Heavy Equipment. How Lovely.

I wasn't going to post anything today, as I run the risk of overcompensating, by posting three times in one week, for the month that I completely ignored the blogosphere altogether. But my windows are vibrating. And I am incredibly annoyed by the vibrating windows. So I share my annoyance.

There is a crane in my neighbor's driveway across the street. Some monstrosity has been under construction over there for a few weeks now, and a few days ago I realized that it was a garage. Never mind that this neighbor already has a three stall garage attached to his house. Apparently, he felt the need to build an annex - an annex that will hold an additional 2-3 cars. And will have a roof that challenges that of the actual house for total height. Hence, the crane.

This is the third such monstrous additional garage to be built on my street in the past few years, and I must tell you that the sight of it makes me throw up in my mouth a little. It isn't enough that, for almost six years, I have been the only person on the street that doesn't drive an SUV or a van of some sort; and even when my car was on its last, sad legs and I had the opportunity to join the exclusive "keep up with the Jones" club that is my neighborhood, I chose an all-wheel-drive sedan. Or that I have watched incredulously from my living room window as each of my neighbors has, in turn, taken their newly acquired "toy cars" out for a drive on a warm, dry day. It wouldn't even matter now if I traded in my trusty car for a beastly SUV - which I will never do, do you hear me? Never! - because in order to keep up now, I would need to actually breed cars. And then I would need to waste tens of thousands of dollars building a second house, that I would pass off as a garage, next to my original house. But then, I guess I would be cool.

Sixth Grader is keenly aware of my disgust, but she totally doesn't get it. To her, this super sizing has become normal. Not that we have participated in it in any way ourselves, but it is all around us and so - to her - it is totally normal. I have plenty to say about how much that disturbs me, and I may even have some solutions up my sleeve...but that will all have to wait until the new year. The crane has folded up and gone now. My windows are no longer vibrating. I'm looking forward to an afternoon of snowtubing with Fourth Grader while simultaneously freezing my keester off, maybe taking some pictures of Sixth Grader and Boyfriend snowboarding, and then a peaceful and warm New Year's Eve celebration at home.

On to your own festivities, blogosphere. Stay safe.

And Now, I Mess With Your Heads

I decided to screw around with my blog template this morning. This is what I came up with. It's fetching, don't you think?

I picked a new blogger template called "jellyfish", mostly because it wasn't called something more boring like "minima" or "rounders". "Jellyfish" is at least interesting-ish. But, okay, I don't love it. It seems very wide to me. And I can't figure out how to make the font on my sidebar titles smaller. Currently, I find them frightening.

I'm certainly open to feedback...but unless you are going to include an offer to customize my blog for me, in a manner that is totally unique to me, at little or no cost, for the most part I'm basically going to keep things looking just like this for a while. Maybe it will grow on me.

That's all I have for today. I thought about bringing up some other stuff, but I don't want to spoil you.

Pardon Me While I Scream Inside My Head

Well, it's Monday now, and the beginning of the Tornadoes' week long break from school. They have multiplied, of course: presently, there are also two guest tornadoes on the premises. I hear them upstairs, beginning to stir. Any minute now they will be down here rooting through my kitchen in search of things to pour syrup on, sugar loading for the inevitable Dance Off that will surely consume them for most of the day.

So I thought I would just get the screaming done early today, perhaps a little ahead of schedule. That way I can enjoy my second cup of coffee.

I'm "working from home" today. Although I know I professed that it is cooler than it used to be, it's really...just so...painful. Within the next two hours, my eardrums are bound to be split in two. Both of their closets will be completely emptied out, and four tweens will have assembled a series of outfits so garish and crazy and loud that my corneas might actually split in two as well.

I will try to stay dutifully glued to my computer while this is all going on. I will pick at work projects that normally get neglected - things that I can't justify spending time on in my actual office, because I have to actually use that time running my business. I will close the door to this room and I will offer false threats of annihilation to those who dare enter and disturb me from my duties.

But it won't matter. Someone will spill something. There will be fights. I will be begged to judge multiple rounds of the Dance Off. And of course, they will get hungry again, and I will have to forcefully direct them toward the chinese food leftovers and away from opening twenty million new bags or boxes of things in the pantry.

And then there's the cat. Problem Child is unnaturally attached to me, so much so that she insists on always being able to physically touch me when I'm home. Right now she is standing on my leg, but she's spent the better part of the last hour sitting on the desk with one paw heavily on my arm and the other paw lightly on the cap lock button. She makes the task of replying to business emails that much more of an adventure: better check it again before hitting that "send" key, just to be sure she hasn't added some evil feline subtext to the matter.

Some version of this scenario is likely to play itself out every day this week, except for during those precious blocks of time that I get to drop the girls off at the gym for practice and try to think clearly again for a few hours. They really don't want to go to practice this week...but too bad! They could use the change of scenery. Plus, anyway, we're running out of syrup.

The Day After

Christmas is over.

That pretty much sums it up. Depending on your inflection, that brief sentence can be a sentiment of relief or one of melancholy. Either way, the fact remains the same. It's the day after Christmas.

In all honesty, it was a challenging holiday season for me. Not in any kind of catastrophic way...and really, nothing of any special significance happened that would make this Christmas visibly difficult. But still, I struggled. I struggled to make it special, and at the same time I struggled to not make too big of a deal of it. It's a fine line.

I guess, more than anything, the past month has felt very much like an ending. An ending of what, you ask? I don't really know. But the feeling was unmistakable. It could have been the knowledge that this was, most likely, the last year that either of the Tornadoes will believe in Santa Claus - and considering that cynicism measures into the stratosphere in this day and age, I guess I'm lucky that Fourth Grader held on as long as she did. It could also be that Sixth Grader is acting so very much like a teenager already that I am practically a non-entity in her daily thoughts. This is more accurately what it is, actually. The idea of snuggling up in front of a fire together, playing games or reading or just talking, is so boring to her, as is the thought of baking cookies while listening to music, or curling up to watch a movie. I mean, why do any of that when there is so much texting to be done? And iCarly episodes to watch? And do we HAVE to listen to Christmas music? And can I go to my friend's house? WHY NOT?

The three of us have been a unit for a few years now, and it's been bittersweet. Somewhere between the pressure of needing to provide for them by myself and the desire to shelter them from feeling like they were different from their friends - let's face it, we live in a pretty homogeneous little town - I think we created a fair share of special memories of our own, moments that have been unique to our experience. Somewhere in my silly little brain, I got the idea that these would be the defining moments of their lives, and that they would continue to cling to me forever. Somewhere, I forgot to remember that no matter how hard I try, they are going to grow up anyway. And I hate that.

So I tried to be incredibly present with them this season. I was so incredibly present that at times, I think, I went a little Clark Griswold. And much like poor Clark, I'm afraid I didn't always keep much of a sense of humor about the whole thing as I should have. I tried so hard to be present that I forgot to capture the irony by writing about it.

And yeah, I'll say it: I was borderline ready to shut the blog down for good. I was thisclose. Fortunately, for my sanity, I was too busy being "present" to get around to turning on my laptop and following through. Good thing, because how else could I ever tell you about the three hour, $300+ grocery shopping trip I took last week in preparation of a Christmas dinner, only to find that when Christmas rolled around, nobody wanted to bother eating anything? Because you can't eat and text, or play Wii, at the same time, mom. And I wouldn't be able to tell you about the Christmas concert that the Tornadoes spent weeks preparing to perform for the family on Christmas Eve, and about the devastating, gasping, heaving sobs coming from Sixth Grader that morning when she realized she had left her sheet music at school and wouldn't be able to play without it. And how, while she was in the shower bawling her eyes out, I called Band Instructor to ask if we could borrow another copy of her music, and then cut short a planned visit with some friends by about a half hour so we could drive out to Band Instructor's house to get the music, and all Sixth Grader could say to me when I told her I called him was, "Oh. Okay." Not "thank you." Not "You rock so much harder than all the other moms in the world." Oh. Okay.

So today, this day after Christmas, I find myself wanting. Wanting my sense of humor back. I haven't lost it. I just tucked it away for a few weeks. It's probably downstairs in a box, waiting, with the rest of the stuff that I hid away down there to make room for the wreaths and the reindeer bath rugs. I'll probably leave the bath rugs out for a few more days. But I might as well go down there and get my sense of humor. What else am I going to do? Sixth Grader went snowboarding with her friends, and Fourth Grader has a friend over for the day.

Might as well laugh about it...

A Kinder, Gentler Failing

Let's not leave anything to assumption: I am decidedly NOT participating in NaBloPoMo. And that should settle that guessing game once and for all.

The list of daily and nightly and everywhere-in-between obligations, that I have been racing around to meet lately is just too long to detail. And probably not that interesting. And detailing them might come off as whiny or attention-seeking anyway, and that is contrary to how I am actually feeling about all of these involvements, which is actually invigorated and satisfied. I can't say that there has ever been another time in my life when I have felt as invigorated and satisfied as I have been feeling these past few months. And if that is not the most boring, gag-inducing sentence I have ever written, then I don't know what is. So let's just skip all the regurgitation and jump ahead to last night's PTO meeting.

Last night's PTO meeting was riddled with all the usual PTO crap - the budget, the volunteer "opportunities", so on and so forth - but the highlight of the agenda was the introduction of the New Report Cards. Apparently, the teachers have been grueling over the development of New Report Cards for quite some time. As they (the report cards, not the teachers) are about to be piloted to the school for the first trimester, they (the teachers, not the report cards) thought that the PTO deserved a little preview.

The mention of the New Report Cards in the newsletter that came home ahead of time was enough to lock me in to attending this meeting. Because, what? New report cards? Why? Doesn't anyone believe in tradition anymore? Besides me? Anyway, I schlepped myself to the school library and sat through thirty minutes of mind-numbing discussion about...I can't even remember... with one eye trained on the library door awaiting Boyfriend, who was coming to pick up the Tornadoes and take them home. Just as the New Report Card presentation began, I saw Boyfriend's silhouette pass by. I know that at this point you think I have meandered far away from my story, but Boyfriend's appearance here is important. Okay, it isn't really. But he did look really handsome and distracted me momentarily from my purpose, which was to find out why yet another American institution was being tinkered with. Anyway. Back to the story.

The thing is, they've done away with the F. Because the F is demoralizing. Let me repeat that. They have taken away the grade that signifies a complete lack of effort, on the part of the student, to produce work that is adequate. Because it's demoralizing. This is what the teachers have been grueling over. To quote one of the presenting teachers: "Our job at this level of education is to create model students, not to judge."

Therefore, failure is hereby abolished. The new grading system involves A, B, C, P, and D. A, B, and C retain their traditional meanings, for the most part, except that C now simply means "working at grade level." And here I thought C meant "try a little harder, kid." P is new. P basically means that your kid is trying really hard, but it's just not happening. And okay, I get it. It makes sense to have a grade like this. IEPs, special education, so on and so forth. I get it. I'm down with the P. But what about the kid who just doesn't care? Who doesn't care and who makes no effort and who turns in sucky work, or no work at all, and is possibly a disruptive presence? This kid gets a D. Because? Anything lower would be demoralizing.

I'm not trying to judge here, I'm really not. But I kinda sorta do expect these teachers to judge. At least I expect them to judge the quality of the work being done in their classrooms. Why is everything for this generation of kids being watered down and turned into a big ol' hug? Why are we ELIMINATING failure? I don't know. Maybe it's me. But I couldn't help but walk away from that meeting feeling flabbergasted. And you know what else? A little demoralized.

Then I came home and actually gave my girls a big ol' hug, because in the scheme of things, that is where I come in. I count myself lucky to have kids who want to achieve and who do not have any additional learning hurdles to overcome. And unless something goes horribly wrong along the way, this new grading system isn't really going to be a direct issue for us. But I just don't get the whole elimination of failure/everyone gets a trophy/"don't worry be happy" attitude that is manifesting with and around the next generation.

Well, guess what? I am all through generating controversy for today.

NaBloPoMo, You Are a Cruel Suitor

Well here we are, back in the fated month of NaBloPoMo. Back where it all began. Two years ago this month, AficioNada was born - and if you don't recall, she was borne of spite: slightly impure, somewhat narcissistic spite, but, admittedly, spite nonetheless. Actually, wouldn't all forms of spite be narcissistic? I mean, otherwise, why bother?

Anyway, two years have passed and I'm still here, blogging. Well, semi-blogging. I'm not so much on the AficioNada upkeep these past few months. And I do find that bothersome, you know. Because truth be told, I've come to enjoy blogging. Not just the writing of one, but the reading of others. I have found and followed an inspiring -and often totally hilarious - list of other people's blogs over the past two years, gleaning the spark and motivation to keep my own writing going. Sadly, though, I find that when I do not come to the keyboard to write my own, I often fail to read others as well. And that is just shameful. I deserve a spanking.

So what do I make of the fact that I still sometimes let entire weeks go by without posting anything? What do I make of the realization that, if you neglect your blog, if you do not write it, they will not come? For one thing, I'm pretty sure at this point I'm talking to myself. For another, while I don't find it AT ALL weird and dorky that I am talking to myself while placing my innermost thoughts on the Internet for anyone walking by to read...see, that's just not a true statement at all, because I actually find it completely weird and dorky. What would help it to feel not so weird and dorky is if, once again, I embraced the whole blogging process and actually did all the things I have come to enjoy about blogging in the first place. Like reading yours and writing mine. And, hey: what better time to begin the embracing than NaBloPoMo?

It would be fairly outrageous of me to make any kind of a statement right now that implies I will actually participate in NaBloPoMo. You know, given my record . But it would be fairly symbolic if I at least gave it a little hug. So that is my goal for the remainder of November: to give NaBloPoMo a little lovin'. Just a small squeeze. We'll see what it leads to.

Life is certainly ripe for the writing right now: We are about to embark upon the new gymnastics meet season. Sixth Grader is serving me up a whole new batch of disturbing "I'm Growing Up Whether You Like It Or Not" material. Fourth Grader is becoming less cheeky and more pre-adolescent-y by the day. All kinds of changes are afoot. Before I sat down tonight to write this post, I thought of them as Reasons I Don't Have Time to Write. But now? They are Things I Will Talk To Myself About (...on the Internet...dorky...) Until I Am Once Again Worthy of Readers.

Let the dorkiness begin. Again.

Could Be Worse. I Could Be a Condescending Late Night Talk Show Host.

There's a certain irony that occasionally pops up in the realities people create for themselves, or should I say in the pictures of themselves that they paint with very broad brushes. It's a bit of a stereotype, I suppose: the teacher with the high school dropout son or daughter, or the cop whose kids are always in trouble with the law. I had a doctor once who went to jail for stealing prescription painkillers. My ex-husband was the "son of a preacher man". And now he's my ex-husband, so how's that for an explanation of what it was like to live with him?

As for myself, I work in the world of dollars and cents. That's about as specific as I ever care to get here about what I do for a living, but my point is that I spend many hours a week concentrating my attention on the proper use of one's money. And admittedly, because I have seen a thousand ways to make mistakes with it, I can be a bit of a tightwad personally. I prefer to think of myself as "frugal", or a "saver". But these were not the words of choice used by the aforementioned ex. But anyway.

This is my long-winded way of setting you up for the story of how I spent a good part of my weekend arguing with Sixth Grader about financial decision-making. Sixth Grader wants an iPod Touch in the worst way. And because "Santa" spent many hours last year store-hopping in search of Sixth Grader's current 4th generation iPod in the highly coveted purple hue that she requested, I am insisting that she save up her own money for it.

Where does Sixth Grader get money? From me, of course. But I do make her earn it. She and her sister have a whole list of potential chores and a very workable system that I created last spring just for the purpose of teaching this valuable lesson. To date, Sixth Grader has earned and saved more than half of what she needs to get her upgrade. She's so close. And then the mall gets her. Or, at least, it tries very, very hard to get her. This is why we found ourselves once again in a tangled mess of tears and yelling on Saturday afternoon. I took the girls to the mall for the express purpose of making my twice-a-year pilgrimage for work clothes for myself (yes, I shop for myself twice a year. And that's two more times a year than I did for about a decade.) I felt pretty good about the fact that I was exhibiting the payoff of my financial restraint right in front of their eyes - that I wait for the store I love to have its semi-annual sale, and to send me my 20% off coupon, and then I score BIG - but Sixth Grader didn't see it at all. Because she immediately deserted me.

She came back an hour later, clearly stressed. She had seen about a million things that she couldn't live without. She had her money with her. She bought nothing, because she is saving for her iPod Touch. It was NOT FAIR, she said. I said something very sympathetic, I'm sure, but she started to cry anyway. WHY can't I just give her some money to spend in the mall, just this ONE TIME? Uh, because I already gave you all that money in your little wallet there, sweetie, I said. Go ahead and buy something if you really want it, I said. More crying. She'll NEVER have enough money for an iPod Touch. NEVER. I reminded her of the many ways that she can continue to earn the rest of what she needs as we made our way out of the mall. It took a while, because she dragged herself about ten feet behind me, stopping to stare mournfully into several stores. We eventually made it to the car, where she escalated her grief to a series of bold statements about how unfair and mean I am. Can't I just GIVE her the rest of the money NOW and she'll owe me?

Ha. That's a good one.

After a brief, heated exchange with her, I managed to extract my emotions from the situation and return to parent mode. In parent mode, I counseled her that she did indeed seem to have a problem on her hands, and that she will have to figure out a way to solve it, but that making it my problem is not a viable solution. I then conveyed the parable of the Girl Who Waited for the Semi-Annual Sale to her, seeing as she missed the live performance. And again, we revisited the chore list.

It's the tiniest bit possible that some of this lesson actually sank in with her. Because Sunday afternoon she did about $16 worth of chores, all unprovoked. And she didn't cry once.

My point is, I do worry a little that I might end up with financial train wrecks for grown children someday. Simply because, like I said in the beginning, irony happens. But I try to do what I can to teach now, without being "preachy" or, god forbid, "uncool". And yet, I find myself worrying less and less about the "uncool" part. I still don't want to be preachy. But uncool is starting to look pretty good to me. On many parenting issues, I find myself much more drawn to uncool. Who knew? You spend your whole adolescence and young adulthood trying to be cool, and then, as a parent, uncool is the new cool.

That's what I'm going to tell myself, anyway.