Heptadecagon

Talia's birthday cake Zoe's birthday cake Family photo at the end of January Playdough art by the kids in February More playdough art School art by Aaron Melina at ballet (in the blue stripes) in March Sock hop! Coloring eggs in April Milk mustache in May Fun with friends (I) in June Fun with friends (II) in June Walloon Lake sand building Porch sitting at the cottage at Walloon Lake Melina's July birthday Fun with a new cousin Back to school in August Melina heads back to school in September Aaron in the basement lab in October Climbing a tree (Talia) Hide and seek (Zoe) Aaron's birthday cake on November 1 Sharing Aaron's loot Fun at a local metro park Merry  Christmas! Silly kids This year is dedicated to our dear friend, Ferdinand.  We miss you, buddy! Ferdinand, 1999-2012 Happy New Year to you all!

Talia:  Mom, can, um, can Zoe and I watch TV? Me:  Yes.  Fifteen minutes and only 15 minutes. Talia:  Fifteen minutes? Me:  Yes. Talia:  Fifteen minutes could save you 15% or more on your car insurance. Me:  Obviously, even 15 minutes is too much.

I drive an old Oldsmobile.  It isn't too old, but it is a 2001 model with over 100,000 miles on it.  Actually, when you think about how old it is, I find it remarkable that it has just over 100,000 miles on it and not more.  However, even better than being old and an Oldsmobile is that the car I drive is a MINIVAN.  I have four kids.  It really is no surprise that I drive a such a car.  But put MINIVAN and OLDSMOBILE in the same sentence, and that sentence just screams soccer mom or some other phrase that makes me cringe. Someday, I plan on driving something more sporty, more fun, more in line with what I consider to be my personality.  I haven't looked around, considering I'll be wedded to the MINIVAN for years to come, but yesterday, for 45 seconds, I had a glimpse of the future.  A sleek sedan with heated seats and zero crumbs.  No Trader Joe's stickers on the windows, and I could actually see the floor, which was clean.  The brakes worked well, as did the accelera

This has been a GREAT Christmas already, rife with much emotion. As in... Oh, GREAT !  We don't have to travel anywhere (relief). Oh, GREAT !  Marco's is open and I don't have to cook Christmas Eve dinner before heading out for the children's mass (thankful). The girls look and sound GREAT at mass, singing with the chorus (pride). What do you mean?  Santa came while we were at church?  How GREAT is that?  So very cool, I think (happiness). Hey, Tim, the kids are in bed now.  All of them.  It would be a GREAT time for sharing some Christmas joy, if you know what I mean (insert inappropriate feeling here). It's 5:40 am.  What are you awake for?  Oh.  You threw up?  GREAT , just GREAT (sarcasm, but I probably didn't need to tell you that). Merry Christmas to you all!

Happy Christmas Eve!  The kids are so stoked (yes, that is exactly how I would describe it) that Christmas is finally arriving that I haven't been able to sit and write about my thoughts. And considering we need to leave here by 4 pm this afternoon to hear the girls sing at mass, I won't be doing any writing now, either. So I hope you and your family, if you indeed celebrate Christmas, have a wonderful and very merry day.  And if you don't celebrate it, I hope you have a very peaceful and quiet day.

My semester ended on the 15th.  I gave my finals and took a few days to peruse the dismal grades.  In the end, with the extra credit I gave, the students of both classes managed to squeak out an acceptable grade distribution.   However, as with any semester, there are some students who just aren't happy with their grades, and they want to blame the instructor.  This is the email I received from one young lady. I was under the impression that you were going to curve the grades at the end of the semester? I was only wondering because my grade is so close to a B and was still holding out hope that I could make it to the B. My reply? I repeated ly stated over the course of the semester that I have to wait until the end of the course to see if a curve is needed.  Usually, the grades even themselves out d ue to the ext ra credit that I give .  In some circumstances, I do need to curve.  So far, based on the grades I am seeing, I probably will not have to, but I am still in

In our living room on Thursday morning... "Will I be a ninja?  Will I be a ninja?  Will I be a ninja?" Melina chanted, shaking the Magic 8 Ball.  Someone must have told her to repeat the phrase 3 times.  I looked up to see Melina staring, with a furrowed brow, at the ball. "This isn't doing anything!  Mom, can you help?  What does this say?" "Bring it over here, honey, so I can look."  I was a few steps away, so she made it over in one second.  Melina handed me the Magic 8 ball.  The light was dim, and with the cloud cover and rain yesterday, there was no light coming through the windows.   "Uh, I can't see it.  Hold on a moment.  Let me finish this up and I'll help you." Melina took the ball, headed back to the chair she had just vacated and started shaking the ball again. "Why can't my mom see it?  Why can't my mom see it?  Why can't my mom see it?" she said. I just shook my head and laughed.    

Melina is almost 4.5 years old.  She has been speaking clearly for a very long time, and has known and used the word Hi , since before she was 1 year old. Melina:  Hi! Me: Hi to you, too! Melina:  Mom, what does Hi mean? Me:  Hi ?  You know what that means. Melina:  Well, I don't really think that I do. Me:  Well, it is a greeting.  It is something you say when you see someone.  You know?  As in, Hi, how are you doing ? Melina:  Well, no, I really don't think I know what it means. Me:  ...Um...Okay. I stood in the kitchen and looked at her.  Just looked at her.  I had nothing else to say.  I think sometimes she is teasing me.

Today, my loving husband thought he'd be helpful and send me this message: If you don't feel like shopping the book around to publishing houses, there's always this option: http://www.npr.org/2012/12/19/ 167448748/self-publishing-no- longer-just-a-vanity-project Love, Timmmie The book to which he is referring is my Harvey story, the one I lovingly call Jupiter Girl , because I have not yet come up with a better title.  And no, Tim didn't misspell his name in the closing.  From the get go, he's always put the extra m in there.  I think it was his way of being quirky way back when we were dating.  Perhaps I should have realized he is just weird.  But that is, of course, for another post.   So of course his email intrigued me.  It made me think of what my long term goal is.  Why, pray tell, am I writing this novel?  Good question, don't you think?   I don't have a lot of answers these days, but I do have the answer to that particular questio

The kids are done with school this Friday, December 21st, for two weeks. "Yes!" one of them yelled.  "Vacation!  I can sleep in!"  Knowing that, it had to be one of the girls.  Melina and Aaron especially don't do anything close to sleeping in later than 6:30 am.  "Cool," the other said, an enormous grin breaking out on her face. "Cool for you, anyway," I replied.  The tone of my voice must have alerted the twins to something, for both of their heads jerked my way.  "I don't get a vacation." "You don't?" They both said.  I wanted to say jinx, but I declined. "Nope.  I still need to get up every day and take care of you guys, right?  I might not be teaching, but what job do you think is more difficult?" "Oh.  Yeah.  And daddy doesn't get a vacation, either," Zoe said.  "He only has Christmas Day off." "That's right," I replied.  I thought maybe this con

Didn't that last post just make you wonder?  What could possibly keep me from spouting something?  I mean, I'm the one that talks about everything:  from chin hairs to books to social commentary.  And I'm sure you were asking yourself how I could put you on hold, right?  Admit it, you waited with bated breath.  FRN, I know you did.  Well, read on, but do not judge. The short story is this:  I took a pregnancy test. I usually don't need to take pregnancy tests.  We've had this conversation before, the blog and I, but let me remind you that my cycle is a pretty regular textbook type of 28 days.  Well, it used to be anyway, and once I knew the signs and symptoms of ovulation and all the rest, it was pretty easy to not get pregnant.  Until Melina.  The anomaly.  The one conceived even when there were no signs of ovulation.  The result of a union on day 6 when I never ovulated before day 15 (did I forget to mention that there would be some TMI in this post?)  Our mir

I am suspiciously silent today. Which means this could be the calm before the storm; Before the torrent of a very long post. Then again, It might not. Stay tuned.

I love science, really, I do.  I've loved the subject since I was a kid.  My parents bought me anatomical models to paint.  I owned a Gray's Anatomy Coloring Book.  I possessed a couple of boxes of different kinds of rocks, some of which were polished and bought from a museum, and I always avoided earthworms after a good rain.  I was more interested in looking at the little squirmy things up close when they were whole rather than after they'd been squished.  I don't really know how to explain what fascinates me about science, but something about the study of all these living things has a hold on me. Except for bugs.  I have a slight problem with bugs.  Sure, it is cool that ants can carry so much more than their size.  And, I can appreciate the beauty of a butterfly, a bumblebee, or the praying mantis.  But this?  This link to a lovely little Cereal Leaf beetle in juvenile form?  This sight was so terrifying to me that I asked Tim to shut my account and turn off the c

In the kitchen yesterday: Me:  Oh!  I need to get that dog license! Melina:  For who?  Shadow? Me:  Of course for Shadow. Melina:  Why does he need a license?  Does he need to know how to drive? Episodes like this remind me of why this blog will someday be very important to my kids.

Last week, Zoe and Talia came home from school all in a dither. Z:  Mom!  Some kids got recess taken away. T:  But we didn't, since we were in the art room. Me:  Why?  Why did recess get taken away? Z:  The kids were apparently not behaving. T:  We don't know what they did. The next day, the girls walked in the door with long faces. T: We all got recess taken away. Z: But we didn't do anything wrong.  It's just that the majority of kids are misbehaving. T: And now we have to do spirit classes during recess time. Z:  Yeah, the teachers gave us a list of 33 things we did wrong. T:  If we have a problem with it, we're supposed to talk to Mr. C Mr.  C is the principal, someone we all very much like.  He is fair and really, overall, a great guy and wonderful principal, in my opinion. Me:  Well, do you have a problem with what the teachers are doing? Z:  Yes. T:  Yes.  We might lose out on going to the amusement park. Me:  Then I guess talk to Mr. 

The ideas that pop into my head at the most mundane moments of my life... Would you, if your life depended on it, be able to identify your very own toothbrush in a line up of toothbrushes?  I think I would.  It isn't that I always know what color my toothbrush is (I just get whatever is on sale), but as I stood brushing my cutters last night, I noticed something.  Apparently, I don't rinse my polisher too well.  Oh, don't get grossed out.  I do rinse the bristles until they gleam with only water droplets and I let them dry appropriately so as not to collect anything in them.  But the part of the brush where you grip it...where the thumb and forefinger come together? That part of all of my toothbrushes tends to collect toothpaste.  In fact, in a couple of days, if I don't take care of it, I'll find a little collar of dried dentifrice sitting on my Oral B precisely at that point.    So there you have it.  Check out your own toothbrush.  See if there are any iden

Yesterday afternoon, it finally happened. Melina asked for her first piece of beauty equipment.  We've already been through ribbons, hair gel, hair ties, barrettes, head bands, and bandanas.  We own scads of tights, mostly in pink, and the sheer amount of ruffles in her wardrobe is astonishing. But this afternoon, in a uncharacteristic whiny little voice, Melina said, "Mom, I need my hair wavy." "Well, I guess we'll need to put it back into braids," I said.  The previous night we'd managed to place 3 braids into her fine silky tresses.  She wore her hair down and wavy to school. "But that will take too long. Can you curl it?" Melina asked. "The curling iron won't make it wavy." "Well I need it wavy." In a moment I now realize was a bad parenting moment (or maybe not), I went ahead and gave her an idea.  "I guess we could put a hair crimper on your Christmas list." No sooner had the words escaped

I knocked on the girls' door quickly and went in.  Talia rushed to cover a book with her pillow, a look of extreme guilt creeping into her eyes. "What are you doing?"  I asked. "Reading," she replied. "And what are you reading?" "A book." "What sort of book?" "A book," she said, again. All sorts of thoughts spun through my head.  Did she have Twilight under her pillow?  I won't let the girls read that series yet, but I have the first two books, and a friend of theirs is just finishing up New Moon . Or was she reading a kid book and was embarrassed for me to see it?  Was it a note from a friend, or worse yet, a boy?  Two seconds and all of those questions made the loop through the brain circuit. I stepped into the room and pulled up the pillow. And there it was... Natural Childbirth the Bradley Way . I kid you not.  Talia, apparently, is interested in reading about natural childbirth.  Well the only thing

Goodreads , a site I love because I get many ideas for books to read, just announced its choice awards for 2012.  Emphasis on the word choice here, because we all know that reading is very subjective.  Well the list completely confirms that notion for me. The winner for fiction?  JK Rowling's The Casual Vacancy .  I have not yet read it, but I have been told by many trusted readers not to waste my time.  Furthermore, the Goodreads rating is only 3.31 stars.  And so I wonder, is this book really worthy of the title for best fiction?  Or is the book just riding the coattails of Harry Potter's success?  I am guessing the latter, but if I choose to read it, which I should, then I guess I can make a better judgment. The winner for best mystery and thriller?  Gone Girl , by Gillian Flynn.  Well, I did read this one, but I did not agree with its rating of 4.01.  The blurb for the book, as provided by Goodreads, reads: Marriage can be a real killer. One of the most critically

Who am I to judge fashion?  I just have trouble with this concept.  Running in a skirt can't possibly work, can it?  Anyone care to explain it to me?

That I could live in a more temperate climate and be happy.  Sixty-five degree Decembers are just heaven to me. You can never have so many friends that you can't fit in a few more. And that you might find those friends in unexpected places. That it is difficult for me to say no to people, except when it comes to my kids. There is something to be learned from everyone and every situation, if you are open to learning. That my tolerance for intolerance is getting a bit low these days. The value of touch and a great big bear hug can do wonders for just about anybody.

Not every Sunday, but some Sundays, a few lady friends and I meet up while the kids are at Sunday school.  We sit and chat, have a cup of coffee and a doughnut or bagel, and recharge for the week.  I find these ladies funny, and fun, and to be quite honest,  I look forward to our meetings. Even though alcohol is not involved (it is just 9:15 am in the morning, and Sunday of all days), we can get pretty loud; there are a lot of laughs at our table when we inhabit it.  We discuss our kids, our husbands, our jobs, our pasts. And so far, there are no off-limits topics.  Well, this morning, we learned from someone who shall remain nameless that she worked at a summer camp with a person (we'll call her camp counselor from here on out) who didn't like three words.  I can appreciate that.  The topic had come up and all of us admitted to not liking certain words.  I happen to abhor the words bowel movement and regurgitate .  Something about those just makes me shudder.  Another per

Early Saturday morning with Aaron: Aaron:  Mom, can I show you how I hang this ornament on? Me:  I'm watching. [Really, I was, but I also needed to check my school email.] Aaron:  You hang it on like this, and then this [he takes the ornament off again to adjust it...it has to be perfect] and then like this. Me:  I see.  Great. Aaron:  What? Me:  Great...[blank stare from him]...that you put it on there.   I look into Aaron's eyes and the look on his face indicates that I am crazy and I know, I just KNOW, that he forgot he was showing me how to hang up his special ornament.  That's life with Aaron.  And this will be proof to whomever he marries that he was always like that.  Sorry, honey, you chose him.  I was just special enough to be blessed with him.  And what the heck?  How old am I?  Haven't I figured out how to hang the ornaments yet? 

Most people know that I have been blessed with identical twins.  I've written about my life with them before.  They are a constant source of pride and amusement.  Most people also know that these identical twins look very much alike.  Yeah, I know that is the definition of identical.  But I went to school with a couple of sets of identical twins, two of which could easily be discerned.  Zoe and Talia are often confused for one another, and except for their glasses' frames and stripes in their hair, many people can't tell them apart. Yesterday, Melina and I were looking at some of our homemade ornaments.  There are quite a few that the kids made at school when they were young.  These ornaments have the kids' pictures, and it was apparent very early that the only one Melina could identify was Aaron. Melina:  Mom, who is this?  [She held up the ornament for me to see.] Me:  Well, who do you think it is. Melina:  [Leaning in real close.] Uh, who do you think it is? [

I could not get away from my parents' house fast enough.  It wasn't them.  It was me.  Or rather, the fact that I didn't belong in that town.  It didn't matter what I did, I just wanted out.  And so, I went to college and never looked back. (Yes, I realize that between my sisters and me, we could flesh out the plot of a Sarah Dessen novel very well.) And here I find myself, 20-some years later, connected via the internet to the place I once despised.  What? the reader says. You willingly plug yourself in to the place that shattered your dreams like a dropped spun sugar ornament? You know you don't have to admit that the place is out there.  You can , aside from the times you see your mom and dad, just choose to ignore it .   Yes, yes, I could.  Except that a couple of years ago, on a trip to mom and dad's, I found a fantastic radio station.  And from where does that station broadcast?  At a university just outside where my parents live.  Like many stations,

It takes a lot to shut me up, but apparently, this virus had the power to do so. Lest you think we're wasting away over here, bombarded with the remnants of the super-bug that was, we' re not.  On the whole, we are feeling better.  But I've got plenty of catch-up to do these days, especially with respect to my classes, so I thought it best to stay on the down low. Oh, and there is that little something I am supposed to have finished by November 30.  What was that again?  Oh, yes, my draft.  The first draft of my story that currently goes by Jupiter Girl for lack of a better title.  Will it be done?  Well, yes, it will.  I never said the draft had to be a great one, you know? And that is that.  Sorry to be so short-winded.  I've coughed so much over the past several days even thinking of talking and/or writing wears me out.

Once upon a time, my parents, who always seemed to me to be planners, decided, on a whim, to take us to Chicago.  That decision in an of itself seems harmless.  But the time frame they chose was at Thanksgiving.  Heading to Chicago without much of a plan during the holidays didn't prove to be very smart at all. The whole weekend left a bad taste in my mouth.  We tried to stop for gas and snacks and found nothing open.  The gray skies and cool winds we thought we left behind in Michigan followed us the entire way into the Windy City.  The streets were packed with cars, which left our car packed with expletives.  And when we made it to the hotel?  Was there solace in the warm novelty?  Not quite.  My parents, at least the way I understood it, hadn't given a thought about dinner reservations.  They had figured (incorrectly) that the hotel restaurant would be serving to guests of the hotel even if they didn't have a reservation.  Thankfully, the manger found us a table in the

It seems like a feat to get kids to sit still.  And so when Aunt Tara or Aunt Gina says to smile for the camera, we're lucky to have 1 kid say cheese.  In this case, we managed to get 5 out of 7 cousins to say it, in one space.  Plus, the smiles were all nice.  We'll try again, on another outing, to get everyone in one picture. Left to right, Melina, Zoe, Aaron, Catalina (on lap), Ava

"Hey Tim," I said.  "Do you think I should color my hair again?"  The red stripes have faded, and while I realize that everyone and their mother now have colorful stripes in their hair, I kind of like the red haze that hangs in front of my eyes. I might just want to do it again, but I thought I'd see what Tim had to say. "Well, sure.  If you want to," he replied. I realized, within the span of a few moments, that I had asked the wrong question.  What I wanted to know was if he liked the color in my hair. Clearly, he didn't get that.  And I can't fault him for it.  I really didn't ask that question.  I just thought he'd figure it out.  But this is Tim we're talking about.  He is not only male, but Tim .  Clueless, scattered, absent-minded Tim.  The man who can solve a differential equation with ease but can't quite manage to remember to each lunch.  And those kids of ours?  He can't remember names anymore; they are j

I love him. I really do. But at 6:30 in the morning, when I am trying to work on my story AND post an online quiz for my students, I don't want to hear about Angry Birds. Nor do I want to listen to the details of Temple Run, or Subway Surfer, or any other game that the kids have uploaded to the tablet. In fact, the only thing I'd like to hear this early on a Saturday morning is the sounds of his breathing as he sleeps soundly.  When pigs fly, as they say.

I enjoy listening to most of Taylor Swift's songs.  I find the tunes to be catchy and the lyrics often make me relive times in my life.  Last week, in the car, I heard her new single, Begin Again ; I sat back and simply enjoyed the melody.  It wasn't until the 2nd time that I heard it that I realized once again, I'm walking down memory lane with a song written by a 22 year old.  Which also makes me think that maybe Taylor's done a bit more living than I had by 22.  Of course, our living was just different.  Apparently Taylor's biggest problem these days is that she doesn't want to be seen twice in the same dress.  I wear the same jeans all week.  You can see how our experiences might differ. Anyway, the Begin Again refrain goes a little like this: But you throw your head back laughing like a little kid I think it's strange that you think I'm funny cause he never did I've been spending the last 8 months Thinking all love ever does is break and

I've posted before about breakfast table conversations.  I find that I need to keep my computer handy because the things that come out of the kids' mouths at that time of the morning are often things I just don't want to forget.  This morning was no exception. Zoe:  Melina, what are you going to do when you grow up? Melina:  What? Aaron:  What are you going to do?  What kind of job are you going to have? Melina:  I am going to be a princess. Talia:  You can't be a princess.  You need a job. Melina:  Well, you know something?  There are real princesses around here. I didn't pipe up, but I certainly would like to know about whom she is talking.  The only princess I see is her, and we are trying our best not to raise her that way, if you know what I mean. The day she realizes that her siblings are telling her the truth, that she cannot just be a princess, and that she actually needs a job, well, that will certainly be her awakening day.  Remind me not to be h

Here's a question for you.  How much internet traffic is too much?  Clearly, I don't need to worry about that.  I don't broadcast the existence of this blog, therefore the traffic here is limited. Perhaps I should promote the reading of such a delicacy.  I mean, if I really want to be a writer, shouldn't I strive to gain readership?  On the other hand, do I really want everyone to know that my kid nursed until she was three and that my boobs are so small now I don't need a bra?  Yeah, I'm not sure about those. Maybe the better question would be how much internet traffic is too little?  Would anyone miss me if I go?  If I move on to bigger and better things, would you wonder what we are doing?  Would you yearn to hear about Aaron's antics and Melina's mannerisms?  Would you? Just asking.

I want get up from my desk, run out of the room, and scream down the hallway.  I am sure that security would be called, and considering I am proctoring an exam, right now, I can't do that.  But be sure that inside my brain, that event is happening.  I'm out of the building, jogging on the concrete, letting the wind whip through my hair.  The farther I can get from this class, the better. Ah.  I feel a bit more balanced already.  What tipped me, you ask?  The following: Question 5:  The cell membrane of a muscle fiber is known as the: a. Sarcoplasm b. Plasmalemma c. Cell wall d. Sarcolemma If you've ever taken a bio course, the word sarcoplasm might stand out to you.  You might think back and say, we'll I've heard of cytoplasm , which is found inside of a cell.  Even though I don't really know what sarcoplasm is, based on the similarity, I won't choose it.  A cell membrane is found outside or surrounding the cell, not inside.  Well, if you had that c

I was lying in bed, taking care of some writing, when Zoe walked in.  She flopped upon the mattress and hung her head. Me:  What's wrong, Zoe? Zoe:  Daddy didn't listen to me. Me:  Did he hear you?  You know Daddy can't hear very well.  [This has happened in the past.] Zoe:  He heard me.  We were looking at a math problem and I wanted to tell him my answer.  But he didn't listen. Me:  Well, okay.  Let's talk to him.  But maybe you and Talia were speaking at the same time and it was just too much. Zoe:  No, Talia wasn't talking. Zoe went downstairs to get Tim.  In the meantime, Talia came up.  Zoe told her the same thing she told me.  Both of them decided that at the time Zoe was trying to tell Tim her answer, that Talia was indeed silent. Me:  Zoe is upset that you didn't listen to her. Tim: Umm, sorry.  Were you trying to tell me something at the same time Talia did? Zoe:  No, Talia wasn't talking. Tim retreated for some time into his head

It must be something about November. If you don't know what I mean, check this post from last year. I found Tim yesterday, in the bathroom, trimming hair from his ears.  That is something my dad does, not my husband, right?

After last night's election, two things are clear: My brother-in-law is no longer looking to move to another country. My father might just be taking up where Dave left off. Living in a house divided means that we have so much to talk about.  Except that you are supposed to steer clear of politics, right? Whether or not you like the fact that Barack Obama was elected for a second term last night, let's hope that the entire government can come together and remember who they are working for.

The gems that come from kids' mouths should be celebrated.  Every day.  So, I thought I'd pass this one on.  For the record, Ava is my niece and Tara is then, obviously, my sister and Ava's mom. Ava:  Momma, I like President Obama, but how is he allowed to be President? Tara:  Uh, why wouldn't he be allowed to be President? Ava:  Because he wasn't born in the United States.  I thought all Presidents needed to be born here. Tara:  Ava, he was born here.  Who told you he wasn't? Ava:  They showed us a movie in class today Momma and HE WAS NOT BORN HERE.  He was born in Canada. Tara:  What?  Hang on, back up.  They showed you a movie in shcool today saying that President Obama was born in Canada?  Ava, people say a lot of things about different Presidents, but he was not born in Canada. Ava:  Oh, maybe it was Justin Bieber.  You're right, Mom, Justin Bieber was born in Canada.  He can't be President. I have to say that Aaron came home today also

I had my doubts about Super Why today, until I realized the kids weren't saying JERKS, but GERMS.

It amazes me what elicits flashes of Jack Handey these days.  There I was, getting ready to unwind the cord on the vacuum cleaner.  I looked at the cord, wound around the hooks on the back, and realized that the cord looked funny.  It had been tied up in a figure 8 instead of in its usual oval.  The oval is the easiest and most compact way to do it, but clearly, there are other ways to wind that cord.  But again, it looked funny, and it made me stop and think.  And poof!  A deep thought. My mom had wound the cord in the way to which she is accustomed.  It wasn't bad, just different.  And yet the method was not entirely best for this vacuum, considering it needed to be stored in a very tight closet.  I probably don't need to draw your attention to the fact that right there, right there , was the Jack Handey moment.  It crashed through my fog like a streak of lightning; like the red at the back of a throat full of streptococcus bacteria.  How many times do we do what we are

Another exam, another dismal mean. That isn't the wonder. The wonder got to me after class.  A student said, "It's not you.  I need to accept responsibility.  That wasn't a hard exam, I just didn't study as well as I should have."  Be still my beating heart.

The little red head is 8 today!  I truly can't believe how quickly the time has gone.  So, I'll have to post his lovely Angry Birds eclair cake here in the next couple of days.  I promise to keep it short. Happy Birthday, Aaron!

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause.  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Hear that?  It is the sound of my fingers, furiously hitting the keyboard, as I try to finish my draft.  I'll try not to check in here until one month from now, but I always have so much to say, that is going to be difficult. Maybe I can let myself blog as a treat:  for every page of my draft done, I can go ahead and write a sentence or two here.  Until I see you again...

Halloween can be frightful, right? I just graded Exam #4 for my weekday class.  We covered Muscle and Nerve, and those are two very tough topics.  Knowing that, I allowed my students to bring in a cheat sheet. The mean is a 65%, with the following breakdown (the number is the number of students who received that grade): 90-100%:  2 80-89%:  4 70-79%: 3 60-69%: 9 Below 60%: 7 I asked the students to report on their exam whether or not they'd used a cheat sheet.  One person received a 28% and didn't use a cheat sheet.  I hate to be crass, but I don't think a cheat sheet would even have helped this poor soul.  Frightful, indeed.

Aaron had a friend over yesterday afternoon.  His mom and sister came with him, since this child hasn't had too many play-dates with other kids.  I can't stand that term, play-date, but since it is now in use and fits the sentence, we are going with it.  Anyway, this child that came to play happens to be a very special child.  Even if I didn't know that, I would have known the minute he walked in. Me:  What do you have there? Him:  I brought my elements book and one on the Middle Ages. Me:  So cool.  Aaron and the girls would like both of these. His mom:  [She smiles.] He really wanted to bring his math dictionary, but we couldn't find it. Me:  [I smile.]  Maybe next time. Match made in heaven, these two!

Last year, some of the things that occurred in the 4th grade trumped anything that happened at my school.  Apparently this year, things are different.  I must be reasonably happy with the 5th and 2nd grade teachers, because I haven't posted any whiny complaints here about them.  On the other hand, my classes are so rife with tension, conflict, and apathy, that the 2nd and 5th grade never really stood a chance. Two Saturdays ago, I walked into class, prepared to give Exam 3.  I waited for the students to trickle in, and noticed that 3 of them were missing.  This is a class of 15 students; you know when 3 aren't there.  I waited for a few minutes and then went ahead and started the exam. All last week, I checked my email and had nothing from the three students. This past Saturday, I walked in the door and was accosted the minute I unlocked the door.  Student #1 (S1):  I need to go.  I've had some really weird things going on at home.  I tried to email you about the