Hormonally-Charged Little People

So, over the past few weeks I’ve been a bit perplexed by a certain situation. I have a particular student–we’ll call him Bob to protect the socially-challenged. Bob is very tall for a twelve-year-old, an average student, and his behavior used to be right in line with the typical boy. Yes, he believes that knocking down his friends and laughing when someone makes a mistake will earn him the Gold Medal for Super Personality. He’s in my homeroom English class and also my afternoon history class.

In the past few weeks or so, Bob has gone from being a normal boy, to a spaz. He blurts out whatever is on his mind at the time.

Me: “Who can name the causes of the Great Depression?”
Bob: “I have to blow my nose.”
Me: (ignoring Bob) “Anyone?”
Bob: (laughs hysterically and gets a tissue. Tries to shoot the tissue into the wastebasket and fails miserably.)

For the longest time, I questioned many different possibilities. Was Bob just being a goof-off? :loser: Why was he so different from first period until fourth? Did aliens snatch his brain and eat it? (Always a possibility, with middle-schoolers)

Then, my Inspector Gadget mind went to work. I suddenly discovered that Bob was blowing his nose a LOT. Now, yes, it is cold season. But the boy was using enough Kleenex that I wondered if his sinuses were, in fact, inhabited by the aforementioned aliens.

Clue #2: Bob would walk across the room to the trash can furthest from his desk, to throw the used tissue away. He would hover over the trash can and blow his nose yet AGAIN.

Hmmm….

So yesterday, I watched him and I saw his face get the goofiest grin while he blew his nose at least three times. Bob found a girl that he likes. And her chair happens to be right by the trashcan.

As you can imagine, she is falling all over herself in love with Snot Boy. Because, after all, what is more romantic than having a boy blow his nose right next to your chair? Repeatedly?

Poor girl.

A quick funny

I was busy answering e-mail while the kidlets were playing upstairs. Every now and again I’d hear a piercing scream, followed by, “Don’t take my toy!” but when no blood was involved, I didn’t worry.

Then suddenly, I realized it had been silent. Any mother who has toddlers knows that silence is more deadly than screams and bloodshed. Because they’re UP TO SOMETHING.

I ran from the office and noticed that both bedroom doors were closed. Bad. This is very bad.

I open my son’s bedroom door. Nothing. He’s not there.

I hear the sound of giggles coming from my daughter’s room. I throw open her door and find my son wearing a blanket on his head like an Arabian sheikh, my daughter holding a similar blanket.

Him: “Hi, Mom! We’re just playing with ourselves.”

Oh, Lord.

Daily Deep Thought #6

I can still recall old Mister Barnslow getting out every morning and nailing a fresh load of tadpoles to the old board of his. Then he’d spin it round and round, like a wheel of fortune, and no matter where it stopped he’d yell out, “Tadpoles! Tadpoles is a winner!” We all thought he was crazy. But then we had some growing up to do.

Daily Deep Thought #1

Dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, which I guess is why several of us died of tuberculosis.

Star Wars and Not Enough Conflict

To George Lucas:

Georgie, dear, stop trying to write romance. You don’t get it. True romance means conflict, fun dialogue, and heroes and heroines who are feisty. They don’t go mooning over each other–”You’re so beautiful.”
“Only because I’m in love with you.”
Gag me with a blender.

True romance involves real life. You were dead-on with Han Solo and Leia. “I love you.”
“I know.”
See, now that’s funny and believable. That’s real. Episodes II and III weren’t real. They were forced. I would love to get my hands on your scripts and rewrite them. Anakin Skywalker would NOT be running to embrace his 9-months-pregnant wife when she goes across a galaxy to see him. He’d be demanding, “What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? What if you’d gone into labor?” Then he’d have hugged her, etc. etc.

And the whole hair-brushing scene where he’s mooning and fawning over her beauty? :blahblah: Come on. Any man with a brain cell would have grinning and telling her to come and see his big light saber.

George, George, George. You just don’t get it, do you?

Aside from the romance, the rest of the movie was great and I enjoyed it. :starwars:

As for me, I hit a screeching halt on my book yesterday. Not enough conflict. Is there a little conflict shop where I could go pick some up? Must work on the synopsis today and figure this out. I only wrote three pages yesterday. :loser:

Swimming Head First

About two summers ago, we took our son to the beach. The house where we stayed for a family reunion had a swimming pool as well, and the kids enjoyed getting into the water daily. My son had other ideas.

Why on earth anyone would want to get inside this freezing wet stuff was completely beyond him. At sixteen months old, he was perfectly content to splash water inside a bucket…on dry ground.

Then we found a compromise that suited everyone. My sister-in-law had a giant inflatable chair. My husband and I could enjoy the pool, holding onto the chair where my son could glide on the surface of the water like a king commanding his servants. To make it even safer, I had dressed him in a full body bathing suit equipped with floatation devices completely around his chest.

My husband affectionately nicknamed him “Baby Jihad.” The kid looked like a suicide bomber, ready to go off at any moment. But he allowed us to take him around the pool. Then, as fate would have it, he decided he’d had enough. Before I could grab him, he hurled himself off the opposite side of the chair. I learned that instead of keeping him upright like a bobbing cork, the Baby Jihad set-up tended to spin. His face would go in the water, then he’d spin upright, then down again. I rescued him in approximately three seconds, so there was no harm done, really, but he chose to blame my husband for the entire ordeal (even though my hubby was at the opposite end of the pool). Our son shot him nasty looks for the remainder of the trip, as though the entire thing were my husband’s fault.

This year, it’s my daughter’s turn to wear the outfit when we visit relatives over the Fourth of July. Her personality is vastly different from my son’s. Instead of being finicky about the water, I anticipate her fourteen-month-old self will do cannonballs into the pool. The child has no fear.

At what age did your kids learn to swim?

P.S.–5 pages last night. Since I’m back to work this week, I’m pretty pleased with that.

What to get your child’s teacher for a gift

My book cleared customs and should be delivered to Mills & Boon today. Yay! Now the real waiting begins.

Yesterday my house became a walking spice cabinet. My children discovered the wonders of those little glass jars that have cool stuff inside them. If you shake some of them, they make rattling noises. I saw no harm in it, as it kept them out of my way while I was making dinner, but I later found Italian spices on the end table, onion flakes on the floor, and my daughter was busily shaking a jar of red hots while jamming to 80’s music.

I’m still finding spices in various and sundry places.

Last night I managed to get another 8 pages done, which brings me up to page 148. Today won’t be all that good because I’m working and this is the last week of school. One of the things that is guaranteed to drive me over the edge is when I’m making those horrible phone calls to parents telling them, “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Little Johnny did not pass history for the year. He’ll have to attend summer school.”

The common parental response? “Is there any extra credit he can do?”

Some day, I swear, I’m going to lose it and just go off like a cannon. I’m going to scream like a banshee, “NO! There’s not any extra credit! He hasn’t done the last seven homework assignments and you want to know if there’s any extra credit???? Gaaaaaaahhhhhh!!!!” :confused2: ::Michelle breaks into hysterical laughter::

Also, this is an insider tip for all you parents who are lovely enough to get your child’s teacher a gift at the end of the year. First of all, we really do appreciate it. But food, chocolate, or gift certificates are the best of all gifts because they don’t require storage. Candles and knick knacks and teacher goodies are nice, but after a while, you just don’t have room for them. We’re pretty easy to please. If you want to wrap two homemade oatmeal cookies in some Saran Wrap and slap a bow on it, that’s just fine by us. There’s no need to spend a lot of money, really. But do know that teachers love little thank you gifts. Godiva is good, too.

Landscaping Lessons the Hard Way

When my husband and I first bought our house, we wanted one major thing–a yard for future kids to run around in. The problem was, although the backyard was large, it was doughnut-shaped with a ton of trees in the middle. For the first three years, we lived with it, tried to plant azaleas or tulips to make it pretty. But it always resembled a clump of the ugliest stick trees known to man. You know the kind–the ones that have no branches at all for the first twenty feet; then they have tiny little scrubby branches at the top. Ugly with a capital Ug.

So one day we decided to get rid of them. We called our tree removal specialists (aka Lumberjack Bob) and found that it wasn’t all that expensive to do the job. We removed 17 trees and opened up our yard. It amazes me what the difference became. We now have an airy, open yard with tons of space to put flowerbeds.

I am guilty of planting flowers and shrubs wherever I think they might look good instead of actually reading the tag. My engineer husband is obsessive over the location of the plants–”Honey, the sedum requires full sun, NOT shade. Move it 6.2475 inches to the left.” At which time, I whack him upside the head with the shovel.

No, seriously. He’s teaching me the ins and outs of landscaping. I’ve learned which plants do well in shade, which ones don’t, that spraying Round-up on my tomato plants instead of Bug-B-Gon is a BAD IDEA…you get the picture.

My grandmother is a gardening whiz. Just for your enjoyment, here’s what HER backyard looks like:

The Dreaded Thank You Notes

I am a bad person. I deserve to never get a present for as long as I live. My children both received birthday money from back in FEBRUARY, and I’m only now getting around to writing thank you notes.

What is it about thank you notes that hang over my head like an axe? I should be thrilled to whip out the lovely stationary, inscribe a thoughtful note to the sender and be grateful that they were thinking of us. And all I can think is—”Nooooo! Not more thank you notes! Shoot me now!” :loser:

It would be different if thank you cards could be typed or e-mailed (I think Miss Manners has now passed out cold on the floor). I could whip out those suckers in no time flat. But true thank you cards require good penmanship, nice stationary, and your very best manners. My handwriting is TERRIBLE. My three-year-old’s crayon drawings are nicer. For me to sit down and scrawl something legible requires a lot of time. While I’m pondering the nicest way to say–it was so thoughtful of you to remember us–my one year old is trying to eat the power cords, and my son is finding new ways to climb the kitchen cupboards to get into the hidden candy stash (reserved for days of receiving rejections in the mail or for those PMS days where if your husband dares to mention that the kitchen floor is dirty, he’s gonna have to duck. :rambo:).

But I knocked out seven of those this morning. And tonight we’re going to grill ribs on the BBQ and laze around. . .

The Toy Relocation Program

What is it with toddlers and their possessions? They pick up a toy and carry it with them religiously around the house. Balls, coloring book pages, legos, blocks, magnetic letters, stuffed animals….and inevitably, they end up placing their toys in every freaking room in the house!!

Can you tell, I’m a wee bit stressed about getting the house cleaned? It’s a never-ending process. I pick up one room, go onto another, and while I’m cleaning, the kids relocate more toys to the once-clean room. It’s like an exodus of toys–moving them from one room into the next. :crazyjumping:

I personally think it’s a mark of ownership, like dogs peeing on a tree. The toddler claims every room as his territory by staking out toys and playthings there.

Thought I’d share this, for all you moms. You can probably relate.

The Toddler’s Creed: :blahblah:

If I want it, it is mine.
If I give it to you and change my mind later, it is mine.
If I can take it away from you, it is mine.
If it is mine, it will never belong to anyone else, no matter what.
If we are building something together, all the pieces are mine.
If it looks just like mine, it is mine.
(source unknown)