Cheer?

That’s right, they cheered. When the one year anniversary of Katrina was announced at Morning Meeting, the students cheered. Sure, later we considered those who lost their lives, watched a slideshow of post-flood New Orleans, which was created by students, and talked about the “new” New Orleans. But their first reaction was a cheer.

At first I was horrified. I mean horrified. How could they be clapping and whooping for Katrina? Then I realized…they made it. They made it through this year and they are back in school in New Orleans. They are home and that is worth cheering about.

Talking Gas

I know it's gross, but I passed gas the other day. In the bathroom. In front of Ramona.

She said, "Your fart just said 'God'. Farts say things and I hear them. Like 'roar'."

"Wow," I said, because there wasn't much else to say.

"Only grown up farts say things. Kids' farts don't," she continued, "Well, they do, but they are too low [to the ground] for me to hear what they are saying."

I wonder if she talks to angels too.

BTW

I figured out a way to make this blog un-google-able. So it will live on.

Living in a flat city: shortcuts, Friday afternoons, and pacing

One time I was trying to explain to my father that I thought living in New Orleans would be a good thing because I wouldn't have to work so hard. He didn't get that, after all, hard work is very good thing. It is a very good thing. The problem is I like to work so much that sometimes I can't help myself and I overdo it. I've sought therapy for this. No joke. I think what I mean is that I like the slower pace of New Orleans. I have not settled into it completely yet, but I want to learn to pace myself.

Take for instance the other day. I was with a bunch of teachers at a conference Downtown. Many of us live Uptown. Upon learning this, I asked them how they drove Downtown. They all sort of shrugged, it isn’t complicated, and told me the most obvious ways to get from Uptown to Downtown. I launched into a long explanation about several of the quicker routes to get Downtown from my house. “So, do you think that’s faster?” I asked with my eyes widening. I mean, by God, I could be saving these people three minutes tomorrow morning. They looked at me puzzled. “I guess so...” one of them trailed off. They just couldn’t really see what the point was of saving three minutes. I got their point.

On Friday, our Downtown conference ended at 3:30PM, and I thought that I better rush back to school to check in and sign some papers. Phil got off around the same time and we talked from our cars to each other. We each had agendas for the second half of our Friday work days. I called the school. No answer, no one to get me the papers I needed to sign. Then I got a call from Amy: did I want to meet her for a Margarita right now? I hesitated—wasn’t it the middle of the workday—and then I said yes. Oregon Amy and I have vowed to take on Louisiana customs. And when I got there, a bunch of her fellow physiatrists were there with her. At 4:15 the workaholic-perfectionist types rolled in. And we had a nice time.

So I have been mulling over this. Don’t get me wrong, I am working at a school that is busting (and I mean busting) its butt to get its building ready for students to come on Monday. Everyone, including me, is working really hard to be ready welcome our students into our community. I have never had such high expectations set for my teaching and my work. I am excited. But everyone paces themselves.

Some people chalk that up to the heat. And it is true that it is hard to move fast in the heat, but we live inside, in air conditioning. While I was on a jog the other night, I decided that maybe it has something to do with being in a flat city. When I took my first New Orleans bike ride, I expected it to be easy. There are no hills. But no up hills in New Orleans means that there are no down hills. My whole life, the terrain of the places I have lived has lent itself to bearing down and frantically pumping really, really hard on the up hills then coasting on the down hills to catch your breath. No longer. In New Orleans steady is the name of the game. I want to pace myself to be steady so that I can keep on keeping on.

Optimism in New Orleans

I have been shocked to find so many positive people in New Orleans. I mean, my goodness, this place is still a wreck. And then I started to think about it. You know how sometimes you hear people say that since Americans are the children of immigrants (which is of course only partially true), then it follows that we are hard working, striving entrepreneurs who are willing to take risks and get the job done (which is of course also only partially true).

Well, I think I have discovered another partial truth: the people who are left in the Greater New Orleans metro area are optimists. Maybe we are just in denial, but if you were living here and didn’t like this city and could go elsewhere, you would. If you are pessimistic in the slightest, you’d go elsewhere. So, we’re left with a bunch of can-doers. I like that.

A Working Mom's Lemonade (AND COOKIES!) Stand

Sumner has been begging to have a lemonade stand for quite awhile. I didn't know how I was going to do the whole lemon-squeezing-sugar-hopefully-dissolving-and-water-adding homemade lemonade thing. I know it isn’t so hard, but how was I going to keep my classic-looking glass pitcher of homemade lemonade cold in 90 degree weather? The other thing is that my weekends are taking on a new priority these days: I have to rest and get organized. I used to try to rest during the week on the few hours I had when the kids were in school and I didn’t have to be somewhere doing something. Now, I have to rest on the weekends (like the rest of the world). So I followed the lead of my cousin Amy and bought a bunch Capri-suns, lemonade flavor. They are even "all natural" (yeah right!).

As soon as Sumner set eyes on the 30 "pouches" that I bought for his business, he calculated that at 50-cents-a-pop he’d make 15 dollars. A week later when he and his cousin each had one, he made an adjustment to 14 dollars. It took me a few weeks to actually get around to setting up shop, but for Sumner it was practically money in the bank.

So, we set out to do the stand on a sticky, hot afternoon (like all the rest). I knew Ramona would want to be a part of the venture, so we went and bought (again, not made) some cookies. When we go home, she set up shop on the kitchen island bagging cookies in 2 cookie “packages”, also known as sandwich bags. When she finished, I asked her to put the sandwich bag box back and asked her to also put the two extra bags laying the table back in the box. “But, mom, I need those for germs,” she told me as she slipped those onto her hands like a fast food server. Now all she needed was a hairnet.

All day long I kept calling this their Lemonade Stand and all day long Ramona had to loudly remind me “AND COOKIES”. This was important.

Sumner made two signs, one for the cookies and one for the lemonade. They agreed to share their profits evenly, a tough negotiation. We loaded our wagon with all of our supplies, and pulled it down to our corner. On the way to the corner, two guys working next door bought cookies and lemonade. At the corner, no customers.

So we headed one more block over, where there is a lot of car traffic. The kids held signs up and Ramona shouted at every car, but still no customers. After about 10 cars, Sumner decided to give up and Ramona started to yell louder. Then Sumner got on my cell phone and called everyone he could think of who lived in New Orleans. No customers. So we took our stand on the road. We walked all over the neighborhood and quenched the thirst of people working outside. We made some friends with our neighbors.

When we spotted someone up ahead, Sumner started anticipating, plotting, and discussing with me his approach and his pitch. Ramona just started shouting, “Lemonade and cookies”. Words were exchanged over this.

They both made over four dollars, which they spent that evening at Target. They plan to reprise their stand some time soon.

Ramona also decided to start marketing gift bags that she has been making. She likes making money.

New Roles

Ramona: What did you do today?

Me: I went to a principal's conference.

Ramona: (In shock) Are you a principal?

Me: No, but I may be one day.

Ramona: (With great worry in her face) Then who's going to be my mom?

I went grocery shopping in high heels today

I've seen it done. I never understood it. It was not a quick in and out. It was a whole shop. And I did it. Today. After work. They really weren't high, high heels, just a little high, but they are pointy. What will people think of me?

Funny thing is, I thought I was being so efficent and making my family's life just a little easier.

As I pulled into the driveway I got a frantic call from Phil. He fired away, "I'm in the check out line at the grocery. Just got your message [that you also went shopping]. What did you get? Milk? Yougurt? Fish for dinner tonight? What kind of fruit? Tell me now." He was watching his basket full of groceries inch down the belt, imagining a wilted head of lettuce in a week.

So we have a lot of food in our house. As Sumner pointed out, "We have 48 squeezy yougurts." And four boxes of cous cous and 12 cans of beans and enough salad for a party of 20. That's okay. My shoes are off and we won't go hungry.

The Beetle

This morning when I woke up, I found Sumner sitting in his giant, red beanbag listening peacefully to a book on tape. I asked him how it was going. He calmly told me that earlier he had killed a huge beetle. I saw the beetle. It was a cockroach. I informed him of this.

Later he said, “I can’t believe how strong those roaches are. I had to put my bean bag on top of it to kill it. Then I hit it with my book-light about seven times and then I smashed it with one of my biggest cars.”

We are living in a savage world.

Me in French

Ramona wanted to move here because she could learn French and French is fancy.

I shudder when I hear or have to say a word that is even remotely French. When people say things that have a French pronunciation I am at a total loss. Someone was telling me about a person with the last name DeJean. I wrote on my paper "DeJone" and then thought: oh, no, it must be like the mustard.

These little French somersaults have been happening in my head all week. I get very confused.

We know a guy with a French name and I call him "Jaw". That's not how you say it (or spell)...in French.

Today, at the end of the day, I had the most embarrassing moment yet. I was writing a guy's last name down. I had seen his name on a list several times that day and even typed it. It was "Richard", I thought. But I thought I'd better check if it was Richards. Richard or Richards? Like a bunch of Ricks or Dicks running around. "No 's'," he says with a smile, "It is Ree-shard."

I am going to have to go to speech therapy.

Six in French

Sumner: Mom, do you know what six in French is?

Me: No.

Sumner: Just replace the i with an e.

Me: Sex?

Sumner: (with a grin) Yeah.

Me: What is sex anyway?

Sumner: I think it is a swear.

Me: No, it's not.

Sumner: Then it must be a potty word.

Google me

If you google Emily and my last name you will find this page.

This is a problem when you are teaching 8th grade English.

So, on August 15, I will probably have to delete this blog.

Does anyone have another solution?

I am investigating ways to keep it going with my most dedicated readers.

You can't imagine going back to work when...

Ramona called me from her school and says into my voicemail, "Mama, my owie is hurting right now. I love you. Please call me back." I don't want to kiss owies over the phone.

You can't imagine going back to work when...you look around at the camp counselors that you son is spending two weeks with and you want to do a little professional development with them to get them up to snuff to be with your child.

You can't imagine going back to work when...you won't have enough time to do all of the creative projects (like making a unicorn popcicle or Harry Potter potions) your children suggest to you.


You can't imagine going back to work when...you realize that someone else will be owning your time.

You know it is time to go back to work when...

upon finding a small tear in her new tie-die dress Ramona said to me, "You must not have hand washed it right, Mom."

Then Sumner said, "Mom, you really need to sweep the floors. Little things are sticking to my feet."

And finally, perched on her breakfast stool Ramona pushed her breakfast aside and put her face real close to the counter and said, "Mom, you really need to wipe this counter down before I eat."

I want to be more than a housekeeper.

Phil actually said to me tonight...

"I think my look lends itself to classic things."

The Undones

When I finally get into bed at night, the undones start whispering in my ears. I hate them. They are things "to do" that won't take much time (most of them) but they somehow sink to the bottom of my priorities each day. Write change of address email. Get new Social Security card. Blog. I know I am not doing these "to dos", I understand that there are more important things to do, and I am glad to be doing the important things. But at night this reasoning vanishes and I can't understand how the undones are still undone and why I didn't gag them by doing them so that I can rest in peace and quiet.

But doing undones just makes other undones rise to the top of your worry list.

Undones are pests.

A dollar

I have been shopping alot. But we just bought a house and our finances are still settling and we need new gutters--you know the drill. So I try, I mean really, really try to buy the things we need, really need. Unless it costs a dollar. If it costs a dollar (or two), I can afford it.

The New Natural

Phil farts.

I say, "You are so disgusting."

He says, "I'm just natural."

Mourning Our Mornings

My kids are going places these days. Ramona's in her new school and Sumner's at a camp. I am glad to have the time to myself and I am getting alot of good stuff done, but I miss our mornings. I miss Ramona and I sleeping in until 8:30. I miss having the luxury of time so that I don't have to tell Sumner to stop playing and come to breakfast. I miss not having to rush out the door.

The thing is that the mornings were turning into afternoons of cabin fever. Sumner, Ramona, and I needed out and it was too hot to go out and we all ended each day frustrated or angry. There's been lots of bickering.

The first and second days of "going places" the kids were gung-ho. The bickering ended. But the newness wore off well before familiarity materialized. They plainly tell me that they want to go home to Boston, they don't have friends yet, and that they want to stay home everyday.

And I want them to stay home and I want our mornings back, but just because something is hard I don't think you should give up. So, we talk and we cry a little. And we make plans about how to make friends. And we talk with the counselors and the teachers and we learn the names of some new kids.

We're in mourning. We've got to work through it to get to the other side.

Red Mat, Blue Towel

Amy and I go to the same yoga studio. We showed up for the same class last week. It is so bizzare to see Amy, my middle school and high school pal, in my everyday life in New Orelans. We have never been adults who just hang out. There's been trips and visits and good talks and weddings and baby showers, but no yoga. As we hang out more, little things come back to us, which we had forgotten about.

As the class was about to begin, I saw Amy, who was several spots away from me start to smile suppress a giggle. I mouthed, "What? What is it?" She just shook her head.

Later she admited that she was laughing at my primary red mat and primary blue towel, "That's just so Sumner, not your Sumner, but Jim and Annabelle Sumner, it made me laugh."