Adventures in Ethanland...

It's been a busy week here. Field trips, out of town visitors, touristy trips to the city--it's all good (except for my experience dealing with the superior court of California trying to settle a traffic ticket, but let's keep it shiny and happy here for today, shall we???!!!)

If there's one thing I love more than an apple orchard at 'pick your own' time (you might remember a September littered with posts about apple picking), it's a pumpkin patch. I totally get Linus, people. The great pumpkin IS coming. We found ourselves at the first one a few weeks back, but on Monday I chaperoned a field trip with Ethan's preschool to local pumpkin patch. There was much autumn-y rejoicing and hay ride happiness. I can only show you bits of it because our school, aside from forcing the kids to dress in shirts of the LEAST naturally-occuring-in-nature color for all field trips, has also splashed the name of the school across the front of the school. Totally harshing my picture-taking-blog-posting mellow, but whatever. Fortunately it got cool enough midway through the field trip that I could throw a sweatshirt over Ethan's green-screen hued shirt and get some post-able shots.

Later that day, we drove up to the airport to pick up some wonderful friends of ours from back home in DC, as they made their way through a whirl-wind tour of CA. We got to spend a little under 48 hours with Erin and Izzy and though it wasn't nearly enough time, it was so much fun. There is nothing quite like watching Ethan reconnect with an "old" friend. What he remembers and how he emotionally responds to people from his so very limited past is one of the unanticipated benefits of all of our moves--he is 4 years old and he has friends all over the country; it's pretty amazing. I think I was 12 when I got my first pen pal and that was the first friend I ever had who wasn't sitting in the same class room as me, Monday through Friday.

One of the best things about having out-of-town guests? Aside from the catching up and the feeling like you're home in a totally different way than you normally do while sitting in your living room, it's getting to be a tourist again. Yesterday Erin and I packed up the kids and headed to the tourist trap center of San Fran--Fisherman's Wharf.

they're so urban hip it's killing me.

slowly but surely the sea lions are coming back and they're as ornery and slothful as ever.

mesmerized, naturally

the kids were pleased that these particular sea lions didn't stink quite as badly as the real ones.

Then they practiced being airplanes.

Being an airplane really took it out of Izzy and she needed a speedy power nap. She's lucky no one stole her princess camera while she napped--and by "no one," I mean Ethan.

Then we headed to Boudin's sourdough shop and purchased a mini-turtle sourdough bread. Which I totally performed a serious vivisection on later on in an attempt to give each kiddo exactly half of the turtle, right down the middle. Just call me King Solomon.

one seagull per car, people. Please, just one seagull per car. Alternate caption, "this car is mine, mine, mine, mine." Ah, Finding Nemo, with the seagull jokes that just keep being funny.

Probably only to me.

Ethan and the quasi-dreamy street car ticket seller dude who is ALWAYS there; I think he is solely responsible for selling every ticket to every person who ever gets on a SF street car. And he's always got his guitar. And he always lets Ethan play it. I heart him for being such a good sport. And a little bit hot.

It really doesn't get much cuter than this folks.

After adequate time for posing, we got on the street car, during which Ethan's tongue apparently came to life and declared war on the inside of his cheek. And Erin modeled our communal bottle of water. Who wants germs?! Germs!! We got 'em!

We got off the street car in China Town. Where we had a quick lunch, took a picture of this guy:

and then I was yelled at by a shop owner because I had a camera around my neck in his shop, and apparently he had state secrets scattered throughout his stash of Hello Kitty crap and paper lanterns. So, clearly I have no pictures of his stuff, damn it.

Wise advice. Thank you, folding street chair. Thank you.

Just a head's up.

After being chased out of China town by angry spy shop owners, we hopped back on the street car and headed to our last stop:

where, people, they have a pumpkin spice chocolate squares. Pumpkin. Spice. Chocolate.

I'll give you a minute...

Aaaand we're back. We got the kiddos some ice cream (um, yeah, and ourselves. whatever, it was vacation! someone else's vacation, but vacation nonetheless) and they made their best attempt at falling into the chocolate making magic machine and actually becoming part of the magic themselves:

I wish I could post a picture of both kids passed out cold in their car seats on the way home. But alas, they spent most of the 1+ hour drive home in rush hour traffic doing things like licking the bottoms of their naked feet and laughing like hyenas, then arguing over who got to sing the next line of each song they picked out--incessantly asking for adult intervention on their own behalf when the other sang the line "incorrectly" or "out of turn." It was a super fun ride. Note to self: invest in a sensory deprivation tank for preschooler-overload emergencies.

We bid our friends adieu this morning and I embarked on a journey called Operation Just Let Me Pay the Damn Ticket, which I will share in probably mind-crushing detail in another post at some point. But for now, let's keep the post in our happy place, shall we?

NaNoWriMo--Who's With Me?

So next month I might not be here at the blog so much. I'm going to be devoting most of my writing time to writing a novel. In a month. With 100,000+ other people, who do the same thing each November, all over the world. Last year my friends Kita and Karen did it; perhaps more people I know did as well?

Last week I had the opportunity to see the founder of NaNoWriMo, Chris Baty, speak at Facebook. And let me tell you, I pulled out all the dork stops for it. Brought my laptop and took notes while he talked, laughed too loud at all his jokes (in my defense, he really was funny), and just basically got my school-girl-crush-of-college-professor adoration on (even though the guy has to be 10 years younger than me, which was never a problem when I actually was in college). At first I thought everyone was dorking out like me and taking notes, but then I realized that a lot of the people were Facebook employees actually keeping an eye on their work while they listened to him speaking. Soooo, I might have been the only one actually taking notes. Super.

I will say that sitting there in a lecture/discussion type setting reminded me how much I loved being a student and how much I have missed feeding my brain by listening to, and exchanging ideas with, other people in some sort of academic setting. Sigh. Didn't I just post about how wicked smart you have to be to be a stay at home mom? Well, I guess it takes a different kind of smart, and gives a different kind of satisfaction, from what I get listening to someone talk about their passion for writing and publishing. I havent' been able to stop thinking about how great it would be to go back to school for---something. But what?

At least for next month, while I sit on that question, I'm going to throw myself into one thing that has always been a great passion and dream of mine--writing a novel. It's about time. I started writing my first novel in high school (it was deliciously horrible, let me tell you). I've started about four since then, but never devoted the time or love needed to complete them. One of the perks of writing a whole novel in a month, according to Chris Baty, as that you're basically giving yourself permission to write horrendous drivel because you can't possibly craft the perfect novel in 30 days. And that takes a lot of the pressure off and makes it easier to shut up that voice of your inner critic.

The other thing he said that, hyper-emotional-overly-sensitive-internalizer-of-all-things that I am, made me a bit weepy when he said it and has resonated with me ever since, "the novel you write when you're 25 is different from the one you'll write at 40. And the novel you write at 65 is not the same as the novel you wrote at 40. Every year you don't write, another story you could have told is gone forever." At almost 40, I feel like I owe it to all the stories I've failed to tell to sit down and be true to this part of who I am, and finally tell a whole story.

I'll still post on Mama Sarahndipity a couple times a week and I am also promising myself to get back into the swing of things on my "365" Blog, which I really should rename my "whenever I damn well feel like it" blog, since the 365 is now looking more and more like a 415 blog or something like that. But for the most part I will be neglecting the blog--along with the housework and the grocery shopping--to write a novel.

Inquiring Minds Want to Know...

Well people, it has happened. We've transcended the "why?" phase. Just when I thought one more "why" question would set me over the edge and drive me to a life of shuffling down the street in my jammies, pushing a shopping cart, Ethan seems to have stopped, or at least tapered off, with the "why." This should be where I say something about the heavens opening up and rosy-cheeked cherubs with harps descending to serenade me as I bask in the peaceful glory of those five "why"-less minutes.

But.

"Why" has been replaced by "HOW." Now, I don't have to know why everything happens/ed. I need to know how it happens/ed.

On our less than 10 minute drive home from a play date on Wednesday, Ethan asked me how the Earth got here. And how the dinosaurs went extinct. And how cars got here. Because really to my 4 year old, those are the three biggest concerns in his life right now. Earth, dinosaurs and cars. I explained how the Earth got here and his reply was, "Mom, you just blew my mind!" No, really, that's what he said. I almost drove off the road, laughing. But instead, I just said, "I know!!! It's so cool, huh?!" We just got him an atlas of the universe and the idea that the universe is still expanding out there somewhere just completely silences Ethan with the awe. After I explained the advent of the automotive industry, he was keen to know if Henry Ford himself built our car. "That would be pretty tricky for him, honey," was my response and thankfully that seemed good enough for him.

I know a lot of people think that being a stay-at-home-mom saps one's brain function, and while I won't compare it to running a Fortune 500 company or curing cancer, I will say that the vast store of both basic and esoteric knowledge you have to have tucked away to answer the quick fire questions that come from the minds and mouths of little ones certainly requires a good amount of mental and intellectual agility and content. It's not a job for dummies.

In which I Lose My Mind Over Kindergarten

I'm not one of those parents who had her child on a waiting list for the best preschools in our neighborhood since he was a fetus. I'm not one of the parents who attended 15 preschool open houses and then sat at home whipping out spread sheets of pros & cons of each school (I was, however, the friend of a parent who did that & I totally sponged off of her research when starting to look for a preschool for Ethan in Los Angeles. Awesome). I'm not a parent whose, up to this point, put a super huge ton of thought into the "public" versus "private" debate about school. But now? I am kicking all that casual "whatever; it will all work out fiiiiiiine" attitude to the curb and fretting about kindergarten until it has me rocking back and forth in the corner, chewing on my own shoulder.

As a product of private schools and a teacher in both the public and private systems, I have often found myself sharing my perspective with other parents. My perspective as someone who's not really been there yet as a parent, but as a teacher. Countless times I have said, "really, your child will get out of a public education what he/she puts into it and in the long run, so long as you're involved and enthusiastic about your child's education, chances are, public or private? It's going to be fine." And as a teacher, I have always believed that. I taught in exclusive snooty private schools as well as public schools fraught with all kinds of budgetary issues and at-risk kids.

Of course there was a shinier polish on the private school--new building, new computers, etc. But the kids still seemed to fail or succeed based on the involvement and support of their parents. Of course, "succeed" was sort of a relative term, given that *some* parent involvement involved bullying either myself or the dean of students to change a grade to demonstrate a greater level of success than had been actually achieved, so you know, sometimes parental involvement isn't such a super thing. Like the time the dean of students told me I had to "adjust" a student's grade up from a zero after he simply printed out a page from sparknotes.com, advertisements, banners and all, and handed it in as his assignment, because I hadn't explicitly stated in my written instructions of the home work assignment that the work handed in had to be original student work. Those students whose parents weren't barging into offices and demanding A's for their kids had other issues; I had students with such anxiety problems due to the rigor of the curriculum that they had ulcers, missed school, were hospitalized. I had students stressing out that we were required to grade their work so unforgivingly that they were working harder than kids at other schools, but getting lower grades for it, thereby seeing their lower achieving counterparts in other schools getting acceptance letters from the Ivy Leagues when they weren't. I always seriously questioned whether I wanted to put my child in a learning environment like that, regardless of the prestige or the relative *quality* of the education.

But.

I may or may not make friends with saying this, but the standardized testing that goes on in public schools now? Is bullshit. Not only does it speak to only one method of student assessment, it is the least authentic form of assessment available to educators and turns our students into robotic memorizers, not critical or creative thinkers. When I started teaching, I used rubrics, portfolios, project-based assessments that allowed each student to tap into their own strengths to demonstrate the knowledge they'd gleaned from a certain unit of study. By the time I left teaching, 11 years later, several years into NCLB, I was slapping last year's state assessment test up on an overhead projector and going over which answer was correct for each question. Because that's what I was told to do; that's what education in the school I taught for had become, district-wide, in one of the largest, most affluent districts in the country. There's not enough money in the state's education budget to compel me to go back to teaching kids to take a test. Watching them squirm uncomfortably in their seats, eye-lids drooping as they try to pick the right multiple choice letter to correspond with the question lit up on the overhead projector in front of the class, where once the room was full of kids working in groups, making posters, planning presentations, searching the room for examples of various literary devices, acting out Shakespeare? It's depressing beyond words. I no longer know if I believe my own shpiel about it all being good as long as you're an active and supportive parent.

I realize that my experiences as a teacher in the secondary level isn't really all that helpful when making decisions about where to send my child to kindergarten.

But as Ethan chugs along in his last year of preschool, Husband and I are beginning to discuss and consider our options. And by "discuss and consider" I mean Husband is listening patiently and nodding as his slightly insane wife rants and raves about how the street we live on is not in the same district with every other street in a 10 block radius and that means Ethan doesn't get to go to the super awesome elementary school, but the one that's considered somewhat less awesome by California standards (which I say because California is NOT exactly a shining star in terms of the national average) and that from what I've seen on their school web-page, our kid is going to kindergarten so he can copy over vocabulary words and bring worksheets home for homework and zOMG, is there going to be ANY art, music, physical education, recess?!!! Obviously I have to make a time to go in to the neighborhood public school and observe the sense of community and the academic style of some of the kindergarten teacher before I solidify an impression of the place, but the idea of my kid being turned into Rote-y McRote Memorizestein makes me want to immediately order a shit ton of homeschooling supplies and go live on a farm somewhere. Which? I know works beautifully for some people, and I admire them for it tremendously, and it might seem natural because I'm a teacher by profession.

But. For me?

Just no. For a bajillion reasons.

But what to do? Not only have I spent years p'shawing the idea of private education for my child, but we live in an area where a private school is going to run you about the same as a year of college. So it's kind of like sending your kid to college (albeit not an Ivy league) for 12 years BEFORE college. And while it may be do-able, if we never get new cars, or go on a vacation for the next 12 years or stop eating any and all organic, grass-fed, free-range foods and subsist entirely on canned tuna and ramen, it's just not something we really truly want for our family at that kind of expense. Half the joy of childhood is the experience that comes from travel and experiences outside of school, and most of the education our child will get about his own well-being and a healthy lifestyle will come from seeing how we eat, what we eat, our participation in shopping at local farmer's markets or CSAs. Giving all of that up to pay for private education just really isn't a viable option as far as I'm concerned. (plus, mama needs new shoes).

But how to keep Ethan from ending up in a desk, in a row, a work sheet in front of his face and his love of learning floating up and away into the ether, never to be seen again after preschool?

If you have any thoughts on the subject, or any advice for how you've manage to keep your child's love of learning alive in an educational environment that seems determined to grind it into the ground, I'd love to hear it. I'll be over in the corner, chewing on my shoulder.

*I really want to clarify that I KNOW there are a ton of teachers out there in the public system who are heroes striving to provide an education that encourages a child love of learning; there are teachers out there busting their asses every day to make sure their students pass those inane tests while at the same time ensuring that they are always inquisitive, always curious and critical thinkers and not just #2 pencil-little-oval-filling API scores. And I KNOW there are teachers in college prep private schools who concern themselves with the well-being of the whole child, not just the grades and fierce competition; there are teachers who risk their jobs to give kids a bit of a break when they see that they are being held to unrealistic standards and see that one more 10 page paper is going to push that sophomore over the edge. My intention in this post isn't to disparage the profession of teaching at ALL (it is, after all, my former profession and one that I--at least for the most part--adored--I know there are amazing heroes out there who give of themselves without the expectation of thanks and who love the children that come through their rooms each year). My complaint isn't with teachers, but with the systems. My intention in this post is just to express my own frustration at being on the other side of this equation for the first time--losing that sense of control over who is caring for & teaching my child, and how, and wondering how big of a role I can play in this process is a making me a bit twitchy. A bit.

Virtual Coffee

Today I'm participating in Amy's Virtual Coffee, which is an imagined conversation that might take place between you and me if we were able to sit down and chat over a real cup of coffee today, instead of meeting each other through this series of tubes we call the internet.

If I were meeting you for coffee today, I would probably talk about this past week, about how we saw old friends and started new traditions, and how I've been sort of struggling to find my blogging voice lately, which is why the posts have been fewer and farther between. I'd try not to let too much of my insecurity as a writer show, but if you know me, you know I'm an over-sharer, so who are we kidding? I'd probably talk about myself too much (oversharer), but that wouldn't mean I wouldn't want to hear all about you--it just means I lose track of time and assume we have all day, forgetting that there are other things to accomplish besides this one connection between you and me.

Speaking of connection, this week we reconnected with friends from back home in DC. They live in Southern California now, but were up in San Francisco for the weekend, so we joined them for a bit on Saturday afternoon.

Our friend Jason augmented that PX90 workout he's always talking about by lifting 30lb weights, erm, Ethan, on the banks of the pond by the Palace of Fine Arts. Everyone was impressed.

Maybe not the birds.

Ethan questioned others' fashion choices...

And ran down some hills

It was Fleet Week in the city, which meant low-flying planes and screaming fighter jets and men and women in uniform. So it was a lot like Top Gun, but without bad karaoke or Goose being blown to smithereens at the end.

We hadn't intended on going to the air show--we aren't a big "rah-rah military!!!" type of family, but there's something about the sound of a jet engine peeling through the sky and breaking the sound barrier that is some sort of testosterone-y siren song to all men, so we found ourselves, after lunch, heading towards the marina....

This picture is not really of a stop sign. Well, it is, but what I was trying to capture is the little smudge of something silvery over on the left-hand side of the picture, almost smack-dab in the middle. That? Is a fighter jet. But my camera, without a sexy zoom lens, couldn't focus on it. And I didn't realize exactly how teeny tiny that jet would look in the picture because the noise it was making? Was shattering the fillings in the the teeth in the back of my mouth.

San Francisco has a ton of fire escapes; I kept waiting to see something interesting on one, but all I could find were some cool shadows.

When he wasn't blocking his ears and trying to decide between being terrified and mesmerized by the sound of the jets, Ethan was giggling a lot.

It was pretty cool...

I'd probably complain over coffee about how our GPS takes us on wild goose chases to get from point A to point B these days because we're too lazy, cheap busy to download the map updates. Last week, on my way out of the city with my friend and her daughter, Rhoda (get it, Road-a, that's what we call our GPS. Because we are dorks. Giant dorks) took us through the center of the city during rush hour when she could have just as easily taken us down one quick road to the highway. On Saturday, she took us from almost the exact same spot, through an entirely different, albeit equally and needlessly convoluted, part of town to get home. So while Husband grumbled under his breath at Rhoda and we sat in traffic, I stuck my head out the window and took some pictures.

"It's like a red light, on Green Street," (a missing line from Alannis Morisette's song about things that she *thinks* are ironic, but really aren't?)

Have you stayed at the Motel Capri? I hear it's very quiet...

I'd maybe talk to you a bit about this photography thing. I've had a lot of people say to me recently that they really like my pictures. That they see I've "taken up" photography. That they hope I do something with it. And it all makes me feel a little squeamish--in a good way? in a bad way? I don't know. I'm just another one of those people who got their hands on a DSLR and likes to hold the camera at a wonky angle when I take pictures. I don't know what I'm doing. I feel like when something comes out looking cool, it is totally 100% by accident. And my insecurities about it have led me to pretty much abandon my 365 blog because I at once hate not getting comments about my pictures when I think I've managed to take a cool one, and feel like a big giant poser when I do get comments or compliments. It's that way with pretty much any sort of creative endeavor I pursue, which is why I think I tend to drop them as soon as I start getting any sort of attention. Like the five different novels I've started in the past twenty years.

Then I'd realize it's probably time to stop with the gushing of the insecurities, and I'd make a joke about how I should be telling all of this to a therapist, not you, and I'd nervously chuckle and apologize for being a pathological over-sharer.

If we were chatting over coffee today, or in my case an tall soy, extra hot, no water chai tea latte, and I was just getting to know you (making that last conversation about my insecurities even that much more awwwkward) I'd ask you about your family traditions--not holidays or family gathering type traditions, just little everyday things, like bedtime routines or preschool drop off habits. Like how Ethan has to climb up the fence at his preschool gate and hang on for dear life as he punches in the access code to get inside the play yard. Every day. And how if some other parent is being kind and holding the gate open for us, I have to explain, "thanks, but he's going to want to punch that code in himself, so you can go ahead and close the gate!" Fortunately he's not the only kid in his class with this particular neurosis, so it's all good.

Last week we started a new tradition in our family. The evening walk. We've had a bit of a heat wave here in the past several days, but without fail, Northern California evenings are cool. If it's 95 in the afternoon, just hang on because it's going to be 65 by 7pm. So one night last week Husband, Ethan and I decided to go for a walk after dinner, before Ethan's bedtime. Just twice around our block--Ethan on his bike, his helmet cocked to one side of his head (I really hope if he falls it's on that side), Husband and I walking slowly behind, chatting about our days. It wasn't intended to become a fixture of our evening, but almost each evening since the first evening, one of us says, as 7pm approaches, "should we go for our walk?" And we do. And it's lovely.

There would be a ton more to talk about, I'm sure, and I hope I wouldn't dominate our conversation if it were real and not virtual, but you know, it is my blog, so I guess here, I'm going to be the chattier one.

Sticks and Stones

I remember walking home from school in first grade. The school was about five blocks from my house & for a good portion of the year, I spent most of those five blocks with my head down, my eyes counting the spaces between the concrete squares of the side walk, my fingers twisting the brown wooden toggle clasp of my favorite sweater, sometimes with its hood pulled up over my head, for extra protection.

My primary goal was not just to get home, but to get home without attracting the attention of the 6th grade bully. She was an equal opportunity harrasser; if you were younger than her by at least 2 grades, you were fair game. I was fortunate that our route was a popular one and she couldn't get to all of us in one day--sometimes it was just once a week that she singled me out and taunted me, called me ugly or maked fun of my clothes (which were super 80's-ified, but it was the 80's, so I had an excuse). She called the little boys "fags," even though I'm willing to bet she had no idea what she meant when she said that and I know I certainly didn't--I just knew from then on it was an ugly, malicious word, intended to hurt. And when it was a really bad day, she threw rocks at us or chased us with a thorny branch she'd rip off a rose bush in someone's front yard.

None of us stood up for each other; we never banded together to try to stave off her verbal or physical attacks--I feel badly about that now. But at the time, it was such sweet relief to know I could walk those five blocks without enduring her bullying, I was perfectly fine letting someone else bare the brunt of her for that particular day. It might be me tomorrow. And I wouldn't be able to expect anyone to come to my rescue.

But those walks home, silently enduring the bullying on the days she deemed me worthy of her attention, or ignoring what was going on when she chose to taunt someone else, impacted me to the core; as years went on, I felt compelled to try to stick up for kids who were being bullied when I saw it. In 3rd grade, I got into an actual physical scuffle at recess with a boy who was being mean to another classmate on the play ground. I remember pushing him out of the way of the other kid and then feeling the palm of his hand shoving my face away and pulling my hairs as I told him to knock it off. The teacher made us both stand by the trash dumpster for the rest of recess and later I ended up in Sr Joan's office, explaining myself instead of listening to a classmate explain her diorama of Little House on the Prairie during our book report (I remember this working out for me really well because I hadn't *quite* finished my diorama yet, so it bought me another night of homework time & the teacher never knew I wasn't prepared for class that day. Karma WIN!)

In my junior year of high school (an all-girl high school, mind you), I found myself on the receiving end of several months of taunting and humiliating girl-style bullying after sticking up for a girl in my circle of friends; she'd shared a secret with another girl in the group and as soon as she wasnt' around, that secret was dished out to everyone around, along with a slew of trash talk and nasty judgements. The little girl in me, who had walked home watching her fellow first graders getting stones thrown at them and never said anything, never found her voice and yelled, 'STOP!' to that giant 6th grader beast of a bully, compelled me to say something like, "hey, that's not really fair," and later I broke the cardinal rule of girl-groups and told the owner of the secret what had happened, so she could defend herself against the crap her friends had been saying about her. I should have realized, but didn't at the time, that I had just thrown myself under the bus so that this girl could have a voice against bullies she didn't even know she had.

I spent the next six months averting my eyes in the hallways, looking away from those six or seven girls who had been my social circle for 2.5 years. Classes, which had always been so great because of their small size and because they were populated mostly by my friends (my graduating class was 44 girls; classes usually contained about 10-12 girls) because oxygen-less fish bowls, always with at least 3-4 of my former friends sitting behind me, huddled in a little coven of mean, whispering about me loudly enough so that I could hear, passing notes under my nose that said things like "you are a bitch" and "ugly." When I had the good 1988-sense to frost my dark hair, I heard the word "skunk" whispered after me in the hallways and in class rooms. It was not a happy time. Rifle through any of my old journals from that time and you will find some serious teen angst. I counted the days until summer vacation, laid in bed each morning, mentally scanning for pain or illness that would free me from a day of dealing with the mean-girl antics at school.

Years later, as a teacher, I witnessed and intervened in countless examples of bullying. I sat in a classroom of freshmen the morning after Columbine and all we did that day was talk. About bullying. Kids who had been bullied talked about how it felt--the dread of getting out of bed each day to endure another 8 hours of fear, and self-loathing, and wondering why they couldn't just. fit. in. Kids who had bullied were momentarily silenced, whether they were humbled or terrified by what bullying could drive another student to do, I don't know; but they shut it for awhile. Columbine redefined, for a small portion of a generation of kids, the price of bullying.

Now I'm a mother. Of a sweet, amazing, emotionally effusive little boy. The idea of him being bullied strikes absolute terror into my heart. The fear of him being a bully? Is just as bad.

In the past several weeks, a number of teenaged boys have taken their own lives after having been mercilessly bullied by their peers. In the cases of these high profile stories, the boys have been part of the GLBT community, and the bullying has revolved around their sexuality. Obviously I have no idea what my child's sexuality is going to be as he grows up, and very honestly, aside from the very real fear of how he would be received by his peers were he to be gay, it doesn't matter to me either way. My child is my child and I will love and accept him regardless of who he chooses to love as he grows to adulthood.

But as is made clear in the article linked in the last paragraph, that's not enough. Something has to be done to stop the bullying. Teachers have to be more vigilant in seeing it, and stopping it. Schools AND parents have to play a role in educating their children about the negative power of bullying, and the positive power of tolerance and acceptance. In my opinion, in a perfect world, those who refuse to join the 21st century and show tolerance towards someone "different" from them are the ones who should the the pariahs. Parents have to be louder and more aggressive advocates for their children. They need to teach their children how to advocate for themselves, and not to go inside to a place of self-loathing when they hear the words that cut to their heart.

And something has to be done to ensure that teens struggling to make peace with and embrace their identity know that it does get better. Middle school and high school feel like forever; like the end all, be all of life, when you're in them. What your peers think of you at 16 seems like the only thing that matters. What they say to you, the hurtful words they use to define you, feel like the only way to identify yourself.

It seems that the old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me," is way off. When you're a teenager struggling with a part of yourself that makes you "different," words seem to carry the weight of your self-worth wrapped up inside of them.

I'm so glad to see prominent members of the gay community using their words to try to reassure young teens suffering bullying from the hands and mouths of their uneducated, intolerant peers that it does get better, and that there is so much to live for beyond the walls of high school.

I am so hopeful that these images and words, and others like them, will help change the world my child and his friends are growing up in. I am raising my child to be tolerant and accepting of everyone, except the intolerant. It is my hope that others are doing the same in their families, and that by the time our children are old enough to have a sense of their own, or another person's sexuality, this type of bullying and taunting will be a shameful episode of our past, and not a part of their present or future.

You Know Who Can't Keep a Secret?

Four year olds. That's who.

For a long time, Husband has been saying he wants a guitar. Which works out great for me, because I've been wanting a guitarist. Perfect!

So I decided that for his birthday this year, I'd surprise him with his very first guitar. Every 36 year old needs a guitar and a new hobby, am I right?

I thought the wisest thing to do would be to just go to Guitar Center one morning while Ethan was in school, pick the right instrument and secretly sock it away so that neither Ethan nor Husband knew of it's existence until the second it was time for the big reveal this morning. Wisest thing, yes. Most fun? No.

See, if you've been reading this blog for more than five seconds, you know Ethan's got a thing for music--particularly guitars and drums. Letting him loose in Guitar Center (aside from being the worst nightmare of every employee there) sounded like as much fun as letting a kid loose in a candyshoppetoystorebouncehouse. What? Those exist, don't they? I knew it would probably lead to a big pain in the ass for me, with the "it's time to go now"'s and the "don't touch that!"s, but I also knew it would be so much fun to watch Ethan's face light up as he set eyes on the walls of guitars--seriously, it's his Disney Land. And if at some point I had to be "that mom" amongst the aging hipsters talking shop and pimply-faced teens hunching secretively over guitars, dragging my screaming tantruming preschooler out of their irritated and judgy midst, then so be it. It's been a long time since I've walked into a place like that and at this point in my life, I don't really have anything to prove--I just wanted to see my kid's face light up as he helped pick out the perfect guitar for Daddy.

Granted, every guitar he wanted to pick out for Daddy either looked like something Eddie Van Halen played in the early 1980's, and/or cost $2000. So as far as an actual shopping companion? Not so great. But he is definitely who I want with me for all my exorbitant window shopping excursions in the future--he's got some fabulous tastes--vintage and expensive. That's my boy.

He had to stop and test out several of the guitars:

Which one to break choose....which one to break choose...

It is a gorgeous guitar. I forgot how gorgeous guitars can be...

but it seems like there will be a lot of guitars in my future....

And then of course there were the drums...

Take a second to note how lovingly the four year old is looking at the drums. If I'd told him to protect those drums with his life, he'd have fended off Tommy Lee himself (or maybe, more fitting for the preschool set, Animal from the Muppets?), I swear. He had a very hard time parting with the drums.

But he got off the drum set so that we could go back to see the guitars one more time (this was of course after I'd already purchased the acoustic Fender I'd decided on for Husband, and I was walking around the store with it, looking like a nervous shop-lifter while my kid flitted from one musical instrument to the next.)

After he played three different ukeleles while I awkwardly nodded and smiled at the sales attendants, I thought we'd be on our way, but Ethan had to venture into the room with the black velvet walls (um, really, Guitar Center?!) so that we could look at the $3-4k guitars, mounted and back-lit on the walls--you know, like art. "whooooooaaaaaa, mom; these guitars are so coooooool," Ethan purred. So he's clearly going to be in an 80's hair band tribute group at some point in his adolescence. I just hope he stays away from girls like the girl I tried to be when I went through my adolescence in the 80's (all my attempts at being a bad girl groupie type were foiled by my own goodie-two-shoesness and an overly protective best friend).

Aaaaaanyhooo, I eventually got him out of the store by promising him that he could come back on Saturday with Husband, who would inevitably need something for his new guitar--some accessory that I hadn't thought of or whatever. We spent almost the entire drive home talking about how the guitar was a surprise for Daddy, so we wouldn't talk about it with him at all until we gave him his present on Friday morning. It was a secret and we don't want to tell the secret because then it's not as much fun to watch someone open their present because they already know what's inside. We want Daddy to be surprised, right? Right???!!

I let Ethan help me wrap the present and he was even the one who decided on the hiding place for his the guitar--inside his very own closet. Personally, I think he was hoping I'd somehow forget it was there, never give it to Husband and then he'd have it all to himself. Or maybe he was planning on holding it hostage. There was a lot of "Remember, honey, this guitar is not a toy; this is Daddy's present. I'm sure Daddy will let you play with it sometimes, but it's Daddy's, not yours, okay?," on my part. And a lot of earnest head nodding on his part, closely followed by "I can't wait to play Daddy's guitar! I'm going to play Daddy's guitar ALL THE TIME!!!!" So, you know, that went well.

Keeping the 4 year old from vomiting up, "OMGDADDYWEGOTYOUAGUITAR!" was easy last night, as Husband was at work until after Ethan's bedtime. Taking over the bedtime routine for the peace of mind that there would be no, "Daddy, go look in my closet at your present!!!!", which was shaped exactly like a gift-wrapped guitar, was a fair trade off.

But this morning, as Husband was helping Ethan get dressed in the living room, I heard the word "present," and reminded Ethan to keep it a secret. He came over to me in the kitchen and said, "But I already told him about the guitar" in an exaggerated whisper loud enough that our next door neighbors could have heard him.

Sigh.

Husband was a good sport, and acted surprised. Later he told me that he thought we'd just gotten him another guitar for his Wii Guitar Hero, but since we already have two guitars for that, it would have been a pretty lame present. So I kind of hope he was just humoring me and not thinking I was that bad at gift-giving. Either way. Now Ethan's he's got a guitar.

Since Husband tends towards the camera-shy, Ethan, clearly without any joy whatsoever, volunteered to model the guitar...

I should probably start looking into sound-proofing the garage now...

Joining the Army

Today marks the beginning of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month & I've chosen to join in with thousands of other bloggers to write about the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation and Avon's combined effort, a non-profit breast cancer research foundation, Army of Women that is taking on the ground-breaking challenge of conducting studies to try to determine the CAUSE of breast cancer, in an attempt to stop it before it even starts in our future generations of women and men.

The foundation is looking for women (and men!) of all ethnicities, ages 18+, to participate in studies which will range from sleep and other behavioral studies to tests for genetic markers that increase risk. As a registered participant, you will receive emails regarding upcoming studies and choose to participate (if your qualify) on an entirely voluntary basis, on a study-by-study case, as you see fit. What a truly amazing way to contribute to the future health and wellbeing for generations to come.

I don't ask for much from my readers; a couple of comments here & there are so greatly appreciated, of course, but I'd be so very grateful if you'd take a moment to click on the link about for the Army of Women, join the cause and spread the word. As a mother, and a friend to mothers of so many amazing young girls (and boys), I would love nothing more in this life than for there to be a breakthrough in breast cancer research that ensures none of them have to endure the fear and pain of breast cancer in their lives. I believe that the work the Love/Avon Army of Women is doing can help make that a reality.

I know thousands of other women are going to take to their blogs today to share their own stories of battling breast cancer, or of the gaping holes left in their family trees, or circles of friends as they've lost mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, best friends to the disease. I am so fortunate and blessed in my life, thus far, to not have lost anyone I love to breast cancer. I have watched a couple of friends and co-workers fight bravely and thankfully win their battles; I have been so lucky to only see survivors in my immediate life. But I'm not naive; I know that at some point, given that 1 woman dies of breast cancer every 69 seconds, this disease's ugly finger will reach out and point to me, or my mother or my best friend or someone else I love. I am joining Avon's Army of Women to do my part to make sure that never happens. I hope you'll join me.

Please go to: www.armyofwomen.org to sign up to volunteer for research participation opportunities. You can also encourage friends and family to join the Army of Women by sending them this link: https://www.armyofwomen.org/invitefriend. Please consider joining the Army with me; the study you participate in may be the one that helps researchers, doctors and women all over the world end breast cancer forever.