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.

Taking Your Guinea Pig to the Vet

Blueberry Panda has the sniffles.  Oh man.  Here we go again.

Our family is currently on our third set of guinea pigs.  Blueberry Panda and Caramel.  Always a set of two boys.  I actually really like guinea pigs and recommend them for a family who is in the market for an easy pet.  No bitey hamster or stinky rat or goldfish to flush.  For a period we were a retirement community for our preschool co-ops aging guinea pigs.  The kids wore them out and they retired to our house to relax in comfort for their remaining days.  

Caring for aging guinea pigs was a wonderful experience for my children.  Guinea pigs are low-maintenance pets who are perfectly content with a handful of dry food and all the vegetable and fruit scraps you can load in their cage.  Guinea pigs are very social animals and don't mind being held by excitable children, especially these pigs who had spent four years with 3-4 year old's.  Plus, there is nothing cuter than watching their little mouth munch on parsley as a gleeful child laughs.  At our retirement facility Jordan and Julian would keep the pigs exercised by making a maze in our family room out of wooden blocks.  Cleaning their cage meant an afternoon in the backyard, practically a vacation in Miami.  Everything was going great until I killed the first set.  Oooops.

My children had their first glimpse of death on a warm Mountain View afternoon.  We left the guinea pigs in the backyard to play under their metal caging.  They were comfy under our persimmon tree, tucked in their little houses, munching on grass.  We forgot they were there.  As the day wore on we decided to run a few errands.  When we came home we (meaning mom) had a horrible realization.  The shade from the tree had shifted and the old guinea pigs couldn't handle the direct sunlight.  I waited for Lewis to get home and we broke the news.  Jordan wailed and cried and cursed the sky with a barrage of "Why? Why? Why?".  Julian shrugged and asked if he could draw a picture.  It was amazing to witness the difference in their grief.  Lewis dug a hole while I found a shoe box.  We wrapped each of them in a towel and the boys took turns looking at them and saying goodbye.  Jordan included a letter and Julian the picture.  The cage was cleaned and sent back to the preschool until a year later when the other classrooms pigs were ready for retirement.

This time I wasn't going to be so careless!  I was a doting mother.  I hovered closely when the boys held them.  I gnawed on my nails while they frolicked in the backyard.  I washed them in the sink every time the cage was cleaned.  I bought the expensive recycled bedding.  All was going well.  And then it happened.  One of them started to sneeze.  A wet sneeze.  Sneeze?  I was nervous.  How could I not be nervous with Jordan's wailing so fresh in my mind.  I started to panic.  I thought, it's too soon for this set to die!  I made a phone call, loaded the guinea pig into a box and sent the kids to the car ... off to the Veterinarian.

We were ushered into a room and the nurse looked at me funny.  Guinea pig?  I understood her amusement, guinea pigs are a dime a dozen.  Well maybe $200 a dozen, but still, it's not like it was the family dog.  The Veterinarian came in to examine the pig while the nurse "assisted".  Tests were recommended.  Blood was drawn.  The boys looked to me with eyes filled with hope and I responded, "everything is going to be all right".  The Veterinarian returned with good news, "It's just a plain old cold.  No treatment."  With a sigh of relief the guinea pig went back into the box and the kids bounded into the waiting room where the amused nurse was waiting with the bill.  $90.  90 dollars for the Veterinarian to tell us our guinea pig had a cold.  90 big ones.  

Sorry Blueberry Panda that 90 dollars is still fresh in my mind and don't forget about inflation.  I'm holding on to my cash this time.

Lesson Learned:  Don't take a guinea pig to the Veterinarian unless you are prepared to be the punchline at the annual convention ... and out 90 bucks.

Breaking Up the Team: When You're Not Ready For Your Kids to Grow Up

Two years ago as hordes of parents squeezed into the high school theater for freshman orientation a friend jokingly said I would probably follow my son to college.  I grinned and said something about not having big enough luggage but as I listened to the lecture a little bit of my heart crumbled.  It was the start of a cruel realization that has slowly over time sharpened with a greater frequency; at each college night and counselor appointment and international travel destination stamped on his passport, the reality is setting in, my oldest son will be leaving home to start his life as an adult.  I didn't know it was possible but I am living the cliche: they really do grow up too fast.

I was barely an adult myself when Jordan was born.  I couldn't even buy alcohol.  My husband Lewis and I were college students, poor, yet determined and had absolutely no clue how to care for a child.  Between the two of us I had the stronger resume: babysitter, lifeguard, CPR certified, witness to a cat birth and owner of a copy of The Complete Mothercare Manual that I bought in the gift shop.  As we watched the hospital full of trained nurses disappear from the rear view mirror we both experienced a surreal sensation that they shouldn't be letting us leave with this little baby.  Someone made a mistake!

The first year of his life was a blur.  1996-97 became the baseline for our married life, the fact we were able to survive is a testament that nothing would ever be more difficult.  Lewis petitioned to carry a full academic load at Stanford and Foothill College simultaneously while he worked full-time as a waiter, studied, collaborated with classmates and then cared for Jordan while I took classes and worked part-time at the Stanford Bookstore.  During that last year at Stanford Lewis literally averaged 3 hours of sleep a night.  No one else cared for Jordan in that entire year.

After we left Stanford Lewis worked days and I worked nights.  During the day it was Jordan and Mom against the world.  Nighttime was dinner and routine with Dad.  With the exception of the occasional family babysitter for a break it was just the three of us.  When Jordan started preschool he developed major separation anxiety and it is no wonder, everyone else in the world was a stranger.  That little smiley boy and I were two peas in a pod.  By the time he was in preschool I had decided to give up on print journalism and switched to completing a degree in psychology.  I started taking classes in early childhood education and attended never-ending lectures - all so I could focus on being a better mom.  The classes gave me the resources to be his first teacher in music, art, friendship and life.

For the first four years of his life it was just us.  We rode the bus everywhere.  We checked books out of the library by the stack. We walked to the park.  We danced around our little apartment to blaring music.  We snuggled and watched Little Bear and Blues Clues on TV.  We made home made cookies.  As I look back on this time I realize that I was living the dream, what every mom wants, and I didn't realize it.  It was a magical time.  I took it for granted.  I was a kid too.

A week before Jordan's 4th birthday Julian was born.  Suddenly Julian was the focus ... for both of us.  Jordan became the beaming big brother and my little helper as this new bundle of joy came into our life.  He accepted these roles with all of his heart because he is an amazing person.  I was comfortable and calm, I had done all of this before.  We transitioned from Mom and Jordan to Team Mom-Jordan.  For the last 12 years we've been a team and in 2 years that team will retire.  Sure we'll get the team back together for reunions but it won't be the same.    

For the first time this summer we went on a family vacation without Jordan.  It was a mom's anxiety-ridden glimpse into the future.  While we were poolside in Las Vegas Jordan was team building at a week-long leadership training.  During the stifling hot tour of Hoover Dam he was buying snacks for his Band Camp cabin-mates with his very own credit card.  As we were watching the volcano explode at The Mirage Casino Jordan was washing clothes and packing his own luggage.  On the last day of vacation while we were organizing pillow pets in the car another family drove him up to camp.

Nearly a week later we packed a picnic lunch and headed up the hill for Parent's Day at Band Camp.  With our blanket laid out we caught a glimpse of him on stage.  He was searching for us in the audience and when we finally made eye contact he waved and gave the nod.  He looked tired and I knew he would have a lot of stories to tell.  After the program we were treated to hugs and we schleped his instrument and luggage back to the car.  Staff needed to stay longer to load the trucks with equipment so our family piled back in the car and we were on our way, we'd catch up that night.  After 10 days what is another few hours?  As I veered around curves through La Honda that sharp reality started to hit again.  Our time with him is getting shorter and shorter.

I look at my son and know Lewis and I did everything right.  His personal success fills me with pride.  He is going to ease well into college and will be a creative, successful adult. He will make a lot of mistakes along the way but he knows his parents are just a phone, text, IM away.  Every day his time is split between family, music, work, friends and life.  The selfishness in me remembers the wistful days of Mom and Jordan and I feel like I am experiencing my own version of separation anxiety, just at the reverse end of his childhood.

As their mom I always make an effort to do the things that they like because I know it will keep the connection alive.  I stay up later than everyone else because I want to be available for homework or a chat if they need me.  I volunteer at their schools so they see that I am a part of their life and that I value their education.   I guffaw at their jokes.  I hit back during pillow fights.  I play a zombie during Nerf wars.  I watch their goofy television shows.  I talk them through drama with friends and frustration with girls.  I still read their favorite picture books.  I hug them tight.  I cry when they cry.  And, i'm just not ready to let them go.

Cheater, Cheater Popsicle Eater

Fruit juice with strawberries popsicle.

Berries first!

Wrap up the summer with a super-easy fruit popsicle - it is practically cheating!

It is so easy to just buy pre-made food at the grocery store, especially if you have a hectic house.  Trust me, I know and have been guilty in the past (and no doubt future).  I have been on a personal quest to feed my family fewer processed, pre-made items and an easy way to start is with kid snacks.  But I don't want our family to just eat better, I want to include my kids in the process of making food ... even though it takes planning, prep and even more work.  I am self-taught in the kitchen and part of teaching my kids how to cook means teaching myself.    

You may think that this is an insanely easy recipe - it's meant to be!  This is a fun recipe that will let you sit back and let your kids rule the kitchen.  <gulp>.  <fingers crossed>.  It is also a concept that can be modified a thousand different ways depending on your taste and pantry.

- popsicle mold

- frozen strawberries whirled in the food processor spooned into the popsicle mold

- add fruit juice

- freeze

- eat!

 

The Greatest Bag You Will Ever Buy

flip & tumble brand reusable produce bags from Crate & Barrel

... if you eat fruits and vegetables!

Just a suggestion: say no to plastic bags at the grocery store and farmer's market.  A lot of the cities in the Bay Area are banning plastic bags and I love it but the ban doesn't include produce bags.  You can be ahead of the game.

I started using these particular produce bags a few years ago when my friend Christy Wolf challenged me to go waste-free.  I'll be honest, I haven't moved very far into the waste-free lifestyle - although I am trying really hard to figure out how to make it work for our family!  Totally another story.  The reason that I am plugging these bags is because they really hold up. I also use the "24-7" bags by flip & tumble which are grocery bags that wrap up into themselves (I keep them in my purse).  They aren't available at Crate & Barrel but can be ordered online.

You can buy the produce bags 5/$10.95 at Crate & Barrel or 5/$12 directly from flip & tumble. Or, if you are on a budget and sewing-savvy (which I am not, sewing-saavy) you can make your own produce bags.  Click here. How to Make Reusable Produce Bags

If you want to learn more about a Bay Area family who is waste-free (and makes me feel guilty on a daily basis) click here. It is fascinating!  Zero-Waste California Home

Playing Chicken: Taylor vs. The Refrigerator

Pretty empty. But not desperate-empty. At least two more meals.

My family may think I am trying to starve them.  If they do, they're kind enough not to comment.

In this corner Taylor: weighing in at ... never mind.  In the other corner: The Refrigerator.

Sometimes I play a game of chicken against my refrigerator.  It usually happens after we return home from vacation and I am off-schedule.  Chicken, as in: how low can the food level drop toward desperation before I actually break down and load the grocery cart?  I know I need to start gearing up for competition when moans of, "there's nothing to eat" start radiating from the kitchen.  

It's a fun game kids!  Breakfast is nearly-mealy apples slathered in peanut butter with a mini marshmallow on top.  Yum!  Julian needs a bagged lunch for camp?  Cheese Stick Quesadilla with a side of sliced bell pepper.  Awesome! 

I normally do the bulk of my shopping one day a week, hand written list in-hand, and if I forget something I just get it when I need it.  Fresh basil.  TP.  Emergency pint of Ben & Jerry's for a friend.  You get the gist.  Playing chicken is like my families very own food competition show.  We love those shows!  I'm the home cook with a heart of gold competing with a limited pantry, my lucky kids are the panel judges and my prize is a trip to the store to fill my refrigerator.  I always come out the winner.  Or maybe the panel just doesn't want to buy and make the food themselves.  

They'll survive. 

Cheese Stick Quesadilla when you run out of cheese during the competition.

Confucius Say: Make Your Bed

I don't make my bed. Scratch that. I didn't make my bed, until recently.

When I was growing up my mom would remember rather sporadically that we were "supposed" to make our beds.  I was usually in the middle of something extremely pressing like hovering over my boom box trying to tape a song from the radio while simultaneously chatting with a friend on the phone, in the bathroom (for privacy), while my brother Paul pulled on the phone cord stretching along the wall from the kitchen to annoy me.  Pressing stuff!  Through the door I would hear my mom ranting and raving about the state of everyone's duvet and I would begrudgingly respond with a sigh, an eye roll (safely behind the bathroom door), rush to my room and quickly flatten the sheets and straighten pillows.  Trust me, there was never any military precision on these missions.

As a parent I have never enforced bed making.  It is an example of a task on my ever expanding list of Taylor-doesn't-want-to-sweat-the-small-stuff-because-if-she-does-she-will-go-crazy-and-take-everyone-with-her.  Evan still uses toddler-sized blankets and they blend well with the pile of stuffed animals and pillow pets.  Making the bed would disrupt the animals.  Why disrupt animals?  Julian has a loft bed and making the bed is a true lesson in futility, not to mention, as soon as I start to climb the stairs to take a look I am afraid they're going to split in half below me.  My teenage son Jordan is the only one who makes his bed and I say all the power to him!

Strangely, after all of these years I, me, myself finally started making my bed.  Honestly, for three reasons. 

1. If the bed is made I won't lay down for a rest during the day and mess it up.  Of course, this only works if you are the type of person who likes to get comfy under the covers.  I am that person. Not to mention you can still rest - but I choose not to.
2. I genuinely feel like I have accomplished something on my to-do list as soon as I wake up.  No matter who you are, your list is long - and when the list is long, you need as many <checks> as you can get.
3. There is one thing organized in my house at all times!  Woot!

Observation: Try it on for size, I guarantee it will help to kick-start your mood on a daily basis.  If not, at least you tried!

Mamba On My Mind

On our way to Las Vegas for Summer Roadtrip 2012 we decided to stop along Highway 58 in Tehachapi, California for a gas station break.  Pump some gas, stretch the legs, use the facilities ... browse the candy aisle.  It was a small, dilapidated Shell gas station situated across the street from a stretch of amazing train track that runs along Highway 58 and literally through the Tehachapi Mountains.

As Lewis and Evan watched the train, Julian and I headed back inside for some cold drinks and snacks.  Go healthy or go candy?  Before we left home I packed plenty of healthy snacks and we were on vacation, right?  Julian, always the eclectic connoisseur opted for a glass bottle of Fanta and a huge pack of Mamba's to split with Evan.  We paid for our items, readjusted the mound of stuffed animals, pillow pets and blankies in the back seat and were on our way.

Back on the highway while the kids divided their Mamba-booty Lewis and I marveled at a passing train (four engines pulling at least fifty cars), the varying sizes of electricity-producing windmills (too cool) and the high desert scenery (never-ending Joshua trees) until Julian and Evan started complaining about the taste of their strawberry Mamba.  The complaints: it's too hard to chew and it tastes "funny".

Of course my natural response was, "let me taste one".  Why?  Do I really not trust the sugar palette of my candy-loving children?

I peeled the wrapper from a stiff rectangle of strawberry flavored Mamba and stuck the candy in my mouth.  As I began to chew I told them, "It is pretty hard, maybe it's just a little old. Look and see if there is an expiration date".  As we jockeyed the absurdity of expired candy the after-taste of the Mamba filled my mouth.  It can only be described as sucking on a stick of chalk. 

Expiration date 8/2010.  Just shy of two years old.  Bleh!

We laughed about how long the Mamba's must have been waiting there.  Was all the candy that old?  Before I knew it they were all eaten.  Pause.  Wait.  What?  <Gulp>.  All of them?  

I am pleased to report that no one got sick.  Yay!  But I don't know if there are any more Mamba's in my future.

Lesson learned: Simply telling your children the nasty, disgusting, chalky candy they are eating is expired will not cease their consumption of said candy.  Or maybe it's just my kids.