Rant Rant Rant Rant

Hello from South Carolina, where I am staggering around in a Benadryl-induced coma, stopping to jam a few more pink pills in my mouth and stagger off, huffing and sniffling, back to a prone position. It's pollen season, and little tiny yellow bits of pollen are covering everything.

You guys have made the Young Author above very happy with your comments. She has "created" another "work" (her words) and is after me to post it on the blog. Get yer own blawg kid. Actually she has one already and I'll post her future "works" over there with a note when they go up.

Yesterday upon arriving home from school her first words to me were, "Mom, do I have any new comments?"

Today however I have to write about something that has taken possession of me, tormenting my nights and days. A vision of my children (or, even worse, ME) in the middle of this scenario on a school sponsored field trip...

A literate friend, who graciously allowed me to quote (steal from) her, writes:

So we went out of town this weekend to see family. It turns out the hotel was almost full of boys/chaperones who were there for some sort of baseball tournament. The boys were probably 13-14.

We tried to swim in the early morning and then again at night but at night it was almost impossible because of the behavior of the baseball kids. The pool was 4'9" deep at the deepest part. The kids were diving, which was against pool rules. One night, the three adults responsible for 20 or so kids at the pool were doing shots of tequila. And the next night they were consuming large amounts of beer. Glass bottles everywhere. Kids running. Kids throwing stuff in the pool. Open containers of beer and liquor left sitting everywhere in the public spaces in the hotel. The hotel didn't sell alcohol so these people shipped it in. At one point I saw one of the coaches wheeling in a cart with five large cases of beer on it. There weren't that many adults even in the group so I had to wonder about whether the kids were getting any of it. It seemed like a lot of alcohol for the adults we saw to be consuming. I don't drink at all, ever, so I have no perspective on how much is a lot. But it sure seemed like a lot of alcohol to me. The women doing the shots of tequila were petite and it seemed like for their size they were consuming a lot. They were pretty giggly and wobbly when they tried to leave. And they were the ones in charge of the kids.

We had kids running in the halls all night. No apparent curfew. They were playing some sort of dodgeball game in the parking lot with a basketball and no adult present. Throwing balls at parked cars. We couldn't get on the computer in the business center because the boys were in there trying to find porn sites that weren't blocked.

We complained about all of this to the hotel staff but they said it wasn't their problem and there was nothing they could do about any of it. I'm going to take all of this up with the hotel's corporate office today.

But....meanwhile....my question for the group is, how representative do you think this group was for a typical chaperoned trip with 13-14-year-old kids. We saw numerous behaviors where someone could have been seriously hurt including the diving, all the glass bottles at the pool, and the kids playing in more poorly lit parts of the parking lot. I wondered if this was what the parents of the kids expected when they let them come on this trip -- that the kids would have almost no supervision and would run around terrorizing the hotel while the adults got drunk in the lobby.

Well.

Pardon me while I fall to my knees and thank God that *I* wasn't the one suffering all this.

Pardon me while I fall to my knees and thank God that no kids were seriously injured.

Where to begin? Do I really have to say anything? Is there anything that I can add to this? Well, yes.

First of all, while I have no problem with a congenial glass of wine over a playdate, what could have possessed these adults to treat this as an opportunity to party hardy?

"Reminds me of the college kids who used to chaperone us at the beach," says Roger. Yes, the summer after his freshman year in high school Roger was allowed to trek off to Myrtle Beach in the company of several inebriated college students as chaperones. (Need I even mention the likelihood of our children being allowed similar indulgences? This from the man who is making plans to accompany his children on their honeymoons?)

I can scarcely add anything to this tale except to resolve, firmly, to myself in that secret little place in my heart where fairy tales can come true, it could happen to you-- RESOLVE: my children will never go on a trip like this without being in the company of trusted adults who refrain from multiple shots of tequila or many bottles of beer while the life of my children is in their keeping.

Approved beverages are lemonade, Diet Coke, coffee, unsweetened tea, and holy water.

Why Suffer?

I want to talk about shots.

Not the fun type.

Shots that hurt. Shots that make your precious children cry big wobbly tears. Why I remember one time that Madeleine was about 18 months old and got a shot at the doctors and managed to wiggle around me, the doctor, and the nurse and run screaming down the hall, naked and bleeding. Good times.

"How about using some Emla cream?" I asked. I had read that Emla cream numbed the skin so shots don't hurt.

"Oh, they don't need it."

Of course they don't need it. Americans don't need pain pills! Why our ancestors survived having a leg amputated with just a rawhide strap to chew on, a hefty shot of whiskey, and a good pair of lungs to scream themselves hoarse.

Why suffer? And why must we rely on doctors to prescribe a simple cream that eases the pain of shots?

One day (today, if you must know) it occurred to me that maybe other countries weren't so bloody stiff upper lipped about this stuff. I've been ordering some extra estrogen patches from a place in England. You need a prescription to get these here in the Nanny State, but not in England. And look what I found! You can order Emla cream without a prescription from Canada. Thank you, Canada!!!

I'm ordering some right now.

A Young Stephen King

This is Madeleine's original story with her original grammar and spelling.

Warning: the following contains story elements that are, in the author's own words, "Not happy or peppy." i.e. containing material of a violent and disturbing nature. People with weak hearts should proceed with caution.

Once there was a haunted castle called "LOST." Nobody ever went in the castle, but if anyone did they never came back out, ever, again. One time there was a girl and a boy. The boy said to the girl "let's go inside that castle just up that hill" as he pointed to the haunted castle. The girl said "I don't think we should go in." "Nonsense" said the boy as he pulled at the girl's arm. "But" "someone might be in there" said the girl. "Nobody is in there" said the boy. "Okay" said the girl.

When they got to the castle on the hill there was a sign that said "BEWARE"!" another one said "KEEP OUT!" The boy and girl were frightened but that didn't stop them from coming in. The boy opened the door slowly, then he lit a lantern and they went in. Then the door slammed by itself. The boy was scared, the girl was frightened, But that didn't stop them.

The boy heard a scream coming from behind him. Quickly, he turned around to find nobody there. But in the place of her was a pile of ashes. The boy yelled for the girl and then he waited for a answer. Then he heard something. It sounded like somebody was moaning so the boy followed the sound to see who was making the moaning sounds. Then he opened a door and saw the girl but the girl wasn't solid, You could see through her she was transparent. Then she moaned and the boy was terrified. Then the girl came toward the boy.

The boy screamed in horror. Then the boy tried to get away, but the girl was to fast. So the boy got eaten.

Anthropomorphizing

an·thro·po·mor·phize
transitive verb : to attribute human form or personality to intransitive verb : to attribute human form or personality to things not human

Ok, I had to look that word up in the dictionary to make sure I spelled it right because even a Geek Soopreme such as yours truly has never used the word before.

Do you name your cars? My family always did. I was brought home from the hospital in "Jezebel", a 1958 station wagon. We grew up with "Hugo" the VW and "Carl" the 1962 Buick and "Squeaky Susan" the 1968 Ford station wagon. My Daddy always recorded every gas purchase in a little book and we still have the book entitled "The Saga Of Squeaky Susan."

I have a 1992 Nissan Sentra with 232,436 miles on it. I finally caved and bought a 2006 Nissan Sentra last year. My first car was a 1985 Nissan Sentra. You may see a pattern here. Anyway, I'm extremely attached to my elderly vehicle. It still runs perfectly. I just decided to get a new one so I'd already be used to making car payments if the old car decided to go to the Rainbow Bridge Car Lot one day.

I named the new one "Car Noelle" not to be confused with "Shark Noelle" who is part of a large family of imaginary sharks that live with us. Well, the old car's name is "Tessie" and unfortunately "Tessie" got broken into the other day. We park Tessie on the street unlocked, since I figured that if someone wanted to break in at least they wouldn't break the windows. Somebody broke in and stole everything in the glove compartment except for the registration (now isn't that nice? Reminds me of the time one of my friends got mugged in NYC and he asked for subway fare and the mugger thoughtfully handed him $2.00 back). Also the thief thoughtfully left three keys marked "Mom's House" that I had forgotten were in the glove box (Sis, if you tell Mom I will have to kill you in a particularly painful fashion). The thief also didn't bother to close the door, leaving the inside light on, so the battery ran out.

I hope they enjoyed the 1992 Nissan Sentra Owner's Manual. Because they certainly didn't find a plastic bag of cocaine or a gun or a couple of hundred dollar bills stashed between the receipts for new tires and oil changes and insurance information in the glove box (weary sigh) I guess some people in SC actually do carry guns in their glove box. Me, I'd pull a Barney Fife and shoot myself in the foot if I ever tried to fire a weapon.

I don't what insane impulse prompted me to explain to the kids why we had to take Tessie in for a new battery! But Tessie is now parked in the driveway, blocking the other cars that we use daily, because "Tessie would be scared all alone in the street."

Maybe I should quit naming cars.

drrrr

Of course it didn't take long for the next Scholastic book order form to arrive. I read it carefully and here is the deal....It's divided into two parts. One part is the book/toy order form and the other part is where you give your name and address. You only fill out your address IF you plan to join one of the many "clubs" that are offered. Otherwise, you simply give your book order back to the teacher with your name and the books are delivered to your classroom (Figlet, I had forgotten about the thrill of watching the teacher open the box of books and distribute them!)

I had already decided that Madeleine would be placed on a diet of ONE book/toy order per month. Sister Carrie had a great idea about limiting the orders to books only, but...she had already picked out a Spy Watch and I didn't have the heart to say no, BUT we compromised that for each toy she orders, she must order a book and READ it. And there will be a pop quiz.

She picked out "Ribsy" by Beverly Cleary and seemed absolutely amazed that I had actually read it when I was a child, even though I left out the part where I read it after it had been inscribed on a scroll by monks using a quill pen.

I plan to reread many juvenile books alongside my daughters. Today, we made a trip to the library and I reread All-Of-A-Kind Family, All-Of-A-Kind Family Uptown, and Ella of All-Of-A-Kind Family. Since I love juvenile literature, this is not a terrible hardship for me.

The girls and I now go back to my bed after homework is finished and we all lie around reading our respective books together until bedtime. I must say, this is much more fun than reading Go Dog Go! for the seventy eleventh billion time outloud.

Dear Scholastic Crooks

Dear Scholastic Books,

I remember you well from my childhood. I loved ordering books from you. They cost 50 cents apiece and I still have most of them, saved carefully for the daughter I knew I'd have one day. If I recall, we got a flyer every month back in the days when the Pony Express delivered books to our one room schoolhouse and we read our new books by the flickering light of the fire.

Now I know that we all have to make a dollar somehow, but do you really think it's necessary to send home flyers every week?

Every single week? Sometimes twice a week?

You do? Ok. Then let's move on to the next question I have.

What are these *(*&& CLUBS?

It all started when Madeleine brought home one of the weekly flyers and asked for a Spy Kit. Fine, we served bread & water for a few days and purchased it for her. She has enjoyed it immensely.

Imagine my surprise though when two flimsy, cheap walkie-talkies arrived in the mail six weeks later with a flyer identifying them as the "First Installment From the Monthly Spy Club!" Do you really, in good conscience, feel that those cheap plastic things are worth $16.79?

"That clever little minx," I thought lovingly to myself, "I bet she forged my signature and joined the club," as I searched for a tree branch the right size for a good thrashing.

The next item that Madeleine asked for was a Cheerleader Bear. Once again, we served bread and water and forked over $6.95 for a cheap little stuffed animal that probably cost you 13 cents to make.

Imagine my surprise and happiness when another letter arrived on Friday congratulating Madeleine on joining the Beary Special Bearrific Friends Cheerleading Club with a promise of monthly bears arriving!!!

After another go-round with the tree branch Madeleine adamantly denied ever forging my signature to anything, and I believe her. Apparently, you, dear Scholastic Book Club, you have placed some interesting stipulations in the fine print of your book order forms. I have not read them carefully, I admit, relying on the good will and good feeling engendered in the past for supplying me with a large supply of excellent books that brightened my childhood.

But I assure you one thing. I will be reading your flyers carefully in the future.

And, oh, yeah, don't hold your breath about getting that $16.79 check in the mail for the walkie talkies.

You Want Me To Eat WHAT?

UPDATE: Thanks for the great advice! I will be using it and will report back.

"My child will eat what I put before her," vowed the pregnant woman in the lunch room today.

I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, and it wasn't because of ill fitting knickers. It was because I remembered a night last week....

We arrived at Myrtle Beach on Thursday. Madeleine was feeling a little poorly, but I did not feel like taking my life into my hands and informing her that she was not going to get to go on her much awaited beach vacation. The girls have stood by my side while I went through surgery and a painful recovery and they deserved some fun.

We got there and I made a quick trip to Walmart to pick up some supplies for the weekend. Madeleine had skipped lunch and her afternoon snack. She only wanted some soup. I threw a few cans of Campbell's Deluxe Chicken Noodle Soup in the cart and gaily skipped back to the hotel room.

"IT HAS ORANGE AND GREEN THINGS IN IT," decreed the royal princess. "EWWW!"

"You must eat something," I said desperately. "Give it here!" I grabbed the bowl and carefully extracted all the offending green and orange things.

Now ordinarily I would have told her to go pound sand & left her to forage among the many healthy foods in the pantry for her nourishment, but we were pretty much out of options at this point. However, on a daily basis, we do cater to their desires.

Madeleine: Dead animals, sugar and dairy. NO vegetables (except corn. I put corn into every meal). Drink treat: Sugar Free Lemonade
Meredith: Brown rice, vegetables, NO desserts. Drink Treat: Diet Rite.

I reason that I certainly have my own likes and dislikes, why should I force a child to eat food they hate? Isn't that setting them up for food wars? Making food into a power struggle?

What is your opinion? Should you force a child to "eat what's on their plate?"

I do not mean allowing them to skip a healthy meal in order to consume Krispy Choco-Lard Arterycloggers. We don't have food like that in the house. But forcing a child to eat a food they hate...what do you think? I really have no idea what I'm doing here. You could call me...

Clueless.