Survival

Ramona said, "You have to fart to live." It's kind of like breathing.

The Bottomless Pit

Phil has a call month this month. He's working 80+ hours a week. I have the end of the first quarter, Spirit week, and a Homecoming dance to pull off. The grandparents are in Spain. We're making out okay, but...

Needless to say, issues of work-family balance (or a total lack thereof) are surfacing. They are taking a toll. We both feel that we are doing more than the other parent. The truth is that neither of us is a martyr, we're just doing too many things. So, Phil's a little intense about little things and impatient. I need to cry a few more times a day than I usually do.

Lots of crying can wear a man out. Today I asked him to "listen to me [cry] more." He said he couldn't--he's not a bottomless pit--it wears him out. I laughed. I told him that he was not where near a bottomless pit. He's a ditch. He just absorbs a little bit of the overflow.

Do parents lie?

As summer turns to autumn, before we have even chosen our Halloween costumes, questions of Christmas are troubling my children.

Sumner asked me the other day if parents lie. I told him that parents do lie--some parents. I also asked him why he asked. He wanted to know the real truth about Santa. He said about half of his friends believe and half do not. I dodged the questions about Santa by asking him if he believes. He said he does. Maybe.

Tonight at dinner Sumner told us that he doesn't believe in magic, but he believes in Santa. He said that he thinks we put a ladder in our chimney for Santa to come down and that Santa has a jet sleigh. The reindeer aren't magic, they are robotic reindeer that look realistic. The elves are just "little people" who had plastic surgery on their ears. And the toys? Well, there's a machine with a "little bit of magic." When I mentioned that I think a little bit of magic is still magic, he protested and said that it is just "mechanical magic." The toys come from a giant thing with lots of parts and all of those parts can make up any kind of toy and the toys shoot out of the machine. Oh, and by the way, there is one girl toy-tester and one boy toy-tester waiting to test each gender specific toy as it pops out. But there's no real magic involved at all.

I was taking notes during the whole monologue. When Ramona realized that I was taking notes, she chimed in, "Santa is fat and old." When she saw fat and old on the page she told me to cross that out. She didn't mean that. I think she thinks fat and old are put-downs. Then she started dictating to me, slowly, so I would get it all down. It turns out Santa is very kind and he would be a good Lusher student and he likes and respects people a lot.

At this point Sumner interjected, "How does it all work?"

"I think his reindeer are beautiful. Some are girls and some are boys."

"How do they fly?" Sumner insisted.

"Well, fairy tales just trick us. They want us to think Santa isn't true. This is what happens. The reindeer just walk. I think Santa has magic and he puts it on his nose and his reindeer and his sleigh and it makes them shrink. Then they slide under the window. No, Mom, cross that out. They slide under the door."

Parents don't need to lie. They've got it all worked out.

The Secret

"How do you do it?" Brad asked.

I was at the copy machine, trying to make copies (in two minutes or less) of a test I had just finished writing for my students to take right away. I was rushing so that I could leave the test with a sub, freeing me up to take Sumner to a doctor's appointment.

Brad chatted with a frenzied me. He doesn't have children. "Tim and I were talking this weekend and we just don't know how people with kids get it all done. I mean our weekends are crazy. By the time we clean up and grocery shop and run a few errands and grade papers, we're beat and it is time to start a new week. And it is just the two of us. I just don't know how parents do it." He gave the obligatory slow head shake, right to left, twice.

I looked at Brad and said, "I'll tell you the big secret. Parents just don't get 'it' done. You can't. Not in the same way. Crazy things happen. For instance, you find yourself driving to work and you think: I didn't brush my teeth. And then you think: I guess I better chew a piece of gum so I don't smell. That's the big secret: you just don't get it all done."

Russian Cake

There are lots of little things in New Orleans that only happen in New Orleans.

After the big day at our school yesterday, I came home with a huge bag of kettle corn. This morning, I put it in containers and tried to parcel it out to the neighbors.

When I got to one neighbor's house, she offered me some Russian Cake and I accepted. She said, "I won't be offended if you hate it."

That's not usually what people say when they give you cake. Well, I soon learned that Russian Cake is an acquired taste. After a day of asking every local I know about it and reading about it on the internet, I learned that bakeries (and apparently a local convent-homeless shelter that has a secret deal with Tastee Donuts) in New Orleans take their leftover cake, cookies, and pie crust and make it into something new: Russian cake. They cut it all up into little bits, then heat it up and pour some sort of cherry flavored syrup or liquor on it and rebake it. Then they put a layer of fresh cake on the bottom and top and frost it and put sprinkles on it. Yuck.

Good thing she won't be offended.

Proud to be home

As I have told many of you, this year has not been easy. Quite honestly we moved here because we like New Orleans, we wanted to be a part of something, and we wanted to live my family. Well, we've been here and we like the town, but sometimes it is hard to see progress and feel like you are a part of something.

Today was different. Teacher, parents, students, and administrators at my school came together and did something. And it was beautiful.

Check it out.

Sustainable life is possible here.

A real hamster

When I was little, my cousin's wife (now x-wife) began to design stuffed animals. These animals are not your basic beanie babies or some sort of stuff-a-bear-in-a-mall thing. These animals look real--really real. Back when I knew her, she was just starting out and her living room was always full of rabbit pelts that she was cutting up and refashioning into new animals. Her latest gig is to make stuffed animals that are replicas of real ones. Its better than taxidermy. She makes stuffed animals to look like real animals. I'm not kidding and I admit I think it is creepy. I located her after a quick google search. You may want to check out her website; it is not for the faint hearted, but this story will be even better if you are familiar with her work.

Anyway, one of the things she made for us long ago was a finger puppet that has the shape and feel of a teddy bear hamster. She might have made this puppet because Jacob had a series of hamsters who all died over a three or four year period. There was Ben, then Teddy, and then Wes, who it is suspected my mother coldly euthanized with a paper bag one rainy Oregon day. Perhaps this finger puppet was meant to soothe his loss. I am not sure what the truth of this matter was, but I like to imagine my cousin's x-wife, misty-eyed, threading her needle, getting ready to re-craft a bit of rabbit into a stand-in pet for my sensitive little brother.

Whatever the reason it was created, this tiny puppet looks really real. I think it is made of rabbit fur, it has black beady eyes, and little pink ears and a nose made out of suede. It is really quite amazing and if you put the puppet on your index finger and then wrap your other hand around the base of it, it looks like you have a real hamster. When we were in middle and high school Jacob and I used to trick our friends with it and on one occasion we so petrified Mom, she screamed bloody murder for at least 20 seconds without a breath. A giggle still rises up in me when I think of it.

FAST FORWARD 16 years. My children love to tease my mom about her fear of rodents. Nearly every time they talk to her, they mention a rat or a mouse or some such thing. They plot together (as Jake and I used to) ways to scare her and she gladly plays along--shrieking and shivering as much as possible.

So to carry on their little joke, in one of my mom's most recent shipments of my childhood junk to New Orleans, I found a lumpy, sealed envelope addressed to Sumner and Ramona. Since I always sort through these junk shipments from home when the children are not around--I fear they will lay claim to things that I think are rubbish--I was the one that found the envelope. I opened it and played with it for a few minutes one night, looking forward to showing it off to them the next morning.

As always, Sumner got up first. I was sure that he would be very excited to see this rodent replica. I imagined he, Ramona, Phil, and I using this hamster puppet to play practical jokes on all of our friends. I was sure that Sumner would find this rediscovered toy a pure delight. I was wrong.

At 5:45 the following morning, he got up and made his way downstairs to find me checking my email or making their lunches. I slipped the puppet on my finger as soon as I heard him on the steps and when he got to me I announced that we had a new pet, a hamster. Then I waited for him to examine the specimen. He looked confused and then asked, "Really?"

I directly offered to let him hold it and I put the puppet in his hand to let him discover the truth. He was puzzled and slightly disturbed.

"Grannabelle sent it," I told him. "It's a hamster puppet. Isn't it real-looking?"

He picked it up between two fingers and, looking over his glasses at me, asked, "Did they just hollow out a hamster to make it?"

That is a replica for you. Too good to be true. Or real.

I felt that old giggle rise in me again.

When your parents fake-retire...

My dad wanted to "have less responsibility and more time with is grandchildren" and he wanted to continue golfing and saving some buck for real retirement. So he fake retired. He is supposed to work three-quarters time, three quarters of the year. He isn't a dean of anything or a VP of that department. He's a guy who works for Grinnell doing some recruiting and a little of this and that.

This means that my mom is going to "have less responsibility and more time with is grandchildren." I can tell that she wants to be free of all of this stuff she has. She wants to have less, do less, and be still more. She wants to be with her friends and family. She and my dad are going to have more time together.

I'm learning a few things about fake retirement. When your parents fake-retire they downsize.
They send you lots of good furniture (that your brother may one day fight you for). They move home. They are surrounded by their old friends and they are jolly. Jollier. More relaxed.

Still they are grieving this great (and fake) life change. They look back on the hard work of the last 40 years and they are reflecting on the experiences and friendships they have collected. And each experience and friendship has a keepsake connected to it. A Hollie Hobie stained glass figure. An unsent card you wrote to an old friend, who was beloved by your parents. A crumbling corsage from some dance. They send you some dishes you may want and a few childhood keepsakes that you mentioned you want. And they want less responsibility and yet they don't want to let go of it all. So they ship all this useless junk to you.

Saints Time

As you might imagine, our family anticipated and watched the first regular season Saints game with enthusiasm. Phil even bought a big, flat TV for the occasion. We made a deal with the kids: even though it was a school night, we let them stay up until halftime.


With about 5 minutes before the half, when the Horseshoes (as Ramona calls them) were already winning yet it seemed there still may be hope for the Saints, Ramona started to peter out. With about 2 minutes on the clock, I told her to go and get in the bath and that I'd be up in two minutes.

"Really? In just two minutes?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well, two football minutes is like 5 or 10 minutes," I explained.

Puzzled, she turned and went to the bath.

The Saints lost; we mourned.

The next morning, I woke Ramona up as I usually do on school days. Generally when I wake her up, we cuddle for several minutes. This cuddle is "a process" of connecting and then breaking apart. She does not let go easily.

This particular morning, I was in a hurry so I told her that I could only cuddle for two minutes.

"Two football minutes?" she asked.

A quick study, that one.