Class Competitions...Dress up days...Royalty...Hall Decorating...Food and Penny Drive...the dance...the big game...school pride...pep assemblies...short attention spans...
I didn't really enjoy high school -- sometimes I wonder why I chose to go back -- but I always loved homecoming; maybe its the tradition or the bringing together of the community. Now as a teacher, I find it a great time to connect with my students, albeit a challenging time to teach. I usually try to participate in the dress up days (one year I won best costumed teacher) and attend some of the events. I prefer not to chaperone the dance any more -- it bums me out to see fifteen year olds banging their pelvises together -- unless I can take tickets or work in the coat room.
This year was the best homecoming we've had in the 8 years I've been at BHS. The class halls were the most creative, the cheerleaders had the coolest stunts, the student and staff participation was the highest I've seen. There was this positive energy all week at school.
As a part of every homecoming, our award-winning dance team traditionally pulls together a group of boys to join them in their dance. I am always surprised at the mix of male students participating as well as with their varying comfort levels and abilities. This year our male staff members decided to join the action. Our dance team advisor choreographed and taught them a dance they practiced at 6:30 am before school everyday. They call themselves the Mantastics. Luckily, someone caught it all on video -- it is a must see!
If you enjoyed that and want to see a different view, click here.
During the assembly, our principal celebrated with the crowd some of our accomplishments, ending with the Homecoming Penny Drive. He called the Freshman Princess down to center court and invited any of her friends, any of her fellow freshman, to join her in support as he explained that two weeks ago she was diagnosed with lymphoma. She was released from Children's Hospital to attend Homecoming, but will return to spend the rest of the semester receiving chemotherapy. As he was speaking, students ran, first just one or two from around the gym, then a flood from the freshman class, followed by the entire student body. It looked as if the court had been rushed after winning the big game. As her classmates surrounded her, our principal announced that the money we raised through the penny drive would go to support her and her family. It was a proud moment, to be a part of this community, to see my kids respond with such kindness and support. It made me glad that I am still in high school.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Big Debate
After a month of working, we're starting to get into a groove. Magnolia is sleeping a bit better so I'm at least getting 6 hours of sleep which does a world of good to my outlook and stamina. But while I know that Magnolia is in good hands, developing relationships with her Papa and Nana that most kids never get, I do get sad that I am missing out on precious days that are so fleeting. Once I'm at work it's not too bad -- time passes quickly as I work hard to prevent any take-home work. The hardest part for me is not the being gone, its the leaving.
Each morning as I get ready, my Munchkin crawls around, often finding her way over to me to pull on my pant legs, looking up at me with her big blue eyes, and reaching to be held. How could I not snuggle for just a few more minutes even if it means being a bit late or forgetting to put on all of my makeup? Then when I kiss her goodbye and pass her off, she wails in great distress doing all she can to follow me and for that moment I believe it must be easier to be a stay-at-home mom.
However.
It seems like every where I go people are talking about the big debate and I don't feel like there is a clear winner. I am not talking about the Obama/McCain debate; I am talking about which is harder: to be a stay-at-home mom or a mom that leaves home to work. I think I've decided that either way is hard, because being a mom is hard.
Each morning as I get ready, my Munchkin crawls around, often finding her way over to me to pull on my pant legs, looking up at me with her big blue eyes, and reaching to be held. How could I not snuggle for just a few more minutes even if it means being a bit late or forgetting to put on all of my makeup? Then when I kiss her goodbye and pass her off, she wails in great distress doing all she can to follow me and for that moment I believe it must be easier to be a stay-at-home mom.
However.
This summer I found being a full-time mom exhausting. There were times when I craved a break or some mental simulation and even looked forward to going back to work -- a little. Then there was a week or so when I was getting ready for the school year while taking care of Magnolia. I don't know how moms do it, balancing a home business with taking care of their kids. I had a hard time, often ending the day frustrated and exhausted, unsure that I managed anything.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Magnolia's First F
30 minutes prep + 30 minutes wet + 30 minutes clean up = Mom and Me Swim Class. 
This September we joined our friends Emily and Keely Frazier for our first swim class. Magnolia soaked in her time in the pool, kicking and splashing, mesmerized by all the commotion around her. We learned lots of new stuff: fun songs; "jumping" into the water on command; "swimming" toward a floating toy, which she loved; going under water, which she didn't love; and reaching for toys in the shallow end, which she couldn't really do since she doesn't stand on her own yet.
Her lack of sea legs--or land legs for that matter--proved a challenge for me too as I tried to wriggle a slippery baby out of her bathing suit afterwards and into jammies without getting her all wet from my suit. I was jealous of the other moms with their standing children dressing like it ain't no thing. Usually though, my twinges of sadness about how fast my little girl is growing up kept that jealousy in check.
One of my favorite memories was when each baby had to crawl across a 3-foot rectangular piece of floating foam. I was a little nervous: "My baby is 6 months old and you're making her crawl the plank?!"
After the first little mutineer was rescued by a maternal sea giant, I seized my opportunity, not wanting to follow a braver, more succesful attempt. The seas were calm, so I gathered my wits, wiped my eyes, and placed my only child on the wobbly hatch of Davy Jones' locker. "Farewell, sweet Magnolia!"
Apparently Magnolia didn't think this was as frightening as her Mama did. This was her time to shine. I barely made it around the rectangle in time to greet my grinning speed-crawler.
My second most memorable moment was during life-jacket fitting. While all the other kids were sqirming in their new apparatuses, my Maggie was perfectly relaxed floating on her back. All that was missing was a baby-sized Pina Colada, with an umbrella in it.
In the end Magnolia did not pass the class because 1) she does not blow bubbles in the water and 2) she is too young. In a couple of months I think we will repeat the class to get the bubble blowing down before we move on to the class for 12 months and older.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Happy 7 Month Birthiversary!
Things we don't want to forget about this stage:
+ The way she cackles, especially when you do it back to her
+ How she gets really mellow and leans into it when you put your finger in her ear, kind of like when you scratch Trudy's ear
+ How she will try to stand using just about anything, including Otis, and often lets go, like in the picture
+ The way she will hold her mouth open wide, feet kicking waiting for the next bite, then rest her head on her shoulder while she is swallowing
+ Her crawling to and then snuggling with Otis
+ When I take her out of the bath and shake her off, singing "Shake your booty," and she laughs
+ How you can feel her heartbeat in her fontanel
+ Times when she gives you real hugs, her little hands squeezing you closer
+ The way she crawls toward you, laughing, when you get down on all fours
+ Knowing that she is standing in her crib just by listening to her panting through the monitor
+ The way she covers her eyes with the back of her hand while nursing
If we forgot anything we will add it here. Check out more cute pictures on flickr.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Shannon's Dream
This is not my dream. It's Shannon's and she's too embarassed to share it, but this story is too important to let my wife's feelings stop me from sharing it with the world.
***
Shannon is in a bike race in Bellingham. And like any sensible bike-racer she has a snack with her. Well, more than a snack, really. It's Salad. In a very large metal bowl. She has it wedged between her stomach and the handle bars so she can fork it to her mouth with one hand and still be able to steer. (Oh, and just in case you're wondering, it's the kind with cabbage and Ramen noodles in it)
A while after eating a large quantity of this cabbagy goodness, Shannon's body tells her it is has absorbed all the vital performance enhancing nutrients from this coleslaw and it is ready to expel some of it.
"But I'm in a race and I have salad on my lap," Shannon thinks. "I can't possibly stop.... I'll just go on my bike... But I can't go in public! Aw c'mon, it can't be that bad; Trudy and Otis do it all the time..."
So she does. She's still not sure how it got through her pants, but it did. There it is trailing into the distance, several little dollops of Shannon poop.
When Shannon gets to the finish line she learns that one of her co-workers--one who may or may not have spoken ill of her recently--died. She had a tragic bike accident. The cause: slippage on human feces.
***
Interpretations are more than welcome in the comments.
***
Shannon is in a bike race in Bellingham. And like any sensible bike-racer she has a snack with her. Well, more than a snack, really. It's Salad. In a very large metal bowl. She has it wedged between her stomach and the handle bars so she can fork it to her mouth with one hand and still be able to steer. (Oh, and just in case you're wondering, it's the kind with cabbage and Ramen noodles in it)
A while after eating a large quantity of this cabbagy goodness, Shannon's body tells her it is has absorbed all the vital performance enhancing nutrients from this coleslaw and it is ready to expel some of it.
"But I'm in a race and I have salad on my lap," Shannon thinks. "I can't possibly stop.... I'll just go on my bike... But I can't go in public! Aw c'mon, it can't be that bad; Trudy and Otis do it all the time..."
So she does. She's still not sure how it got through her pants, but it did. There it is trailing into the distance, several little dollops of Shannon poop.
When Shannon gets to the finish line she learns that one of her co-workers--one who may or may not have spoken ill of her recently--died. She had a tragic bike accident. The cause: slippage on human feces.
***
Interpretations are more than welcome in the comments.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Come on Maggie, do the Locomotion...
I lowered Magnolia's crib recently because she had started sitting up on her own. Just to be safe I decided to go two notches. I didn't lower it all the way since, I thought, surely it would be awhile before she would be standing.Wrong!
That same night Brian went to put her back down during one of her nighttime wake ups and there she was standing in her crib--our mischievous little inmate!Crawling came only a few days later! She is constantly crawling across the room, exploring her world or investigating something that has grabbed her attention. She is not content sitting for very long and tries to pull herself up to stand on almost everything. 
Either she is a daredevil or just clueless about the painful side effects of gravity since she often tries to go hands-free! This girl is raring to walk and she's gonna burn through whatever milestones are in her way! Today she tried to summit her highchair and also managed to get on top of a cluster of small boxes of books.
New roles added to our parenting job description: Spotter, chaser, jungle gym and eagle eyes.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
You're twelve and you're buying shoes.
You’re trying to walk a little ahead or behind to make it seem like you're not actually with her, but some 18-year-old, uniformed salesman with too much hair gel asks if he can help her find anything. And your mother’s reply, of course, informs the entire store that, yes, you're related to this permed woman who doesn't belong in this athletics shrine.
There is a life size cardboard cut-out of Shaquille O’Neal (when he was still cool). The radio is playing your favorite techno song (when it was still cool). And the wall is lined with shoes, glorious shoes, each with it’s own little shelf, and track lighting making them shine like golden calves.
Your mother being practical wants nothing to do with the Air Jordans so instead asks where the reasonably priced and ever-so-versatile cross trainers are.
You survey the options. Knowing none of them will be envy-inspiring, you cut your losses. You spot the few pairs that will at least not provoke outright mockery. The salesman has acknowledged your presence by now but continues asking your mother the important questions, as though her opinion mattered in this decision. She tells him that you'll try on this one, this one, and that one in size 7. Salesguy goes to the back and leaves you and your mother alone.
You have a few options at this time. You can endure awkward conversation/silence with your mom in a public place. You can pretend you are looking at other merchandise, thereby avoiding the awkwardness. Or your third, and most advantageous, option: Sweet talk. Suddenly transform yourself into the most agreeable 12 year old she has ever known. But don't be too obvious. Your goal is to loosen her up for later when you try to boost your price range by 10 or 20 dollars.
Out come the rectangular boxes “We didn’t have this one in a 7, so I brought a 7 ½. “
You take the crinkly paper balls out of the toe of one while the salesman laces another.
This is game time. Your real bargaining power begins here. No mother would make her child wear uncomfortable shoes, would she? So, the ugly pair she insisted you try on—well, they rub you the wrong way. And the other ones that look okay but aren't Nikes, they just don't feel right. And if the cool ones actually don't feel good?? These are the things you do for 12-year-old prestige.
Your mother is powerless at this point. Her only bargaining chip, since she can't inhabit your foot, is the toe check. You know, that thing she does where she presses down twice on the toe of the shoe to see how much room there is?
You can't wait to get away from this situation and wear your gleaming white leather in front of your peers. Because on the playground everyone is willing to buy into the unspoken fantasy that middle-aged mothers in doily-fringed cardigans have nothing to do with the acquisition of your awesome shoes. And that the relative awesomeness of each person's shoes does not in fact depend on a parent's willingness or ability to drop $120 dollars on shoes that you'll outgrow in 6 months, but is in fact a 1:1 reflection of your coolness.
***
Some kids—they were rare—were given a clothing allowance and then permitted to ride the bus to the mall. Oh freedom of freedoms! The city bus! To be that kid!
***
Now you’re the parent. Your 12-year-old needs new shoes, do you…
(A) go with your child to make sure he makes a wise decision? You’re paying after all, shouldn’t you get the final say in the matter?
(B) go with your child to humiliate him under pretenses of goodwill and benevolent provision? Emphatically and publically reaffirming their dependence despite their greatest pubescent wishes to be independent?
(C) Go with your child because that's how you do things? This wish for independence is just a phase and they'll get over it. (It's not like they're gonna be writing about the experience when they're 28 or anything.)
(D) Let him go alone, empowering him to make decisions on his own and living with the consequences?
(E) Let him go alone, it’s easier that way.
(F) ???
There is a life size cardboard cut-out of Shaquille O’Neal (when he was still cool). The radio is playing your favorite techno song (when it was still cool). And the wall is lined with shoes, glorious shoes, each with it’s own little shelf, and track lighting making them shine like golden calves.
Your mother being practical wants nothing to do with the Air Jordans so instead asks where the reasonably priced and ever-so-versatile cross trainers are.
You survey the options. Knowing none of them will be envy-inspiring, you cut your losses. You spot the few pairs that will at least not provoke outright mockery. The salesman has acknowledged your presence by now but continues asking your mother the important questions, as though her opinion mattered in this decision. She tells him that you'll try on this one, this one, and that one in size 7. Salesguy goes to the back and leaves you and your mother alone.
You have a few options at this time. You can endure awkward conversation/silence with your mom in a public place. You can pretend you are looking at other merchandise, thereby avoiding the awkwardness. Or your third, and most advantageous, option: Sweet talk. Suddenly transform yourself into the most agreeable 12 year old she has ever known. But don't be too obvious. Your goal is to loosen her up for later when you try to boost your price range by 10 or 20 dollars.
Out come the rectangular boxes “We didn’t have this one in a 7, so I brought a 7 ½. “
You take the crinkly paper balls out of the toe of one while the salesman laces another.
This is game time. Your real bargaining power begins here. No mother would make her child wear uncomfortable shoes, would she? So, the ugly pair she insisted you try on—well, they rub you the wrong way. And the other ones that look okay but aren't Nikes, they just don't feel right. And if the cool ones actually don't feel good?? These are the things you do for 12-year-old prestige.
Your mother is powerless at this point. Her only bargaining chip, since she can't inhabit your foot, is the toe check. You know, that thing she does where she presses down twice on the toe of the shoe to see how much room there is?
You can't wait to get away from this situation and wear your gleaming white leather in front of your peers. Because on the playground everyone is willing to buy into the unspoken fantasy that middle-aged mothers in doily-fringed cardigans have nothing to do with the acquisition of your awesome shoes. And that the relative awesomeness of each person's shoes does not in fact depend on a parent's willingness or ability to drop $120 dollars on shoes that you'll outgrow in 6 months, but is in fact a 1:1 reflection of your coolness.
***
Some kids—they were rare—were given a clothing allowance and then permitted to ride the bus to the mall. Oh freedom of freedoms! The city bus! To be that kid!
***
Now you’re the parent. Your 12-year-old needs new shoes, do you…
(A) go with your child to make sure he makes a wise decision? You’re paying after all, shouldn’t you get the final say in the matter?
(B) go with your child to humiliate him under pretenses of goodwill and benevolent provision? Emphatically and publically reaffirming their dependence despite their greatest pubescent wishes to be independent?
(C) Go with your child because that's how you do things? This wish for independence is just a phase and they'll get over it. (It's not like they're gonna be writing about the experience when they're 28 or anything.)
(D) Let him go alone, empowering him to make decisions on his own and living with the consequences?
(E) Let him go alone, it’s easier that way.
(F) ???
Saturday, September 20, 2008
6 Month Milestone 5: 6 Month Check Up
According to the pediatrician's chart Magnolia continues to hover around the 92nd percentile, weighing 18 lbs 7 oz and 27 inches long. It was easier to weigh her at this check up since she could sit by herself on the scale. But that was all that was easier. While waiting for the doctor she ripped up the tissue paper covering the exam table. The nurse kindly replaced the paper and, lucky for me, the doctor arrived shortly after that. 
All of the pediatrician instruments were extremely interesting to Magnolia. After she surprised Dr. Rosquist by crawling across the exam table to grab her stethoscope we changed strategies. Instead of using the exam table Dr. Rosquist guided me through various holding positions to restrain our squirmy, curious little girl.
Overall, Magnolia Grace is happy, healthy and thriving.
All of the pediatrician instruments were extremely interesting to Magnolia. After she surprised Dr. Rosquist by crawling across the exam table to grab her stethoscope we changed strategies. Instead of using the exam table Dr. Rosquist guided me through various holding positions to restrain our squirmy, curious little girl.Overall, Magnolia Grace is happy, healthy and thriving.
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