At least according to the (pre)school pictures. Seriously:
Overlook the graininess and the fact that I forgot it was picture day and he’s wearing something dumb and it looks like someone licked his forehead right before the photo was snapped.
The pose. Is that not the most ridiculous way to pose a FOUR-YEAR-OLD for a photo? Lounging, but not quite, against a fake rock? With his hands folded in the prissiest possible way?
And then, beyond the fake rock, there’s the ridiculous fake grassy meadow, and fake rustic picket fence.
People must buy these pictures, because why else would the photographers continue to use the cheeseball poses and the cheeseball backdrops?
I would like to know, who are these people, and what is wrong with them?
Is it ageist of me to decide that I won’t be voting for the 22-year-old college student who is currently running for mayor of Mayberry? I just think I might want a little more experience in a politician. Then again, experience is generally what turns promising candidates into corrupt jerks. I know we all think we know it all as fresh-faced college grads (and that other cities have elected youngsters to the mayor’s office). Still, I think that cultivating relationships and commanding respect are critical for this kind of job, and wonder if someone of this vintage could actually do that.
Great! I am officially both old and prejudiced.
(And I know! Bless my little heart for even planning to vote in a mayoral election for a town of this size.)
I take perverse pride in my unbroken streak of never leaving the grocery store without seeing someone I know. (It’s right there on my About page.) It doesn’t matter which of the two stores in town I go to, or what time of the day or night, or what day of the week, or whether I just dash in for a gallon of milk or spend an hour thumping melons and squeezing lemons and comparing calorie counts.
One of the several drawbacks to this is the repeat meet-up. I see someone, we say hello and maybe chitchat for a minute. Then two minutes later we’re face-to-face again in another aisle. Then we’re in this horrible synchronous shopping mode where we see each other over and over in every single aisle. Awkward!
What do you do in these situations, or what would you do if you didn’t live somewhere so terribly cold and anonymous?
Have we ever talked about dream jobs? What is yours, assuming salary, education, background, location, etc. are no object? Mine is translator of French novels.
1. Good news follow-up from my last post: Both children are at school today. All day (if my phone rings I am not going to answer it). I had a celebratory egg sandwich from Starbucks.
2. Bad news follow-up from my last post: Day 11 of the migraine. Have tried three potent drugs (one of which was delivered by jab where the sun don’t shine) which didn’t work and am now on a course of steroids. And yes I do feel just! a bit! hyper!
3. Apropos of nothing follow-up from my honesty post: Because of #7, if you use pseudonyms for your children on your blog, I am deadly curious to know their real names. Not for any nefarious reason, though.
4. Not a follow-up, but a prelude: If you consider your blog “small”–in readership, reach, presence or absence on PR radar screens, however you want to define it; and if you think you might be going to BlogHer next summer (in New York City, August 6-7), would you raise your hand? In the comments or by email, mayberrymom2006 at yahoo.
Let’s say, hypothetically, that you have one sick child and one healthy child. The sick child is firmly parked on the couch in his/her jammies and feels lousy. The healthy child needs to be taken to school.
If you lived in a super-safe neighborhood; and if the doors were locked; and if you had a really loud, annoying dog; and if the round-trip school drop-off would take 10 minutes or less; and if the sick child could be trusted 100% to remain on the couch no matter what;
would you leave the sick child home alone while you took the healthy one to school?
Even before Julie posted about the Balloon Boy debacle, I’d been thinking about obedience. Especially at bedtime, I go into Full Drill Sergeant Mom Mode. I bark orders and cannot tolerate anything short of instant acquiescence.
And I hate that. I hate the atmosphere that it creates. And I hate the thought that I am scaring my children into submission. Because not to be melodramatic, but isn’t this how holocausts and genocide begin? With blind obedience? With compliance motivated by fear? From what I’ve read about the Heene family, it sure sounds like little Falcon had reason to dread his father’s wrath.
So no, I don’t want to be that kind of parent. Nor do I think I am. I do still want my kids to listen, to follow rules, to be courteous to me and to others. I also want them to be independent in thought and in deed. Sometimes it’s hard to see where the boundary is. (Stop moving, boundary.)
A week or so ago, Jo was whining about doing her homework. It wasn’t due the next day so she didn’t really have to do it right then and there. But her attitude was killing me. I insisted that she complete the assignment. Then I told her that if she had asked politely whether she could do her assignment another time, I would have agreed.
When it’s not, sayjustforexample, bedtime, I explain to my children that when their dad and I make (and enforce) rules, we aren’t in fact trying to antagonize our children. We are trying to keep them safe and healthy. We are trying to help them be respectful and respected. We are trying to help them do their best, no matter who is, or isn’t, watching.
Come back in about 20 years to find out how we did.
I hand you a stack of 17 envelopes. Sixteen of them contain a fat check, enough to make you very happy and comfortable. The 17th envelope holds proof of complete financial ruin.
Do you open an envelope?
I show you a tray of 17 crystal flutes. Sixteen of them are filled with the finest, most delicious Champagne you’ll ever taste. The 17th contains a deadly poison.
Do you take a glass?
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You can’t make good decisions without information.
Too much information makes it painfully impossible, or impossibly painful, to make a decision.
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There is no black or white. There are only shades of gray, and they go on for so long I could never reach the end.
