New Year's More-Solutions

In 2010 I shall:

• Get more sleep.
• Claim more play time.
• Score more points on Guitar Hero.
• Eat more chocolate. (Yes, I said EAT MORE--not less--MORE)
• Laugh more.
• See more movies in the theater. (So.....that would mean at least 4)
• Do more hiking.
• Try more activities. (Such as yoga, zumba, kick boxing, crossfit, belly dancing)
• Read more books.
• Write more words.
• Play more music.
• Spend more time in the sun.

What Are We Thinking? The First of Many Rants

A woman clings to her window seat.
2.5 billion people do not have clean drinking water. (Worldwide, waterborne illness is the leading cause of death among children.)

A nation obsesses over the sex life of a golfer.
An entire continent is ravaged by war, poverty, hunger, and illness.

Hollywood spends millions on an awards ceremony--and keeps creating MORE awards ceremonies. (BTW, where are the awards ceremonies for parents? Teachers? Medical professionals? Social workers?)
$60 will feed, clothe, house, and educate a child in Viet Nam for an entire year.

Mary Pipher writes about how our global cultural can make us more apathetic because the needs seem both so far away and so overwhelmingly huge at the same time. She contrasts this to a community culture, where the needs a person is aware of are both close and usually manageable. She argues that being more aware of more of the world and its needs actually makes us less involved because it's too big and too distant. Our minds and bodies literally do not know how to reconcile the desire to act with the inability to do so; the defense mechanism becomes to shut down, to withdraw, to develop tunnel vision. And so we give more news coverage to an adulterous athlete than we do to genocide.

I do not claim to have any answers. I do know that I am learning to take my global citizenship very seriously. Does it matter that I purchased Christmas presents from Amnesty International this year instead of Target? Does it matter that I recycle? Does it matter that I think more carefully now about where I spend my money and my time? Does it matter what I write? Does it matter what I teach my children? Does it matter that I vote? After all, I am only 1 of 6,000,000,000. It is easy to feel insignificant and thus to act insignificantly. It is easy to feel powerless and thus to act apathetically. Do my choices make any difference? I do not know if they do. But I DO KNOW that if I choose not to think about my global citizenship, then certainly my choices and actions do not make any difference at all.

Or maybe that's not true either. Not thinking about something is a choice in and of itself and has its own consequences--makes its own kind of difference. Maybe what it boils down to is that I can only be at peace with myself if I take my global citizenship seriously. The alternative is no longer acceptable to me.

The Window Seat

She couldn’t remember the last time she had showered. Or eaten. Or slept. 36 hours maybe? 40? 46? She couldn’t do math in her head anymore. She had seen the same Thursday dawn three times now. How is that even possible? Yet it was true. It reminded her of the time she had flown over the North Pole and watched the sun set out of one side of the plane, then walked to the other side of the plane to watch the same sun rise just moments later. She felt the disruption of the space time continuum in her mind and her body. It at once weighed her whole being down and rent her in two. But wait, she had been torn in two already. How many days ago was that? She couldn’t remember. Her brain was too tired to do math. And she didn’t want to remember anyway.

She was hanging by a thread, and yet she was the strongest of the three. He had cocooned himself hours—days?—ago. His every effort was turned toward keeping himself breathing. Nothing else existed for him, really. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. His body was racked with coughing and fever. When his eyes had glazed over so long ago on that other airplane, she knew she was alone.

And the child she carried—the child she carried—tiny. Sick. Weak. Frightened. She had her own look in her eyes; like the man’s eyes, her eyes reflected the deep struggle for survival that was going on internally. Unlike the man though, the look in her eyes was not detached; the look in her eyes engaged everything around her with the desperation of a cornered animal. The woman could see the panic flowing out the child’s eyes. So much fear and confusion spinning at high speed inside her—and no place for it to go, except out her eyes.

The flight had been booked for them last minute. How many hours ago was that? Or was it days? The man had gone back through security to get the cell phone and make the call while the woman and the child sat in the small office awaiting yet another packet of papers that had to be guarded. By the time he made it back through the metal detectors and body checks, she had the packet in hand and had begun counting the hours until she would be at the airport. On the first plane. Back in the United States. On the second plane. On the ground. In the airport. In her house. In her shower. In her bed. Not only did she know how many hours until each of those things—she knew how many minutes. Her countdown had begun. And she kept track of all those arrivals simultaneously. Her brain was like one of those walls displaying a dozen clocks showing the times of all the major cities across the world and across the time zones. She knew she could make it if she kept that math in her head—if she fixed her mind on the multiple countdowns.
But now she couldn’t remember any of the math—not backwards or forwards. She felt like shit. She knew she looked like shit. Her mind couldn’t grasp at anything to keep her going. She was dysphoric. Trapped.

She walked down the tight aisle of the plane carrying the child. The man had taken his assigned seat—a middle seat toward the front of the plane—several minutes ago. Her seat—and the child’s—were further back. A middle and an aisle.

She saw the stranger sitting by the window seat. She was dressed to the nines. Her hair and make-up were perfect. How was that even possible at this god forsaken hour? She remembers wondering why the stranger wasn’t in first class. Her jewelry, her carry-on, her demeanor all screamed, “I belong in first class.” The woman had a moment of self consciousness over her bedraggled appearance as she asked the stranger to switch seats with the man.

“Where is he seated?” the stranger asked.

“A few rows up.”

“Window seat?”

“No. Middle.”

The stranger pursed her lips and said that she wouldn’t sit in a middle seat. She wanted a window seat and she was going to keep it.

The woman began her story, telling the stranger why the seat change was so desperately needed.

The stranger shook her head vehemently “I am NOT giving up my window seat.”

Are you fucking kidding me? the woman thought (and now wishes she had said). But she had no energy for this. She needed to sit.

She placed the child in the middle seat, buckled the seatbelt around her and covered her with the green blanket. She then placed herself in that confined little space of an aisle seat and tried desperately to dig deeply enough in herself to find a way to make it through this last stretch. The next—how many hours was it? How many minutes? The numbers spun meaninglessly in her head.

The stranger started rambling about some self-centered nonsense. Fortunately, the woman’s mind was already so unfocused she had no trouble blocking the stranger out. The child, who hadn’t slept since—when was it? Tuesday, maybe? But Tuesday there or here? And what is it now here? There? Nevermind—the child began throwing herself backwards against the seat. She threw the blanket off. Then her shoes. Then her socks. The woman understood the child was releasing her agony the only way she knew how.

“Can’t you make her stop that?” the stranger said accusingly.

“No.”

replied the woman as she placed her hand gently behind the child’s head to protect her from the impact of her own fury. The other hand, she placed on the child’s chest to try to slow the rhythm of the child’s body. The child grabbed the woman’s arm, pinching and scratching.

The stranger looked on in disgust. Then continued her rambling drivel.

The child began screaming.

The stranger’s eyes widened.

The woman asked the stranger if she wanted to trade seats with the man now. The stranger tilted her head back slightly and replied, “I will not give up my window seat. She’ll eventually stop crying and fall asleep.” Then she pulled some stupid fashion magazine out of her carryon and positioned herself facing the window.

“What a selfish bitch” the woman thought. “What a clueless, evil, selfish bitch.”

There was nothing left but to endure.

How far was it from Newark to Salt Lake City? How many hours? How many minutes? She tried to find that graph in her head, but she couldn’t. And then she wondered if she were going to Dallas to spend the night there. Wait. Why did she think she was going to Texas? She wasn’t. Was she? She was pretty sure she wasn’t. But she didn’t really care anymore anyway. All she knew was that when this plane landed she was getting off and sleeping somewhere for a long time. She didn’t care where.

The child continued screaming and throwing her body. The woman silently kept her hands on the child. One behind her head. One on her chest. She didn’t even feel the child’s scratches and pinches anymore. She just let her body move in rhythm to the child’s. To protect her. To bond with her. She smiled as the child screamed and the bitch by the window nervously fidgeted around with her ridiculous fashion magazine.

As the plane started moving, the woman looked out the window. In the line of her sight were her own dirty scratched up arm, the screaming and terrified child, the self centered bitch, the ridiculous fashion magazine, the window pane (which reminded her of another window pane—the one she was looking through the moment she blew apart), the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and the sun rising…..again.

Why You Should Give Me Something for Nothing

Dear Employer,

I am writing to you because I am concerned about my upcoming pay check. I'm worried that it's not going to be as much as I need it to be. I want you to know that earning a good pay check is really, really important to me. Advancing to the next level of this job is also very important to me. In fact if I don't advance right away and if I don't get a really good pay check, I run the risk of losing my government aid and of not being able to move on to my next employer which I really really want to do soon. You see, my whole future, actually, depends on this upcoming pay check.

Now, I know that I haven't been showing up for work very often lately, but I've been really really busy. And I did tell you at the beginning of the job that I had a lot on my plate and might not be able to be here very much. Surely you can understand that right? I'm just too busy to be here every day.

I also know that I'm behind in the projects you've given me and that I totally bailed on my group. So I'm hoping you'll let me start over with a new project all on my own--one where I don't have to bother working with other people, because that's really really hard you know--to coordinate schedules and to get things done. So anyway, I've cleared my schedule for this weekend so I can focus on this job. I swear I can catch up with everything you wanted me to do. And if there's any chance you could give me an extra project on top of it to do this weekend--you know, something to help me earn a little extra money--that would be great too.

And by the way, this is the best job ever. And you're the best employer ever. I've gotten so much out of working here. At first, I really didn't want to take this job. In fact, I've been fired from this exact same job before. But this time it's different. You really helped me get a lot out of it. Thanks for being so awesome. I know you can help me out here.

Oh, and I was only late about half the time. And once I got all my technical issues figured out, I was finally able to send in the work I'd been doing. I don't know why my computer crashed 7 times in the last little while. Oh well. I'll just make up for everything this weekend, ok?

Thanks in advance for the help I know you're going to give me. You're really swell.

Sincerely,

Your Employee

Reflections on India, One Year Later, Friday

I hear you quietly opening your door. You may be ready to be done napping; but I am not. I hear you tromp down the stairs, and I pretend to still be asleep on the couch because I know what you will do next if you think I’m asleep. I feel your nose pressed against my face as you whisper “cuddle with you now Mommy?” I look sideways at you through barely open eyes, and I see you smiling expectant face. I scoot over, pat the side of the couch with my hand and open my arm for you to climb in. You lay your head on my chest and wrap your fingers tightly around one of mine. I can feel your steady breathing as I hold your tiny body. And I begin to remember.

I remember when Father Francis said “Oh….Ovi is coming now.” We had been talking about the election in the United States, how hopeful he was that our new president would do more in regards to the nuclear issue between India and Pakistan. He stopped very abruptly, because he heard you coming ceremoniously down the stairs.

I caught my breath. My tears started. I had waited so long to meet you. I had been “talking to you” for 18 months now—even before I knew your name or how old you were—and finally, finally you would hear my voice, and I would hear yours.

You came into that small office with your own little entourage. You were so beautiful. You were wearing the green dress I had sent you as soon as I was allowed to send presents. You had a bindi on your forehead in honor of the special occasion. You had little blue corduroy shoes on. You were carrying the photo album I had sent you, and a little orange ball—presumably a favorite toy you were taking with you from the orphanage—something for you to retain from the early part of your life.

I could see you were scared. Father Francis told you to come and see your parents. You threw the ball and the photo album and ran crying into a corner. Jen—our wonderful social worker—had told us to expect this. I was prepared for it. And I understood it. So many times I had imagined how different this all was from your perspective than it was from mine. For you, we were ripping you away from everything you’d ever known; for me, I was birthing a new daughter in my heart.

Your caretakers went quickly to you and spoke softly to you, wiping your tears away. Father Francis told us it was best to just take you and go—the faster the separation, the better. Minal handed you to your new daddy. Someone handed me your ball and your photo album. The women cried and kissed you, then clasped my hands and told me that you ate bananas with a spoon. That you didn’t like milk. That you were a good sleeper. That you liked your hair in pigtails. That you were used to having a nap around 10:30 in the morning. That you were a sweet girl. I thanked them for loving you and taking care of you. They thanked me for loving you and coming to get you.

I was surprised by how quickly you settled down in the car. Less than five minutes and you had stopped crying. Daddy played a “hide the ball” game with you. You even almost smiled once. I saw it starting to form on your lips, and I saw you quickly pull it back. It would be a couple days still before you allowed yourself to smile with us.

As we walked through the streets—a beautiful part of India—making photocopies, getting your visa picture taken, buying groceries, you sat still and quiet in Daddy’s arms. I remember the brave look on your face. I remember how wobbly you seemed; like you didn’t know how to lean in to him and be held. I carried you for awhile on those streets. You weighed next to nothing. And as I had observed, you did not know how to lean in and be held—not like now.

Now, you are cuddled up on the couch in my arms, holding on tight with both of your still tiny hands as you smile and hum softly. And I begin to remember.

Reflections on India, One Year Later, Wednesday and the Thursday that Wasn't

Travelling for 27 hours really sucks. I do not recommend it.

Reflections on India, One Year Later, Tuesday

The first blog entry I ever wrote was posted on a family website on the first Tuesday of November 2008:

After 18 months of waiting and planning, we are 9 hours away
It's hard to believe, and still feels surreal. After 18 months of waiting and dreaming, we finally get on a plane and go to India in the morning. We will be picking Ovi up in about 48 hours! Obviously, since I'm posting at 1:00 am, I am too excited and wound up to sleep. I keep imagining what it will be like to meet her and get to know her. I've imagined that moment 1000 times, and soon it will be real.

Josh, Chris, and Laura--we love you and will miss you. Have fun and take care of each other! Check back soon to see some pictures.

As I think back on that Tuesday in November 2008, I remember very little about a day in which I did so much. I know I woke up around 6:00 am and didn’t go to sleep until around 2:00 am.

I must have taught an online chat at 1:00 in the afternoon, because that’s what I’ve done every Tuesday for more semesters than I can count.

I know I voted Democrat in a Republican state; and I remember that my polling location was screwed up, and I was mad because I didn’t have time to drive somewhere else, but did it anyway. I remember watching election news starting around 10:00 pm.

I’m certain that I must have checked and rechecked the carry-on devoted entirely to 10 lbs of paperwork. I’m also certain that I must have checked and rechecked the passports, the India hotel addresses and contact phone numbers.

Surely I read and reread the pages of notes for the other 3 kids’ schedules. Surely I called the three different people taking care of our kids and went over everything one last time. Surely I made sure the insurance card and medical treatment consent letter were in a place everyone could find should someone need to go to the doctor or hospital while we’re gone.

Likely I packed my own suitcase, a suitcase for Ovi, and suitcases for all 3 other kids on that day. I don’t remember doing that, but I know myself, and I know I never pack until the very last minute.

I know I took the time to have a nice family dinner and also to tuck each of the other 3 in and spend some time talking with them and hugging them.

I know I never sat down, never took a breath, never made it through the whole to-do list.

I really have very little sequential memory of that day, and yet the day is one of the most memorable of my life. It is images, feelings, essences I remember. I still feel the weight and the magnitude of that day. It was the pivot between so many endings and so many beginnings. I can feel it in my heart and on my shoulders today as acutely as I did a year ago. I had then and have still a sort of hyper awareness of something tangibly transcendent. Something I can hear and see and feel and even taste, but cannot give form to. Cannot give shape to. Cannot give voice to.
I was gravid with it. And I remember every detail.

Among the Labels and Comments that Really Annoy Me

We say: working mother
We do not say: working father

We say: stay at home mom
We do not stay: stay at home dad

We say: housewife
We do not say: househusband

We say: tomboy
We do not say: tomgirl? tinagirl? ???

They say to her: Do you work outside the home?
They do not say to him: Do you work outside the home?

They say to her: I don't know how you do it--having all those kids AND a job.
They do not say to him: I don't know how you do it--having all those kids AND a job.

They say to her: How do you keep up with the house and the kids and your work?
They do not say to him: How do you keep up with the house and the kid and your work?

They say to her: Your house is a mess. Maybe you should re-evaluate your priorities.
They do not say to him: Your house is a mess. Maybe you should re-evaluate your priorities.

They say to her: You could always put your career on hold until the kids grow up. Work will always be there; your children won't.
They do not say to him: You could always put your career on hold until the kids grow up. Work will always be there; your children won't.

They say to him: How wonderful that you do some of the housework!
They do not say to her: How wonderful that you do some of the housework!

They say to him: That is so great that you help your wife with the cooking.
They do not say to her: That is so great that you help your husband with the cooking.

They say to him: It's so great that you spend so much time with your kids.
They do not say to her: It's so great that you spend so much time with your kids.

They say to him: Your wife is going out of town? You're going to need some help. You can't be expected to take care of everything at home all alone when you're so busy with work.
They do not say to her: Your husband is going out of town? You're going to need some help. You can't be expected to take care of everything at home all alone when you're so busy with work.

She says: Mom, I'm tired of everyone thinking I'm a boy because I'm wearing an army costume.
She says: Girls are in the army too honey; people just forget that.

She says: I don't want to be called a tomboy anymore. I'm a girl.
She says: I know honey. You are a girl, not a tomboy.

She says: Why does everyone call me a tomboy just cuz I like playing outside and playing wild and stuff?
She says: They just don't know what they're talking about. Girls can like playing outside and being wild and stuff.

She says: Why did they give me this stupid little teddy bear in my happy meal instead of a bakugan like they gave the boys?
She says: We can trade it. You can have the toy that you want.

She says: Why can't girls do all the things that boys do and still be called girls?
She says: They can. You do what you want. You be what you want. Don't listen to what anyone says about you, except YOU.

She says: But that's really hard sometimes mom. Sometimes everyone hurts my feelings about it and makes me feel bad about myself.
She says: I know, honey. I know.

Like Airplanes in the Clouds

Laura: Mom, will you tell me what the F word is? Nobody else will.

Chris: Laura, you do NOT want to know what the F word is. When I learned it, it floated around in my head like an airplane in the clouds with no place to land for weeks and weeks and weeks. It just got stuck there. I couldn't get it out.

While my two middle children debate the advantages and disadvantages of knowing the F word, I consider the following:

1. Like Chris, Laura would have the word stuck in her head.
2. Unlike Chris, Laura would have no problem dropping the F bomb from that airplane in the clouds.
3. I personally am ready for that barrage from her.
4. I personally am NOT ready for the counterstrike which would be a barrage of phone calls from other 1st grade parents.
5. And I wonder if they suspend 1st graders for launching the F bomb at teachers?
6. And just how likely is my child to launch the F bomb at her P.E. teacher with whom she is already "having conflict" and to whom she gives "significant attitude" and with whom she "refuses to cooperate"?

Mom: You're gonna have to wait until your older to learn the F word. Sorry honey.

The Power of Naan

Mindlessly, I unload my groceries out of my cart onto the checkstand. I'm in a mental zone that blocks out all my immediate surroundings. Though if you were to ask me now, I couldn't tell you what it was I was thinking about so intently there in the checkout line. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the checker--someone I've never seen before here in this grocery store I frequent--pause, holding up one of the items I'm purchasing and studying it. He looks at me eagerly and says in very broken English "You are buying Indian bread. I didn't know it was here." I smile at him and really look at him for the first time. He is probably in his early sixties, and is clearly from India.

"You are from India?" I ask, noticing that his name tag has initials on it instead of a full name.

"Yes, yes. My wife works here too. We just start. We live with my daughter who is a nurse."

"My youngest daughter is from India."

"Oh how wonderful," he says. "What part?"

"Mumbai."

"I am from Mumbai!"

"We were in Mumbai around this time last year to pick her up."

"Where did you go to get her?"

"Shejar Chhaya. Do you know it."

"An orphanage. Oh thanks to you. Many thanks to you. You saved her life."

"I don't know about that. But we are so glad to have her with us."

"A little girl in an orphanage. You save her life. Really. How old is she?"

"She'll be 5 next week."

He looks down at the items he's been scanning. "All this birthday stuff is for her then."

"Yes. We're having a big party."

"It will be her first birthday party, no doubt. See my wife down there on number 6. You must bring your daughter in for us to meet her."

"I will. I will."

I take out my cell phone and scroll through the pictures, showing him every picture of my kids. "Her name is Ovi. I'll bring her in. Do you speak Marathi or Hindi?"

"Oh, I speak Marathi, Hindi, and Gujarat."

"You'll be able to talk to her then, when I bring her in. She speaks Marathi. She still uses it some."

He says something to me in Marathi, which I recognize as a friendly greeting from the several months I spent studying the language a year or so ago.

I repeat the phrase back to him, and we proceed to have a refreshher lesson in Marathi.

Our conversation continues. Sometimes I have to lean in closer and ask him to repeat what he has said. We talk about Mumbai. He tells me about his daughter. He asks about my children. He tells me his days off are Monday and Friday and that he hopes I will bring Ovi in to meet him. I ask him to remind me how to say "I'm happy to meet you" in Marathi. It takes 3 repetitions before I say it correctly. By now, we both have tears in our eyes. I extend my hand; he shakes it firmly. In broken Marathi I say "Hello. How are you. I'm happy to meet you." He replies with Marathi words I don't recognize, but his face, his eyes, and the way he grips my hand speak clearly enough.

Adoption Day Photos

Legal Documents

Conversation with my social worker—October 2008

“When you buy her plane ticket, be sure to put it under the name Ovi Ovi. The plane ticket must match the passport.”

“Wait. What? Ovi Ovi? I’ve been meaning to ask you for months about her last name, but just keep forgetting.”

“She doesn’t have a last name. She’s just Ovi.”

“That makes me cry.”

“I know.”

Conversation with my lawyer—October 2009

“Make sure to bring the original documents you got in India, including the certificate of abandonment.”
“Right. No problem.”

Conversation with myself—as I sit and stare at the certificate of abandonment

This certifies abandonment. I have a document that certifies abandonment. Abandonment is a legal status. And it needs a certificate. And I have to keep track of this certificate. Bring it to hearings. Use it to get other legal documents.

That makes me cry.

Grading Lessons

1. Don't leave your bag of chocolate pretzels too close to the "heat exhaust vent" of your laptop.
2. When you get up to get another water bottle, remember to take headphones off FIRST.
3. The MyPage email sent folder does not like mp3 files very much.
4. I say "ummmm" far too often.
5. If you remember something important while grading, let it distract you, then swear about it, you have to start a whole new audio track.
6. Resist the temptation to blog about grading in order to avoid grading.

If the Brown House Blows Up, the Two Next to it Will Also Blow Up, but You Should Be Fine

Last night, around 9:30 pm I began witnessing my circle filling up with Questar trucks, vans, and tractors. Yes, giant tractors. Then I witnessed my neighbors from 3 of the 6 houses on our circle, including the house directly next to us, evacuating. Then, the yellow tape went up across their yards and houses. Then the orange barricades in the yard of the brown house (2 away from us). Then the spotlights come on. Then there are men digging a gigantic hole (at least 5 feet deep) in the neighbor's yard.

This can't be good.

My husband goes over to see what's going on, and apparently there is a main gas line leak somewhere in the neighbor's front yard. Seeing as 3 houses were evacuated, my husband asks if we should leave too. "We have 4 kids," he tells the Questar guy. The Questar guy reassures him that our house and our persons are not in danger.

The spotlights, trucks, tools, men, and noise continue until after midnight. Then again this morning, the circle is filled up with vehicles and people, but they appear to be filling in the giant hole, so all must be well.

I also see my neighbor's returning, so I go to talk to them and find out more information.

The woman from the brown house tells me about how she smelled gas in her front yard and made a phone call. When Questar arrived, they immediately evacuated that house and the two immediately next to it. And I mean IMMEDIATELY. He told them (which I don't think was clearly relayed to my husband when he spoke to the Questar guys): "If your house blows up, the 2 immediately next door will also blow up. You all need to leave now."

Hmmmm. So if 3 houses on our circle were to blow up in the middle of the night--including the one right next to us--we'd be fine? Really? We'd be fine? Seems to me that half the circle blowing up would have some impact on the remaining half of the circle. I'm just sayin.

Long Weekend Math

10 miles walked
+
83 pages read
+
47 hours slept
+
1 Hearts tournament won
+
3 parties attended
+
1 bottle of wine consumed
+
108 Pictures uploaded
+
1 pet acquired
+
½ mile run
=
1 teacher re-energized

A Snake in the Road

Two boys on their bikes
A woman in her yard
A snake in a box
A dresser in a truck
A bruise on my face
Dinner company on their way
Woman crying on the couch
Ice cubes in a bag
A boy in the kitchen
Potato peeler in his hand
Funeral potatoes in the oven
Dinner ready just in time
Five lessons learned on Sunday:

Dressers are too damn heavy
Facial injuries hurt like hell
My son cooks pretty well
Talking to strangers has consequences
My life's a Seinfeld episode

Guess What my Boys Brought Home

Yep, you guessed it.

They were riding their bikes through the neighborhood when they spotted the reptile slithering across the road. Ignoring their mother's advice about "don't talk to strangers" they asked a woman in a nearby yard if she had a box they could put the snake in to carry it home.

At first I didn't believe them when they came running into the circle (having left their bikes at woman with the box's house) screaming, "Guess what! Guess what! We caught a snake!"

Of course, you know the next question: "Can we keep him mom, pleeeeeeeeeease?"

Fortunately, our neighbor works at a reptile store and is a snake expert.

He told us all about how this snake will grow to be 3 feet long, how it will eat a gold fish a day, and how its eyes will turn blue when it is about to shed its skin. He even had a spare cage in his garage that was not being used by any of his 10 snakes.

So now we have a snake named Frank living in Christopher's room. If the snake ever escapes its cage, I will need a place to live until it is found and returned to its cage.

Things That Happened This Morning While I Was Conducting A Live Audio Chat With Online Students

1. I spilled water on my lap.
2. I grabbed a flying bug with my hand and squished it (a very Karate Kid kind of move)
3. I used the end of a pen to squish a crawling bug who was making a home on my roles.
4. I got an email informing me that my proposal to CCCC has been ACCEPTED!

btw, the good news from CCCC made me forget my concern about bug guts being everywhere and my worry about where the hell all these bugs were coming from and why they were in my office.

Looking on the Bright Side

Oven

• It didn't blow up.
• It didn't catch fire.
• I haven't had to cook anything for anyone in 10 days and counting.
• Cereal, sandwiches, and popcorn are highly nutritious foods.

Furnace

• We didn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning. btw, if you have a carbon monoxide detector that is not "professional grade" (or something like that), it will not make a sound until CO levels are at a deadly level in your house. So your family could be slowly being poisoned with a CO level of 60 and the damn detector won't let you know about it until the level reaches 75 and you have 5 minutes left to live.
• New furnace is much more efficient and environmentally friendly.

Dishwasher

• No more water on the floor
• No more gunk on the dishes
• No more giant stacks of dirty dishes in the sink waiting for SOMEONE ELSE to hand wash them
• No more need to use paper plates and cups and clutter up the environment because NOBODY wants to do the dishes.

Dryer

• Dryer now takes one cycle instead of three to dry a load. This means that the 16 loads of laundry we do each week can get done three times faster. The dryer only has to run 16 times a week instead of 48 times. Look at all the time I'm saving!

Items Cleaned Out of my Car Today in Preparation for Travel

• 3 tennis rackets
• 2 tennis balls
• 1 basketball
• 1 baseball
• 1 soccer ball
• 1 duck feather
• 1 google map to Red Butte Gardens
• 1 google map to a restaurant which no longer exists
• 17 2nd grade assignments
• 1 set of instructions for making a bee trap
• 5 random computer wires (not cables--actual innards of a hard drive)
• 2 combs
• 1 hair tie
• 1 doll's dress
• 1 First Holy Communion certificate
• 3 pennies
• 10 rupees
• 1 laniard
• 2 ace bandages
• 1 cd bearing x-ray images of Ovi's collarbone
• 2 stuffed animals
• 4 books
• 2 Canyons School District brochures (highly disorganized district so far, btw)
• 4 dirty socks
• 1 dirty school uniform shirt
• 1 pair of really dirty shorts
• 1/2 plastic egg
• 1 superball
• 1 flashlight key chain
• 1 birthday card
• 1 bunny shaped eraser
• 4 pencils
• 1 fairy princess magic wand
• 1 fairy princess crown
• 1 pink Eiffel Tower
• 1 blue plastic ladder
• 1 large VBS sign
• 3 puzzle pieces
• 1 book authored by one of my children
• 1 Shakespearan Festival sweatshirt of unknown ownership (I guess it's mine now)
• 1 hackey sack
• 1 carabiner
• 1 canvas Pearson bag
• 3 water bottles
• 1 Pokemon hat
• 1 U of U alumni letter sent to me at my parents' house
• 1 crocodile made out of sandpaper
• 1 crocodile made out of a clothespin
• 1 princess sticker
• 1 rubber lizard
• 3 regular bracelets
• 105 jog-a-thon bracelets
• 1 gigantic bag of garbage

All of which, now resides on my living room floor.

Thought for the Day

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Top Ten Things You Don't Want To Hear Your Kids Say (all of which, of course, I have heard my kids say)

10. It wasn’t me mom, I’m just sitting back here picking my nose.

9. I found a bunch of Ovi’s hair and a pair of scissors behind the recliner.

8. I didn’t think the fence would tip over when I tackled it.

7. So how does the sperm get to the egg? Does the mom drink it?

6. Whateeeever!

5. Do you think Chris has mud in his wiener from playing in the sandbox?

4. I’ve been using a screwdriver to drill a hole in the wall from my closet to your room.

3. I’ve been in the bathroom for a whole hour, and I still have a traffic jam!

2. I swear it wasn’t my fault, but……

1. Guess what! I got my nose stuck in Yon-Paul’s leaf blower tonight.

Why Does My Computer Get Constipated?

Why is it that I can turn my computer on in the morning and all is well; then I turn it on in the afternoon and it is constipated? I can hear it digesting its megabytes very rapidly, but it's output is painfully slow. I need to figure out how to get more cyber-fiber into my computer's diet so that it doesn't get all backed up and cause clogging issues.

Not a Good Sign

It is not a good sign when you are recognized by the doctors and nurses at the fracture clinic. When I took Ovi in today to get her collarbone x-rayed (she fractured it Saturday at the Draper Rodeo--and no, I did not enter my 22 lb child in mutton busters!), both the x-ray tech and the doctor recognized me. "Yes", I say, "I've been here before. My other daughter has been here for a broken foot (dropping down from the monkey bars), and one of my sons has also been here for a broken foot. He put on a Superman cape and thought he could fly."

I am also recognized by doctors and nurses at the After Hours InstaCare on 1300 E. and 7800 S. I highly recommend this clinic, by the way. I have never waited more than 15 minutes and the staff is very friendly. And if your daughter happens to hit your son in the head with a bucket, they are very good with stitches and kids.

The New Five Word Sentence

For several months Ovi has been saying practical 3 word sentences such as "I want cereal", "Mama go byb-bye", and "Ovi go ni-night". Then, about a week ago she surprised me with a very clear 5 word sentence: "I need help getting socks." It was the clearest and longest sentence in English that she had spoken thus far. Then, for a week, no more 5 word sentences. This afternoon, she uttered her second very clear 5 word sentences.

First, I will recount the events leading up to the noteworthy event:

Chris: Mom, can I flood the sandbox and play in the mud?
Mom: Sure, just don't leave the hose on too long. It doesn't take much water to fill it.
Chris: Thanks mom!
Laura: Can I go out too?
Mom: Sure.
Laura: Do I have to wear a shirt? Or can I just wear shorts like Chris?
Mom: Just shorts is fine.
Laura: Thanks mom!

About 30 minutes passes.

Ovi: I want cereal.
Mom: Ok.

At this point, Ovi is sitting at the table in the kitchen eating cereal and Laura comes to the back door.

Laura: Mom! Mooooooom!
Mom: What?
Laura: I'm done. I'm ready to come in and get in the shower.
Mom: Ok. Leave your muddy clothes on the back steps, then walk on your tiptoes up the shower and TOUCH NOTHING!

Laura drops her clothes on the back steps, then streaks through the kitchen fully clothed in mud--head to toe. Ovi lets out a shriek of delight, begins to laugh, and says:

"Laura has a dirty bum!"

Thus, on her journey of learning English, my daughter now possesses two 5 word sentences:

"I need help getting socks." and "Laura has a dirty bum"

I think all foreign language instruction should begin with these two useful sentences.

Reading Recommendations of a 10 Year Old

Joshua Stephenson's Top 15 Favorites:
(as emailed to his mother last night)

1 Harry Potter: Series of 7 Author J.K. Rowling
2 Fablehaven: Series of 5 Author Brandon Mull
3 Deltora Quest: Series of 8 Author Emily Rodda
4 Dragon Series: Series of 4 Author Chris D'Lacey
5 Magic Tree House: Growing Series Current Amount 42 Author Mary Pope Osborne
6 Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Series of 3 Author Jeff Kinney
7 Mrs Frisby and the Rats of Nimh: not a series Author Robert C O'Brien
8 Rangers Apprentice: series of 5 or 6 Author John Flanagan
9 Percy Jackson and the Olympians: series of 5 Author Rick Riordan
10 Ghost Letters: not a series Author Steven Alter
11 The Gideon Trilogy: series of 3 Author Linda Buckley-Archer
12 Junie B. Jones: series of 27Author Barbara Park
13 Eragon: series of 3 Author Christopher Paolini
14 A Series of Unfortunate Events: series of 14 Author Lemony Snickett
15: The Homework Machine: not a series Author Dan Gutman

Measuring Time

My life is measured in semesters. And within each semester it is measured according to what week of the semester it is, where I am in my curriculum, where I am in my grading, and what holidays are coming up. Without such measurement, I have no idea how to keep track of time. For the first time in 24 semesters, I am not teaching and it feels as though I'm living in a time warp. While I have given up on trying to know what day of the week it is, I do need some way of measuring time this summer, so I've established the following system:

• number of pages read
• number of miles walked (and then hopefully run if my stomach heals enough from surgery to resume running this summer)
• number of words written for the sheer pleasure of writing
• number of points earned on Guitar Hero
• number of hours spent in the sun
• number of episodes of Star Trek (original series) viewed
• number of movies viewed on the Netflix queue
• number of days sleeping in past 8:00

How I Love Thee INS

I got so excited when I went to the mailbox today because there was a letter from Social Security. We have been waiting for 8 months now for Ovi to receive a social security number so that we can officially adopt her and finish this 2 1/2 year process. (India grants guardianship, but does not officially allow adoption, so we have to finish that in the US.) Anyway, we've been waiting on the INS process for months, and at long last (or so I thought) the expedient US government was sending her social security number.

Turns out it was just a statement of my "contributions".

Oh well. Waiting is par for the course by now.

While the government may be intolerably slow, Ovi's adjustment has been quick and strong. When I look at pictures over the past months, I can see her emotional/social growth just in the way she looks.

In India (early November)

Late November.

January

February

May

Sweet Waves of Summer

Home sweet home in quiet suburban Sandy

Sweet minivan driving soccer mom

And her (mostly) sweet children

"We're going to the zoo? Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeet"

I'm certain this will be a sweet and memorable day.

Aunt Heidi and Uncle Robb are going to watch the kids? Sweeeeeeeeeeeeet!

I have several hours ALONE

What will I do with myself?

I could go to work and be productive

Or.....................I could go across the street

My sister knows a guy named Catfish who works here. Hmmm

"Come on in to my office"

Snaaaap

My tattoo artist reads. I like that.

He also collects organs. Hmmmm

Will this hurt more or less than the dentist's office?

Into every life a little pain must fall.

(BTW, these tools sound a lot like the dentist's)

Ah, wraith of the woods looking down on me, you'll keep me company while I lie here, won't you?

"Ow, fuckity ow!!!!"

"How long did you say this was going to take?"

"Awhile."

Sweet waves of summer!