormat/parent figure/personal concierge.  Before you come ask me a question, keep this in the forefront of your mind:  I have 117 students, plus two kids of my own, a husband, two cats and a ridiculously co-dependent dog to take care of - that's 122 other living beings besides you, all of whom have some claim on my time and energy.  So do I know what your grade is right now?  No.  Do I know if you passed in that thing that you think you did but you can't remember, or maybe you emailed it, but you're sure you turned it in?  No, I do not.  Can I give you another copy of the work you missed three weeks ago that you never got from me at the time, but now that you see me in the hall you'd like to get it from me?  No, I can't.  If you really need to ask me those questions, I don't mind answering them - it is my job, after all.  But how about using some phrases like "please," "thank you," and "may I" along the way?

Kids, if you start with these few simple steps, you may find that the needle on the Mrs. S. nice gauge starts inching back up from "running on fumes" to "quarter tank" or maybe even "half full".  And when that happens, you just might find that your teacher wants to give you hot fudge sundaes and a day to have fun now and again.  That's what we in the adult world call a "win-win." 

Of course, if that fails, you can always buy me a spa weekend.  That would bring me back to nice in a fast hurry.

Yours,

Mrs. SomePig

The Psychology of the Individual

If you are a fan of P.G. Wodehouse, you'll recognize this as the phrase Jeeves uses to describe how he manipulates manages Bertie Wooster in his capacity as a gentleman's gentleman.  Keep that in mind as the story progresses.

One goal I strive to accomplish each year is getting my little charges to broaden their intellectual horizons by interacting with one another.  However, as I've mentioned before, middle schoolers are wily little critters who are naturally distrustful of adult intentions and suspicious of any social interactions that smack of grown-up intervention.  Usually, when I ask them to pair up for partner work, they automatically hew to their close circle of friends. Efforts to mix them up randomly by counting off, rolling dice, matching kids up by sock color and the like are usually greeted by responses ranging from "unenthusiastic" to "passive-aggressive," replete with heavy sighs, anguished looks, and monosyllabic answers.  Good times, good times!

Today, I took a different approach.  Step 1:  I told the kids I was going to tell them something very, very politically incorrect.  That got their attention.  Step 2:  I asked if anyone knew what a 'Chinese fire drill' was.  This got a huge positive reaction from a portion of the class, usually the "goofy boy" population.  Step 3:  For those not in the know, I explained what that term meant, adding for emphasis that I was NOT suggesting that ANYONE should EVER EVER EVER get out at a dangerous intersection, run around their vehicle, and re-enter by another door, especially since I like my job and want to keep it (An aside:  All I need is to have a TV anchor outside Upper Socioeconomic Middle School, intoning, "Several students were seriously injured today after attempting what is known as a 'Chinese fire drill,' which they learned about from their social studies teacher..."  The thought gives me chills.  Seriously.).  Step 4:  Introduce our class activity, now renamed the "social studies scramble," in which they would change seats and partners between questions.  The kids had fifteen seconds in each round to find new seats and new partners, followed by thirty seconds to share answers.

Well.

You'd think I'd promised everyone a double-dip ice cream cone and a free pony by their reaction.  The same kids who baaaarely have the energy to drag themselves to their seats when *I* partner them up were running around the room like their hair was on fire to get to a new partner.  Even the most reluctant, unenthusiastic kids were racing around with the best of them.  AND, as a nice little side bonus, I overheard the incessant talker who got put in the Cone of Silence and wasn't allowed to participate say to himself, "I really wish I was doing this."  Then he perked up and asked me, "Can we call it the Cone of Shame?" (a la Dug in Up.)  Being ever munificent in victory, I graciously acquiesced. 

So let me recap what, exactly, we did in class today:

The kids answered questions.

They shared their answers with partners.

They changed partners between answers.

And I got them to think it was the greatest thing since the ball-point pen. 

I am the MASTER.

 

Occasionally, The Good Guys Prevail

I know I share a lot of stories of heartbreak and woe on these virtual pages, or at least, I gripe a lot about what pisses me off, but once in a while, I hear a heartwarming story that makes me want to stand up and cheer. In the spirit of the new year, I thought I'd share: Over the holidays, I got to spend some time with a good friend. She told me a story about her nephews, who are high school- and middle school-aged. Younger Brother has Asperger's Syndrome, including the problems with social skills and peer relations. Older Brother, being a good sibling, has made a point of looking out for Younger Brother through the years. However, once Older Brother went to the high school, he could no longer be the eyes and ears he had been.

Well, Nature abhors a vacuum, so you can imagine that once Older Brother was out of sight, someone else stepped in to fill the gap - cue the entrance of one Juvenile Delinquent, newly returned to the community and, of course, assigned to the same bus as Younger Brother. You can fill in the rest - the harassment, the intimidation, the lack of effective intervention from authority figures, all of which continued until Little Brother had to be driven to school every day.  Older Brother was, needless to say, beside himself, but being at a different school, there was nothing he could do about it. Then school started in September, and - guess what! - Juvenile Delinquent was now in 9th grade. At the first opportunity, Older Brother sought out Juvenile Delinquent. He tapped on JD's shoulder. "Hi!" he said, "You don't know me, but I'm Younger's brother!" Then, without waiting for a reply, he pulled back, cocked his fist, and clocked the @sshole right in the jaw. The kid went down like a ton of bricks.

My first reaction to this story was surprise - surprise because this story made me realize just how ordinary scenarios like this used to be, and how comparatively rare they are now.  The fact that one kid administered some sorely deserved schoolyard justice to another kid used to be much more commonplace. 

Second, this story brought home just how much we have infantilized and disempowered our children in the name of making schools and other institutions safe, welcoming environments for everyone.  The fact is, school shouldn't be a safe and welcoming environment for everyone; it should be a safe and welcoming environment ONLY for those people who are willing to reciprocate in making it safe and welcoming for others.  The kid who makes homophobic, racist, or sexist comments should NOT find school a warm and cozy place to be.  The kid who picks on littler or weaker or less able kids should NOT think s/he is going to get away with it.  The kid who thinks it's funny to be mean to the kid who's different SHOULD be looking over his or her shoulder and wondering when it's going to catch up to them.  In reality, all the security cameras and no-tolerance policies and such have had a paradoxical effect in giving the jerks more power instead of less, because the good kids who used to stand up to these kids are actually concerned about their reputations and records, while the jerks don't give a sh!t.  Furthermore, we have managed to eliminate or subvert all the opportunities the good kids used to have to learn how to handle the jerks.  This is scarcely an original sentiment, but it's true - thanks to scheduled playdates, supervised sports, structured enrichment activities, and hyperinvolved parents, we have managed to raise a generation of kids who don't know what to do when life spits in their eye. 

[A lengthy aside is necessary here, lest a certain element of my readership try to claim that this is the fault of FDR, the nanny state, and/or Great Society programs.  Let me state for the record that the forces that have created the atmosphere of enablement and entitlement know no color, creed, or political persuasion.  I am definitely in the "knee-jerk liberal" camp, but I firmly believe that my girls have to experience at least their fair share of hard knocks and deal with them without benefit of parental intervention; by the same token, many a enabled little princeling or entitled junior diva pulls up to school in a vehicle plastered with Tea Party bumper stickers.  So let's not make it a political issue, mmmkay?]

The fact is, kids are pack animals (to a greater or lesser extent), and they do act as a corrective force on one another.  If you were lucky enough to grow up in the 70's, think about it:  How many times did your parents get on you to wear clean clothes, take a shower, and comb your damn hair once in awhile?  Did that change your behavior?  Now when your peers started saying, "dang, man, you smell," - what happened then?  I'm willing to bet that far more kids got turned on to the benefits of personal hygiene by fear of their peers' disapproval than by their parents' efforts.  Looking back at the story that started this post, is Juvenile Delinquent likely to see the error of his ways?  Maybe, but probably not.  Is he likely to think twice before picking on Little Brother or any other atypical kid again?  I bet he is.

I need to be clear here that I am not advocating for allowing unchecked vigilantism or wishing for a return to the law of the jungle.  We can't have kids walking around decking one another over every social infraction, real or perceived, or we'll never get anything done at school.  But let's face it, peer influence is a form of power, and like all forms of power, we need to teach kids how and when to use it appropriately.  To return to the example above, kids aren't born knowing that it's okay to call someone out for behaviors they can change or control, but it's not fair to do so if they can't.  But nowadays, we don't even try to teach kids to discern between using peer pressure the right way or the wrong way.  Instead, we treat peer influence like a pair of extra sharp scissors that has to be kept far away from the curious toddler.  We lock the scissors away and then wonder why, when it comes time to send the little dears to college, none of them has any idea how to cut a piece of paper. 

They're Not EVERYONE'S Best Friend? Who Knew?

My coworkers are not exactly sympathetic to my obsession with procuring a large chunk of South African real estate for my ring finger.  In fact, you could say some of them are downright dismissive of my hopes and dreams in the sparkler area.

"Are you still on that diamond kick?" asked Coworker #1

"Yep!  I tried on a two-point-five carat ring over vacation!" I replied, glowing in the memory of that beautiful sparkler twinkling away on my...pinkie, because the ring was made for someone with fingers about as narrow as Posh Spice, apparently. "But it was $48,500, so I don't think I'll be getting that anytime soon."

"That's ridiculous.  If you came in wearing  a ring that big, I'd punch you," he answered.  "I'd make a fist out of your hand and make you punch yourself in the eye with your ring."

"Oh, that again?" said Coworker #2.  "Why were you looking at a fifty thousand dollar diamond ring, anyway?"

"I wasn't looking for a diamond like that," I said, perhaps a touch defensively, "I was at the jeweler's, and it was in the vintage case - "

"Wait, what were you doing at the jeweler's?" asked Coworker #2, "Were you just hanging out?"

"NO," I said, definitely defensively this time, "we were at the children's museum across the street, and Warren's been talking about getting an adventure bike to go along with his dirt bike, so I was going to look at diamond bands so that I could tell him, 'here, this is what it's going to cost you if you want to get an adventure bike,' so I just went in to look!  I'm not getting a new diamond anytime soon!"

Hmphf.  You'd think they'd be a little more supportive of a girl's dearest-held wish, but no.  Well, I tell ya, if I ever win PowerBall, right after I write a huge check to the food pantry and the homeless shelter and my five favorite charities, the very next thing I'm doing is hiking my butt right back to that jewelry store, and I'm not walking out til that ring is sitting in its rightful place on my left hand.  So there! 

All I have to do now is start playing PowerBall.

 ... and if all that sounds horribly acquisitive and grasping and totally un-Buddhist of me, well... it would be worth a few extra lifetimes to have a ring that nice.  Plus, I'm not the only one who thinks so:

 

Not Quite What I Had In Mind

So! I was all excited to see the end of 2011. It was mostly okay, to begin, but degenerated into a bit of a suckfest (I said suckfest, iPad, not sickest), what with various and sundry family health crises, professional stresses, and general feelings of personal ineffectiveness taking up the latter part of my year. And then I got a stomach bug to start the new year. I'm warning you, 2012 - I am in no. Mood. For this. Let's just call this 2011's parting shot and start fresh tomorrow, mmmkay?