Even My Ears are Oily

I have never had a skin problem. Well, I thought I had had skin problems. In high school and college I would occassionally get a big red, unpoppable zit on my nose. They were awful, but I only got about one a year, so who cares?

Well, down here I have become an oily person. Go figure. And oil leads to zits--lots of little ones on my forehead.

When Aarti, a Louisiana native, was here taking care of our family a few weeks ago, just after she interrogated Phil about two giant zits on his neck and head, she gave me some kindly advice, "Wash you face." She had to clarify that I needed to wash my face outside of my every other day shower. I thought: I can handle that. Then she went on, "When you get up, when you come home from work, when you go to bed." That's a lot of Purpose soap.

Well, this morning I missed my morning wash. Phil slept in. As he was making his way out of bed, he glanced over at me and said, "What have we here?" Assuming he was going to mock my french braid or pick on the coach shorts I like to wear around the house, I was half-ignoring him. He got real close to my ear and stuck his finger in it as if it was a cotton swab, "These are really greasy."

I got out some rubbing alcohol and took care of that. But how am I to keep up with this new layer of slim that is covering my body several times a day.

Charts

We've been having morning challenges. Challenges=crazy, desperate crying and screaming by everyone. Actually Phil doesn't cry or scream, he just gets crabby and says irrational things.

So, we decided that the solution was to make reward charts for the children. No fits. No whining. No crying. No shouting. Say please. Get dressed on time. Brush teeth when asked. If the kids do these things they get a sticker on their new sticker charts. 10 stickers=a trip to the ice cream store. This method has worked morning improvement plan (MIP) in the past.

So, yesterday we put the MIP in place. While I still freaked out, the kids did much better. Phil said he wished he could have video taped me, because when I spilled my coffee he saw a textbook case of desperation. He also admitted that the day before he had spilled grits in the ninth hour and panicked.

Last night I made charts for both kids. Sumner put his sticker on his. Ramona flipped out because the chart was not made to her specifications. So she worked last night at making it just so and went through several drafts. Finally she gave up and went to bed. This morning, she set out to get it just so. I was loading the dishwasher. After about 10 minutes she came to show it to me, "Mom, I made a chart for you. It is a screaming chart." There were little squares and in one square was two stickers, layered on top of each other, "The first one is for when you yelled at me [She asked for half of a bagel and when I handed her half she freaked because she really wanted half of a half. I may have raised my voice when telling her to "JUST EAT AS MUCH AS YOU WANT! STOP SCREAMING!"]. The second one is for when you're good."

I need that reinforcement. Thank God for my teacher-children.

Making Friends

We are eager for our children to make friends. Knowing how to make friends doesn’t always come naturally, so we talk a lot about how to make friends and then they report to us how it is going.

Today I was delighted when Sumner told me he made friends with someone because Sumner gave him a “squishy”.

Afraid of the answer, I asked, “What’s a squishy?”

Sumner explained that it is a ketchup, mayo, or mustard pack.

“Why did your new friend want that?”

Sumner then explained that in the Captain Underpants book that he read today during his free time, he learned that if you fold up a “squishy” and put it between the toilet and the toilet seat and then wait for someone to come and use the toilet, the “squishy" will explode all over. He successfully attempted this with the mayo pack from his lunch today.

And he made some friends doing it.

The Saints

I’ve lived with Phil for a long time and the Saints have dominated our dominated Sunday afternoons. Phil doesn't take a lot of alone time, but Saints Sundays are sacred. He has been a fan in exile. There aren’t a lot of Saints fans in London. Or Boston. But Phil usually managed to find a way every Sunday to watch the Saints fail again in the ways that only they can fail. The Saints never just lose a game. They always give you hope that they just might be able to pull it together and then they screw it all up.

A strange thing happened on Sunday. It wasn’t that they won. That's not strange. The win was just a good sign of things to come. The strange thing was that everywhere I went people were talking about the Saints. At church they announced that the Saints games would be projected on the wall of the doublewide trailer we're meeting in. At the bar where Phil watched the game he wasn’t relegated to some random side room where no one else cared to watch the bigger games—the whole bar was cheering with him. And at the birthday party I went to with the kids the parents were wondering about and checking in on the game. This feels strange. It is strange that this whole city cares about a game that in my former lives only Phil cared about.

Chris, we beat you.

Guy, could the Saints be the next Patriots? This city really needs that.

Working Mom/Working Dad

This has been a huge adjustment for all of us. This is the longest I have gone without blogging. Ever. I know that I have received emails from those in withdrawal. The blog will not die. I did not die. My family will not die. We’re just adjusting and there hasn’t been time to blog.

My brown cords have been replaced with a wool herringbone skirt, 7:30 wake ups have been replaced by 7:30 drop offs, and my midday tea has been replaced with a diet coke. I just bought a kettle for my office to remedy the tea problem.

Phil is doing a good amount of adjusting himself. Thankfully his August and September schedules have been on the light side of things and he’s been able to pick up a little slack. He also has been doing some of the things I usually do around here. That has led him to say some of the things that I usually say around here.

This weekend he did the laundry and loaded the dishwasher a couple of times. At one point he said to me, “I’ve done a lot of tidying this weekend. Really, I have. Aren’t you impressed?” And I was. And he needed affirmation for his hard work, as I often do when I do that stuff.

When I was putting away my clean laundry I found a dainty shirt that had been ironed, folded and wrinkling up by the second at the bottom of my clothing pile. Appalled I stormed off to show Phil what a BIG mistake he’d made. He said, “I did all of the laundry and I make ONE mistake and that’s all I hear about.” I say that to him when he complains.

I got a message this morning on my machine that sounded a lot like me. Phil called to tell me that Sumner was resistant to being dropped off and he isn’t sure that the preschool Ramona’s at is good enough (it’s never going to be the Coop) and he was late to work (AGAIN) and he was really stressed out by the whole thing. I’ve left that same message (except in mine I am always crying) on Phil’s phone 100 times in the last 4 years. It is strange to hear an echo.

Yes Ma’am

Whenever we move somewhere I change up how I do things a bit. I arrived in NYC with Oregon birks and an anklet that jingled and I went home at Christmas with a lot more black in my wardrobe and no sound-making accessories. In Phoenix I started wearing tank tops. In Oakland I lost my iron and killed my ironing board and wore overalls to work, hugged everyone hello, and talked about the aura in a meeting. In London I learned to make much better tea, cooked bangers and mash for dinner, and bought a few clothing items that made my pregnant belly look a little more chic and a little less fleece. Back to the States and Boston I went back to the fleece, made fall apple picking a traditional family event, and tried not to use words like aura and vibe.

So, it would seem natural, or at least part of the pattern that in New Orleans I would do as they do—I like to fit in. I’m looking forward to semi-regular pedicures, I have thrown a y’all here and there, seersucker is looking pretty cute these days, and ironing all of a sudden seems to be a must. I’m ready to get Southern.

But I didn’t expect my kids to get Southern too. At least not this quickly.

The other day I was asking Sumner to do something—something complicated. As I was explaining it he said, “Yes, ma’am.” I smiled inside and went on only to be greeted with another “yes, ma’am” and when I finished he looked at me in all seriousness and said, “Yes ma’am.” I have never in my life asked him to say “yes ma’am” to anyone.

When in Rome…

Hobbies

School is supposed to do what? I’m still working that out. Sometimes I wonder if it is the best use of all of our time.

Sumner was working on writing paragraphs and the teacher asked him to write about his hobby. Here’s what the teacher asked him to do and what he wrote:

Topic Sentence to tell your favorite hobby

“Daydreaming is great!!!”

When do you spend time on your hobby?

“When my work is done.”

Where do you practice your hobby?

“everywhare”

Why is this your favorite hobby?

“Its a secrit Diory in my head.”

Retell the topic sentence in your own words.

“What I could do

what the world could do

what could happen

what will happen”

Thinking about what we could do, what the world could do, what could happen, and what will happen sound pretty edifying. So school is supposed to do what?

Sun Roof/Sun Veil

That’s what Ramona called her sun visor all weekend on the Alabama beach.

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.