Idiot on Aisle 3

Look ma, salon styled hair!

After a year of growing my hair out I slumped into my stylists chair.  I brought my hair, she brought the usual questions. "How are you?  How are kids? What length?" and then the inevitable ... "Color, too?"  "No", I replied, "I'm still trying to grow the last color out".  Why did I wait a year to cut my hair?  Pure and simple embarrassment.  A while ago I made a disastrous attempt at dying my hair at home. Like an idiot I forgot to add the bottle of oil into the mix for the color "sangria". Who forgets an ingredient in sangria?  I do! Queue embarrassment: I ended up with fried hair and I have been on a mission to grow it out and start fresh.  Goodbye sangria!

Since 17, I have what salon experts refer to as, "persistent gray".  Whether I invest in professional coloring or do it in the privacy of my own home, by day 3 the gray is back with a vengeance. Rinse, repeat.  History aside, I am actually quite the optimist when it comes to DIY hair coloring.  By optimist, I mean I continue to try to do-it-myself knowing that I am lacking in something really critical ... skill.  But what I lack in skill I make up with a can-do attitude!  This my friends is a vicious cycle.

I can't help it!  This outrageously optimistic, can-do attitude is always with me.  And yet, I never seem to learn from it.  Nearly every woman I know outsources salon services.  These are intelligent individuals who leave it to the professionals.  Hair, nails, waxing, these beauty regimens are successfully accomplished by people who have dedicated their life to this craft, and I too outsource, with one exception: dying my hair.  It's a combination of that persistent gray, a nagging urge to save money and a ridiculous obsession with 10-minute youtube tutorials.  Damn you youtube and my naive ability to be tricked into believing I can do something without proper certification.

And then folks, history repeats itself. 
 
At the start of my sophomore year in high school a friend suggested that I highlight my hair.  What a great idea!  Blond highlights in my brown hair to really show-off the sun-kissed, California summer look.  We ventured into a drug store and stood before the aisle of hair dyes.  Smiling women with gorgeous, luxurious hair stared back at us.  I grabbed a box guaranteeing beautiful blonde highlights and headed for the register.  Back at my friends house my first hint that this might not be a superb plan went unnoticed, she had to visit a relative and couldn't help me apply the dye.  No problem I thought, I can do it alone!

At home I looked over the directions.  They seemed simple enough.  Step 1: mix dye.  Step 2: brush hair.  Step 3: using a comb, starting at your temple, comb the dye through your hair all the way to the end.  Easy!  Long hair brushed, tools laid out before me, I was ready for my gorgeous, luxurious, sun-kissed, California look.  Ready!!

Sadly, this is what really happened. 

I took the comb and spread a layer of dye across it.  I started the comb close to the roots.  An inch in it clumped on my hair.  No problem.  Using my comb and fingers I attempted to spread the dye down the length of my hair.  The clump wouldn't spread.  No problem.  I tried to distribute the clump down the length of my hair by the individual strands.  Not working.  No problem.  I decided the best idea was to try washing the dye out.  As I dried my hair there was a panicked reflection in the mirror.  My gorgeous, luxurious, sun-kissed, California look had become a single blond clump at the top of my head.  <BLEEP>.

At this precise moment my mother came home.  <BLEEP>.  As I held the box up and glanced between the model and my hair, I knew I couldn't cope with my mother yelling at me for my idiocy.  Instead of fessing up to my ridiculous new hairstyle I devised a foolproof plan.  It went like this: any time I was around my mother I would wear a towel wrapped on my head.  At school I would wear a thick headband to cover the mess.  It could work!  I was a few days away from school starting and even with tennis practice after school and a bus ride home I would still beat her home.  And wouldn't you know it, it worked.  It worked for four whole days until she caught me head uncovered in my room while my stereo blared louder than the knock at my door.

If you know my mother, you can imagine the yelling that commenced.  Embarrassment aside, what I was not prepared for was this: the box mix was a bleaching dye and it took OVER A YEAR to grow out.  For over a year a patch of blond hair slowly migrated from the top of my head to the roots.  Did I learn my lesson?  Of course not.  A better question, do I ever?

Ignore the scrunchie, laugh at the blond patch.

       

When Your Child Turns Out To Be You

My 7th grader Julian has been selling dark chocolate with almond See's Candy bars as a fundraiser to offset his cost of attending a band tour to Southern California.  On Sunday I asked to see how much candy he had left to sell and assist in the money reconciliation.  His response, "About that ...".  Never a good sign.  It turns out that on Friday the box of candy and envelope of money were carelessly forgotten under his desk after sixth period.  He conveniently neglected to tell me about the mistake and was praying (to all forms of deity) that it would be right where he left it, bright and early Monday morning.

Yeah, right.  No one is that lucky.

Bring on the lecture.  After calmly explaining that I would now have to pay to replace the bars (because he spent all of his savings on the previous box) and my writing a check defeated the entire purpose of fundraising (insert Charlie Brown's teacher speaking) I opened my laptop and we sent a quick note to his sixth period teacher.  She was lovely and immediately responded, "I will check first thing but I didn't see anything when I left after sixth period."

What we both heard with fingers crossed: so you're saying there's hope?

I couldn't get mad.  Why?  I was reminded of a certain Bobby Sox softball season.  6th grade.  Taylor circa 1987 and a box of milk chocolate with almond World's Finest Chocolate bars aimlessly forgotten at the school bike stall.  That afternoon I slowly peddled home, fingers crossed on the handle bars, promising God I would try not to talk too much at school and half believing the box would magically be waiting on my front doorstop.  In reality, me at home, getting the stand-in-the-corner-while-I-yell-at-you treatment from my mother and only hearing (Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah).  Yes, the sound of Charlie Brown's teacher speaking.  Oh how history repeats itself.

I like to think in the present day scenario Julian was actually listening.  I can't guarantee it.  Nodding your head in agreement is a very simple exercise that can easily be perfected over the years.  Quick hint: wide, glassy eyes are a tell-tale confirmation that someone is hearing but not listening.  Trust me, I know that nod and glass eyed expression.  Oh, how I know it.  

What struck me most in that moment wasn't the mistake or the the praying or the hoping that all will be well in the world on Monday morning.  I added this chocolate bar incident to the never-ending list of Julian-ism's and with happy, amused realization I couldn't help but grin, I have seen this all before ... my son is a mini-me.  Well, almost like me.  In his case the chocolate and money were exactly where he left them under his desk Monday morning.  I guess the prayer gene skips a generation.  Oh, that lucky, lucky kid.

It Takes a Village to Throw a Birthday Party

Evan's 6th Birthday Party : Country Fair theme

I bet you didn't know that I'm a recovering perfectionist under this disguise of a casual, cool-as-a-cucumber mom.  Who else do you know with a 3-page color coded spreadsheet for their child's 6th birthday party?  Yep.  This mom.  I have this horrible tendency to dream BIG and do everything on my own, from planning to logistics to execution instead of just breaking down and asking for help.  I go crazy, my family goes crazy, until we are all just a crazy bunch.  It's a viscous cycle.  So when it came to my youngest son Evan's 6th birthday party I did the unimaginable.  I asked for help.

There was once a time when I killed myself trying to be the perfect mom, employee, volunteer, friend, daughter, housekeeper and (my husband would suggest, occasionally) wife ... all at once.  Oh my, are those days over.  It is impossible to sustain any level of perfection for an extended period of time and I learned that lesson the hard way.  This became known as Taylor's Burn-out Phase, you may have been witness ... *boom*, *crash*, *burn*.  The reality is you can have it all, within reason.  There is one important rule: there has to be some give-and-take.  You can't work and volunteer for everything and juggle friends and be a good wife and be thoughtful toward your extended family and hey, be available to your children, to the level of (Om) perfection.  There just isn't enough time in the day.  *See my previous post, "Thursday: Never Enough Time in a Day to Shower".

So fast forward.  I get it.  Everyone needs help.  It takes a village.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  I know.  It just ... doesn't normally apply to my birthday parties.  

I absolutely love throwing birthday parties for my children.  Every year from preschool until their 8th birthday they have each received a themed birthday party.  By the time they turned eight my older boys were ready for the 24-hour birthday marathon which has continued into high school.  But that craziness is a whole different story.  This year I threw a Country Fair themed birthday party for Evan.  Fun stations for the guests with games and food and prizes.  I will take credit for the vision and organization, but I had a whole heck of a lot of help with the delivery.  

Every miniscule piece of control that I released by allowing someone else to take ownership over a portion of the party was a therapeutic step in the right direction.  If you are a recovering perfectionist, you can imagine how difficult it is to let someone else have an opinion or worse, control in regard to the vision of the party.  True, I still had my color-coded spreadsheet and my pencil-toting assistant (my 12 year old son Julian).  

But ...

• I trusted my mother with a glue gun to assemble the hanging signs for each table and even gave her free reign to create the 1st place ribbon decorations.  
• Two amazingly creative teenage friends ran the face painting table and produced beautiful pieces of painted art which I could never have done myself!
• I assigned my friend Stasi (a professional chef for <bleep> sake) to help prep food and assist my mother in decorating the three simple yet beautiful cakes. 
• My friend Jeremy organized the "Ring Toss" and "Knock Over the Can" games and stayed by their side the entire event.  
• Another friend Elyse (who doesn't even have a small child) volunteered to help kids decorate mini pumpkins.  And wow, do kids with paint need supervision.
• While we decorated, my sister Darion hand popped all of the popcorn while my older son's made fresh cotton candy and sno cones.  On a side note, I learned cotton candy twirling is an art in itself and I do not have the necessary coordination tools to make it happen.  
• I even trusted my husband Lewis with a finger-biting task ... the entire "Panning for Gold" station, from spray painting rocks and drilling holes in pie tins to hiding the gold in the sand.

The party was a hit!  It was a great day for my son.  I knew all of my family and friends were great, but seeing them all rally for Evan was a fantastic lesson for this recovering perfectionist.  It really did take a village to throw this 6th birthday party and I was grateful to have them!

Enjoy the pictures from Evan's Country Fair!

 Welcome to Evan's Country Fair!

 

Ring Toss Game

Evan playing Knock the Can Over

Panning for Gold in the sand box

Freshly popped popcorn for everyone

Mmmmmmm. Sno Cones.

Lovely homemade felt award ribbons

Lovely face painting for our guests

1st, 2nd and 3rd place cakes

Decorating Mini Pumpkins

No Country Fair is complete without corn dogs!

Meeting My Best Friends at Walk-a-thon, the End of an Era

This morning I am feeling that sad mix of emotions that nostalgia stirs.  I slept poorly last night because I reached that nasty point of being over-exhausted but still amped from too many diet coke's.  My legs were aching from alternating walking laps with my 6 year old and standing popping popcorn, selling food at concessions and running back and forth to the staff lounge to re-stock the bake sale.  All to benefit our elementary school Bubb's Walk-a-thon.  It was our family's 12th consecutive year.   

As I stood popping popcorn and juggled the needs of my three children: the oldest via text for marching band commitments, my middle feeling ridiculous as a volunteer sign holder (see pic below) and my youngest taking a break from walking laps to fill up on pizza, ice cream and popcorn, I started to get misty-eyed.  While my friend Joanne and her youngest son Owen helped me pop we reminisced about the love affair Owen has enjoyed with our trusty popcorn machine.  Since the time he was able to see over the table he has stood at our side at movie nights and school dances, watching the popcorn fill the machine while Jen and I tag-teamed the perfect combination of corn, oil and flavor-all ... scooping ... closing ... passing ... repeat.  This is Owen's last year at Bubb.  Where has the time gone?

All of my closest friends have either moved on from Bubb or will be leaving after this school year.  I still have four more Walk-a-thon's.  Our shoulder-to-shoulder work from planning to clean-up sealed our connection.  We have all loved this event that brought our husbands on to campus, our kids into the community for pledges and a purpose for our volunteering efforts.

I met one of my best friends Michelle at my first Walk-a-thon.  She was PTA President and running the show.  The following year we were inseparable.  We had an energy to get things done.  Our mission was to pull everyone into the school community and rid the school of the notion of have's-have not's.  I learned from her that everyone has a different level of giving and as a leader you should be grateful and embrace whatever that amount might yield.  I coordinated the Silent Auction for 9 years.  Bec was Walk-a-thon Chair.  Laura and Renelle handled food.  At the end of the night after the event was cleaned up, with our kids in a bake sale induced sleep, we noshed on chips and drank margarita's to decompress.  Today their children who were pushing for one last lap ... one more piece of pizza ... one more sno cone ... one more minute on the playground are in college.  Where has the time gone?

My friend Jen and I met when our oldest son's started kindergarten.  We were room mom's together with our friend Stacey (who is literally the nicest, most generous woman you will ever meet).  Jen was my PTA convention buddy in Sacramento, Long Beach and San Jose.  She knows PTA rules, regulations and core beliefs like the back of her hand and should be anyone's go-to for information, but she's not. Like me, she's old school.  Jen is also one of the few people in this world who has, and will back me unconditionally in every situation (she waits until we're in private to tell me I am being stupid), and taught me to be fiercely loyal to my friends.  With four kids, I thought she would be at Bubb forever.  Back in my Silent Auction heyday, they, along with our friend Elyse were my "Team".  This year the "Team" comprised of 30 people.  This is Jen's last year. Stacey and Elyse haven't been at Bubb for two years.  A new era has emerged.

As I started to empty cooler chests I thought about at all of these mom's who are moving on from Bubb, closing out their final Walk-a-thon: Jen, Joanne, Ruth, Jenny, Beth, Penny, Debbie, Susan.  Of this era, which is actually my second wave, I am the only one left.  I look around and I really don't know anyone.  It's a new crop of parents, a new time at Bubb.  I am the aging CEO in a room of shiny faced MBA grads.  I no longer fit.  There are no margarita's after the Walk-a-thon, I'm just ready for bed.

Suddenly I think about the popcorn machine and I am inspired.  I bought it when I was PTA President.  Back then we were both shiny and new.  Like me, it has seen a lot of events.  It has brought people happiness.  It has raised the school a lot of money.  It's that pain-in-the-ass at the end of the night that everyone has to deal with. I start to think, maybe, just maybe, I need a third wave at Bubb.  One last hurrah before our 16th and final Walk-a-thon.  And, just maybe, I want a new era of best friends.  Like everything else, only time will tell. 

Former Bubb students as walking advertisements

Carrying on the family popcorn tradition

Our friends the Pedroza's : popcorn and pizza entusiasts

Thursday: Never Enough Time in a Day to Shower

An abbreviated version of my Thursday. Why is there never enough time in the day to get to everything?

1:30am - Call it a night.

6:57am - Awake. Why do I have to wake up before the alarm? I need those extra three minutes.

7:00am - Alarm. Snooze button. Lay listening to hear if Evan is awake. Jordan is long gone, Julian is in the living room packed for school and watching TV.

7:05am - Alarm. Hit snooze again. Will myself to get up.  Meh. I'll shower later in the day.

7:10am - Alarm.  Okay, I'm up.  Evan is still asleep under at least 10 pounds of blankies and pillow pets. I lay down next to him and start hogging the bed, guaranteed response. 40 minutes countdown begins.

7:12am - In kitchen drilling Julian. What did he eat for breakfast? What does he have in his lunch? My response to his answers: more protein.

7:13am - Turkey bacon in the microwave for Evan and a handful of grapes. What day is it? Thursday. Sweet, he only needs a snack. 

7:15am - Evan has pulled himself out of bed and is sitting at the table. Breakfast is served. I bound into the garage to change laundry and grab snacks out of the pantry.

7:16am - Catch Evan attempting to toss turkey bacon into trash. Why? He wanted cereal. Not today buddy we're out of milk. *sigh*. Back at the table.

7:20am - Julian is walking out the door. He hem. Brush teeth, then school.

7:30am - Help Evan get dressed while reading his library book "Arthur's Christmas".

7:37am - Where are shoes?

7:43am - I throw on clothes and adjust pony tail. Crap. I have an 8am meeting. I should have showered. Too late now.

7:58am - Stroll up to classroom. Plenty of time! Kiss goodbye.

8am to 9am - My 12th Room Parent Meeting at Bubb. Why go? I need to connect with the other room mom's from Evan's class. Think about my to-do list and half-listen.

9:07am - Other mom's want to pow-wow but I've got to go. Secretly check email while they exchange contact info. Can we defer this discussion until tomorrow?

9:20am - Run into friends walking on the street. Discuss Democratic National Convention speeches.

10am - Sports Basement in Sunnyvale, Evan needs new soccer cleats. Lime green or black a half size too big. Go big or go home. Pay. Check email. Make a few phone calls, respond to texts.

10:30am - Between stores chat on the phone with a friend. Across town at Michael's Craft Store. I am behind on mailing birthday invitations. Big surprise. Of course I opt to hand make them instead of buying them pre-made. Idiot.  Check email.

10:40am - Run into friend in front of Michael's. Chat about birthday parties.

11:25am - Shoot. I spent too much time wandering the aisles. Cash out, cash out! Dammit! I forgot my coupon.

11:45am - Stop for gas, on fumes. Bleh. I'm going to be late.

11:58am - Yep. Late picking up Evan.  He wants to play on the structure. I find a grassy spot and check email.  Work piling up!

12:20am - Home for lunch. Chicken strips and carrots for Evan. He offers a Gordon Ramsey critique. I facebook his response while I eat left overs. Back on computer.

1pm - I have spent 30 minutes formatting birthday invitations and they are printing wonky. Frustrated because I have limited specialty paper. I'll come back to it later.

3pm - Two hours of work and I haven't even made a dent. Julian home from school, we talk shop and then I am back to work. I start the timer: one hour of video games. Julian playing Minecraft on the x-box and Evan playing LEGO Star Wars on the desktop. Quiet. Ahhh.

4:25pm - I have been so engrossed in my work I forget about the timer. Whoops. Time to start homework.

4:45pm - IM with my mother. I forgot we were supposed to can tomatoes. She is all set. I completely alter my Friday afternoon/evening schedule. Evan, Julian and I are now driving up to Lodi on a Friday afternoon. Oh joy. 

5pm - I re-check my to-do list and try not to cry. I cruise Pinterest for birthday party inspiration instead.

5:15pm - Pile into car and drive to Office Depot. I need to strategize a label for water bottles. 140 water bottles for choir camp and I wasn't able to have them imprinted in time for this weekend. Permanent label is next best thing!

5:28pm - Drive-thru at McDonald's for an iced coffee. I need a treat!

5:35pm - Home. Check email. Change over laundry. Start thinking about dinner. Start writing down notes for birthday games and search for cotton candy machines online. Rent or buy?

6:20pm - Jordan home. I remember I was supposed to take his bike to be repaired, he's riding Lewis'.  Add it to the Friday to-do list since I will be in Palo Alto.

6:35pm - Evan, Julian and I are back in the car for a meeting at the middle school for Destination Imagination. Julian wants to be on one of the teams. Great presentation and he's excited. I am tired before I even start looking at all of the paperwork. 6-8 month commitment. Yay!

7:10pm - Home. Take pictures of the amazing cloud formations from my driveway while Evan chases one of our cats. 

Gorgeous cloud formations.

7:15pm - Dinner. Right. Send Evan to read with Jordan and Julian. They are working on homework but take a break. I turn on the 90's music station. Turn laundry over. Start dinner. Vacuum living room. Evan in bath.

7:55pm - Sit down to dinner. Ask my kids about their day. Watch Vice President Joe Biden's Democratic National Convention speech while we eat.

8:20pm - Tuck Evan in bed and read "Duck at the Door" and "Dog Breath".

8:45pm - Jordan is MIA. He has fallen asleep while studying. I turn off his light.

9:00pm - Julian out of shower and says goodnight. I clear the table while listening to President Barack Obama's speech. I sit to hear entirety.

9:15pm - Lewis is home and goes to work fixing my invitation crisis and formatting the labels to print.  Watches more of the speech and then goes to bed. I check school volunteer related emails and note that I need to get some emails out before Saturday. When? Not sure.

10:30pm - Invitation card stock is printed, I am trimming it, assembly line begins. I jump between "The Italian Job" and old episodes of "The Big Bang Theory" on TV. Decide to facebook my invitation idiocy and also my enjoyment of the DNC speeches.

12:25 - Done with invitations. Realize I forgot to buy fruit punch for 1st grade Clifford Day. Off to Safeway. It's pretty lonely in there. Grab milk.

12:45pm - Still awake from the iced coffee. Work on "Four Guys, a Girl and a Hectic House". I never took that shower.

1:45am - Must. Go. To Sleep. 6:57am will be coming pretty quickly.

1:50am - Add new items to to-do list. I never have enough time. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.

Tutoring Trigonometry with a Pre-Algebra Mind

About 6 years ago I heard a lecture by famed Bay Area psychologist Madeline Levine regarding her book The Price of Privilege: How Parental Pressure and Material Advantage Are Creating a Generation of Disconnected and Unhappy Kids*.  Long title, I know.  Levine speaks a lot about the stresses that parents, the school community and society place on children to be perfect, especially in affluent places like the San Francisco Bay Area.  In these areas where parents are uber-successful, ultra-competitive and super-stressed, their children are too.  I looked around the theater at the other mom's and dad's rapidly taking notes, nodding their heads in agreement and asking questions that only people who earn 6-figures worry about like, is my child enrolled in enough activities and are they the right ones?  Basically completely missing the point.  These parents had the dreamy look of Stanford, Berkeley and Harvard in their child's future and I couldn't help but wonder just how hard they would have to push to get them accepted.  How hard would I be pushing to get my own children into a good college?

Levine's lecture really got me thinking about how I was speaking to my children and how I might be unrealistically pressuring them to excel at every subject.  The idea that our children can be exceptional at every sport, subject, game, social situation, etc. is completely unrealistic and unfair, especially when we as adults aren't even close to being good at everything.  Because of Levine's lecture my kids have heard my mantra like a broken record, "We all have strengths and weaknesses and we all can't be good at every thing".  With that understanding I am available to tutor, discuss, debate and admittedly sometimes cajole my children in a variety of subjects.  Except math.  Nope.  Math isn't one of them.  Why not?  As my high school counselor referred to it, the highest math level I achieved was "retard".

I know, I know, it's a dirty word.  Don't shoot the messenger.  Back in the fall of 1993 I was entering my final year at Lodi High School.  As I sat before my guidance counselor she clicked her teeth, glanced over my schedule and nodded approvingly.  Government/Econ AP ... German 4 AP ... Advanced Journalism (Editor) ... Photography ... Aeronautics ... Algebra 1-R. <pause>. With a cocked head she looked at me and asked, "Algebra 1-R?".  I nodded in agreement and she stated with astonishment and disdain, "RETARD Math?!".

Sigh.  

I am horrible at math.  Horrible is an understatement.  I must have been asleep during my math classes at Houston Middle School from 6th - 8th grade.  I don't blame my teachers for advancing me.  I was on the "smart kid" track so in their eyes my math deficiency must have looked like a simple anomaly.  During my freshman year of high school I was placed in Pre-Algebra.  Failed.  As a sophomore I re-took the class.  C-average.  Junior year they had to move me to Algebra.  Failed.  In a final ditch effort to help me through my minimum graduation requirements, in my Senior year I was placed in Algebra 1-R.  R for "Remedial" except in the eyes of my guidance counselor who was meant to be giving me ... guidance.

The syllabus for my friend's math classes included items like: graphing calculator, compass and mechanical pencils.  In Algebra 1-R the supplies were provided by the school.  They were crayons.  Crayons.  Really.  I assume they didn't think we could be troubled with remembering to bring our own crayons to school.  In all actuality, looking around the class, the other kids probably would have eaten them or used them to graffiti the bathroom.  Our daily in-class assignments consisted of graphing grids and coloring in the pictures with the crayons.  Oh look, a kitten!  Oh look, three triangles!  Oh look, I made a mistake and have to go back!  There was no homework (yay!) because they probably didn't want to risk our not having a set of crayons at home.

Re-wind back to the stuffy overly decorated office of my guidance counselor, picking up at "R**ARD Math?!".  I rolled my eyes and waited patiently as she found a spot for the schedule in my folder.  She looked at me and said slowly and with a voice dripping with condescension, "You're not getting into a good college with these math classes.  You know that, right?  It's too late.  I just can't sit here and get your hopes up.  I mean, it's embarrassing.  For you, I mean".  I blinked and looked at her.  In a matter of seconds I went from being star pupil to pariah.  I had no future.  All because I couldn't figure out word problems to save my life.

What's unfortunate, is she was right.  I didn't get into a good college, I almost didn't even go to college.  Her words and body language pigeon-holed me on that sunny day.  It didn't matter that I was smart.  It didn't matter that I had friends.  It didn't matter that I won awards.  It didn't matter that I was President of clubs and played varsity sports.  I was a retard.  It was right there in neon lights for every college to see.  For the next few minutes she raddled off a to-do list of preparing for graduation, passed me a tri-fold brochure for the local community college and sent me on my way.  In the spring while my friends committed to their schools of choice I smiled and patted them on the back.  As they donned sweatshirts with the logos for their universities I turned in a job application at Burger King.  Friends asked where I was headed and I didn't have an answer, I hadn't applied anywhere.  

Before graduation I was accepted into a summer journalism program at the University of Nevada at Reno with guaranteed acceptance.  The program was a joint venture between UNR and The Wall Street Journal, they were looking for young talent from the west coast.  Week after week the twelve of us logged endless hours of research, made contacts and wrote stories worthy of national press.  All of our work was published locally and a few students were chosen for national publication.  I was one of them.  An article I had written about parents in the Las Vegas/Reno gaming industry struggling to find adequate child care was awarded top prize by The Wall Street Journal and made its way to subscriber doorsteps.  At the end of the summer I was asked to stay but I declined.  How could a kid in Algebra 1-R be expected to compete?  I packed my bags, hugged my friends and went home to scraping gum off the drive thru at Burger King.  

A few weeks later my oldest sister called and offered to let me live with her and attend community college in the Bay Area.  At the time I didn't think anyone noticed that I wasn't amounting to much after a high school career of honor and advanced placement classes and leadership roles and Student of the Month awards and campaigns for recycling and running a student newspaper.  As I dunked french fry baskets into thick chemicals I made the decision, the hell with it.  I jumped at the offer, cashed in my employee coupon for a free milkshake, loaded the car and enrolled at De Anza College.  The rest is history.

Math is still vexing and I will never be able to tutor my children in that one subject.  I can probably answer the math equations on "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader" if pressed, just don't press me!  Lucky for me and my children I am married to someone who is pretty good at everything (including math) and can help them when they stumble in subjects like trigonometry.  I've got the rest.  And at the end of the day, if my boys aren't good at everything it really won't matter ... they'll still get into a good college because there's one out there for everyone ... and trust me, you can, even after taking Algebra 1-R. 

*I highly recommend Levine's work and Denise Pope who pioneered the "No Homework" concept in our local schools.  Levine and Pope have created a non-profit organization at Stanford University called Challenge Success and if you are interested they will be speaking at an event "The Knowledge to Navigate: Strategies for Raising Healthy and Motivated Kids" at the end of September, check out the website for more information. Challenge Success Website

What If I'm Too Different? Through the Eyes of a 5-Year-Old

Yesterday my youngest son started 1st grade.  I didn't anticipate any first day of school anxiety so when I saw tears rolling down his cheeks and into his cereal it came as a complete surprise.  I sat with him and asked what was wrong.  Through bleary tears he addressed two issues 1.) what if my teachers don't like me and 2.) what if I'm too different from all of the other 1st graders?

<Ack>.  Silly child.

Evan loved kindergarten.  I attribute his happiness to his fabulous teacher Ms Freeman and the plain fact that he's a naturally happy child.  Evan is just that child who is always exuberant. exuberant: adjective meaning effusively and almost uninhibitedly enthusiastic; abounding in vitality; extremely joyful and vigorous.  This is my child.  So as you can expect tears are rare, troublesome and make me want to cry. I hugged him, kneeled before him and said, "Did you know that I know both of your teachers?".  As he shrugged I continued, "They are so excited to have you in their class this year and there is no chance that they could ever not like you.  You're Evan!"  He started to pat his eyes and I said, "Did you also know that every person is different?  Being different is what makes each of us super special people.  Don't be afraid that you are different, because being different is great!".  To which he responded, "can you bring me a tissue?".  *phew*.

While he wiped his eyes on a napkin I shifted my attention to my 7th grader who had been hovering, listening, and waiting to leave for his first day of school.  I told him to grab his bike and meet me in front of the house for a picture.  Moments like these make me feel like a juggler at the circus and my house is the big top.  I ran to my bedroom closet.  In the back was a brand new bright red Lands End backpack that I bought for Evan last year but never gave to him because he only needed a lunchbox.  I rushed to the living room and handed it to him.  He looked at me with joy, pride and a disbelieving chuckle and said, "for me?".  I nodded and smiled.  As he pulled the backpack from its packaging I ran outside for a quick picture of my middle schooler and sent him on his way.  Inside Evan was parading around the living room with his new backpack.  I walked to him, hugged him and said, "a new backpack for a new 1st grader".  He stuffed his lunch box in the backpack and was ready to go.

When I picked him up from school I could tell he had an amazing first day and this was confirmed by one of his teachers.  <relief>.  Back home I scoured his book shelf for a few picture books that were about being different, but weren't written strictly for that reason.  I recommend them all.  As we snuggled in bed I didn't bring up the morning conversation.  I let his questions and comments and silliness generated by the books content flow in their own direction.  With all three of my children I have found that re-addressing an issue with a book - without them having to re-live the issue can be all of the follow-up needed.  This morning he was up, excited and ready for a new day.  Here are the books we read.  

"Imogene's Antlers" written and illustrated by David Small.  Imogene wakes to discover that she has grown antlers.  Her mother is none too thrilled about her antlers but Imogene finds them to be very functional and likes them.

"I Like Myself!" by Karen Beaumont, illustrated by David Catrow.  This book is an ode to liking yourself.  "Even when I look a mess, I still don't like me any less, 'cause nothing in this world, you know, can change what's deep inside, and so ...".

"Chrysanthemum" written and illustrated by Kevin Henkes.  Henkes is one of my favorite picture book authors.  This story is about Chrysanthemum who is starting kindergarten and finds that the other kids don't like her name.

"A Bad Case of Stripes" written and illustrated by David Shannon.  Camilla loves to eat lima beans but discovers her friends hate them.  She becomes so conflicted that she starts changing colors.  A great story about individuality.