The Dreaded Phone Call

Someone flipped the switch on the summer temperatures, the apple orchards are open for business, and I just voluntarily filled out a volunteer form for the elementary school (Yes, I checked the box next to "I am not a registered child abuser," but no, I did not check the box next to "I want to be a worker bee"). Individually, none of these things is very significant, but when combined together, it makes me extremely grateful for one thing: Zoe is not in kindergarten anymore, which means that I won't be volunteering for apple cooking day.

(originally posted on October 19, 2009)

When I notice that the number on Caller ID is from the elementary school, I always hesitate to answer because it's most likely the Volunteer Coordinator catching me at a time when I don't have a credible excuse ready. Then I think, "What if one of the kids is really sick?" or "Maybe the school is on fire!" only to hear the VC say: "Hello Mrs. Adkins! I'm glad I caught you at home! We're looking for a couple mommies who want to come in and bake apple goodies with the kindergartners!" Shit.

"Um, I don't think I can make it that day. I see on my calendar that I have 'snort large amounts of cocaine' penciled in. I'm pretty sure I can't reschedule that." See what I mean by the lack of credible excuse thing?

"But, Mrs. Adkins. The kids are so excited about peeling their own apples and making apple crisp!"

"I was recently listed on the child abuse registry. Pretty sure I can't hang out with a bunch of kids that need a good spanking."

"Oh, but Mrs. Adkins! When you listed yourself as a child abuser, you checked the box next to 'willing to volunteer in messy classroom activities'! See you on Wednesday!"

So, two days later I'm in the hallway, watching a bunch of kids with no fine motor skills clutching a sharp peeler in one hand and an unwashed granny smith apple in the other. I stood behind them, mortified, wondering how many fingernails and skin shards were going to be sacrificed for this educational experience.

After retrieving more than a dozen hacked up apples out of the garbage can, and dispensing more than a few band-aids, the other volunteer and I decided to let each kid take two swipes at their apple, and then we would let them watch us do the peeling. I know, I know, they were supposed to be much more involved... measure the flour, understand how ingredients come together, and boy oh boy that cinnamon sure does smell good! However, after seeing the snot hanging out of so many nostrils and the grime under their fingernails, not to mention the fact that they were all making me resentful of the fact that I was missing cocaine day, I wanted to get the hell out of there. So peel, peel, watch, sniff the cinnamon, and now go back to the classroom.

I brought the apple/skin crisp home to bake it and noticed that some of the apple chunks had an odd tint. Some were purple, some orange and a couple were definitely blue. Turns out that while the kids were waiting for their turn, they were in the classroom coloring...with markers. Tells you how good those hand washing skills are.

The next morning I popped that sucker in the oven and informed the 11-year-old that unless he wanted to eat Crayola for breakfast and be known as a cannibal, he should probably resist the temptation to pick at the pan while it was cooling. And I've never been so happy about the fact that the kindergartner won't eat fruit that's been cooked. Or, as I discovered, colored on.

Zoe came home from school that day with a sheet of red paper that read: "Your child celebrated Fall today by making apple crisp! He/She learned about measuring ingredients, fractions, and working as a team." Yeah, sounds pretty accurate. And I'm glad they left out the part about the weird control freak mom that kept sniffling and wiping her nose.

Positive Reinforcement

Last year, when Zoe was in kindergarten, having a couple hours of freedom each morning seemed like the ultimate luxury. I would hurriedly run errands, put groceries away and occasionally get a workout in without having to worry about the shortest member of the family getting bored, hungry, thirsty, angry, lost or having to pee, and I loved it. Now that she is in first grade, though, this means that, for the first time ever, all of my kids are in school full-time, and I can't stop smiling. And even though my days of solitude aren't as long as I thought they'd be -- the boys start and end their school day an hour and a half before Zoe's school -- life is good.

Now, after having a week to adjust to this newfound freedom, there are a couple things I've noticed:

1. For the first time in fourteen years, I'm not responsible for getting lunch for anyone besides myself. Well, not responsible after I have made sure that whoever is planning on bringing home lunch on the day that a fish sandwich is on the school menu remembers to actually bring the lunch that I have made. Or making sure that there is money in the lunch accounts. And usually making a lunch for Doug. After all of that, I'm not responsible.
2. Everyone, and I mean everyone, asks me "So what are you doing with all your free time?" and "When are you going back to work?"
3. I've never in the past, and I never will, drink beer with the people that have the balls to ask me these questions.
4. Being able to pee without someone talking to me through the door isn't as luxurious as I thought it would be.
5. The volume on my stereo can be turned up pretty high.
6. For a person that has spent the last few months having kids around them all the time, an hour of solitude is the equivalent of one month in therapy.

So now that I'm not spending my days being constantly pestered with questions or breaking up arguments or hearing pleas of "can I have a ride to ___?", I'm hoping that, when the kids walk in the door after school, I'm a more patient, empathetic and nurturing parent, ready to listen and offer up supportive, nonjudgmental words instead of the usual "what the hell were you thinking?"

As if on cue, I came across a list of phrases that could be used to praise and encourage a child. After all, every kid likes to hear how awesome they are but overworked, stressed out parents don't always know how to express themselves without rolling their eyes, throwing their hands in the air and/or yelling. Now I just need to figure out when to use them:

Scenario: Kid returns home and announces that they forgot a lunchbox at school.

Phrase: Hurray for you!

Scenario: It's 9:30pm, and kid realizes that four pages of homework aren't completed, because they were left at school.

Phrase: Outstanding performance!

Scenario: It's a relaxing Sunday night, until kid pulls a note out of their backpack that says "please send a can of frosting, three pieces of blue felt and a bag of gumdrops to school, by Monday morning."

Phrase: You're on top of it!

Scenario: On the way to piano lessons, kid realizes that they forgot to do three pages of theory.

Phrase: Hip, hip hooray!

Scenario: After walking in the door from tennis, kid puts everything away, except their water bottle, because it's still at the club.

Phrase: I'm glad you are my kid!

Scenario: Enjoying a couple hours of free time by playing Xbox, kid becomes so relaxed that they don't realize it when the phone rings/UPS man arrives/mom is talking to them.

Phrase: You're a real trooper!

Scenario: After being asked to take out the garbage, kid slowly gets up, goes to the bathroom, and promptly forgets to take out the garbage.

Phrase: I appreciate your help! Magnificent!

Scenario: Kid oversleeps after failing to turn on an alarm clock. Again.

Phrase: I'm impressed! Outstanding!

Scenario: On Friday afternoon, husband says "It's been a long week and we're both about to go insane. Let's go to the bar."

Phrase: Wow, you're smart! I like you!

I would have said "Hell yeah I'll go to the bar, even though it's a little too late because I'm already insane," but that phrase wasn't on the list.

A Much Needed Break

Today is the last day of school and while I know there a lot of parents that dread the start of summer vacation, I happen to love being a stay-at-home-mom in the summer. Sure, I'll miss having a couple hours to myself everyday to be able to swear out loud and I won't have uninterrupted time to sit on my ass, eat chips, paint my nails and occasionally work out, but I will gladly trade these things in for the knowledge that, at least for a couple months, the main things I worry about are getting the kids to tennis lessons on time, whether or not it's okay to grill hot dogs three nights in a row, and if we should have happy hour on the deck or in the driveway.

As my kids get older, the school year has definitely become more time consuming. For example, Zoe's last few days of kindergarten revolved around eating cookies, hanging out on the playground, a party, an art project and singing songs. Charlie's a sixth grader and his second week of June included a phy-ed sports day, a full-day field trip, and an end-of-year party that lasted five hours (the other hour and-a-half was taken up with lunch and recess). On the other hand, Zach's last few days as an eighth grader consisted of finals, last-minute projects being handed in and several hours of homework. So while it seems that Zoe and Charlie's summer vacations started a week ago, I've been impatiently waiting for Zach's summer to start since the beginning of April because honestly, the kid needs a break. Oh, and I need one too, from:

1. The weekly notes that come home advising me that a child in ____'s classroom has strept throat, influenza, pink eye, or my all-time favorite: ring worm.
2. Wednesday Envelopes, the communication system that the elementary school uses to send home fundraiser notices, lunch menus, science camp opportunities, registration info for sports, PTO updates and the school newsletter. In other words, the majority of the Wednesday Envelope contents gets chucked directly into the recycling bin.
3. The non-stop requests for money to cover the costs for art projects, field trips, class parties, school pictures, athletic fees, and t-shirts.
4. Asking "Do you have your snack?" every morning and "How much homework do you have?" every afternoon.
5. Getting the following emails: A) Kindergarten is looking for a couple mommies to volunteer; B) According to our records, ____ has a low lunch account balance, so please deposit money at your earliest convenience, like NOW; and C) Kindergarten REALLY needs a couple mommies with some free time that can volunteer.
6. Finding out that a kid needs two styrofoam cubes, a bag of marbles, three pieces of brown felt and some maracas -- yesterday.
7. Hearing the drama about "so and so said she won't be my friend if I'm friends with Suzie but I like Suzie so why can't I be friends with her that just seems weird and sorta mean," from a kindergartner.
8. Huge science projects, group science projects, and the other 15 science projects.
9. School drop-off and pick-up and dealing the fact that carpool is apparently defined as "Jody drives."
10. Driving to after-school rehearsals for orchestra, before-school rehearsals for choir, and attending three evening concerts for each.

I know that occasionally there will be small reminders of the school year during the summer, like when I use a coupon out of the Happenings Book that I bought for a fundraiser in September or wrap a gift using the paper I bought for the fundraiser in October. And even though retailers are cruel enough to start back-to-school sales at the beginning of August, I love knowing that during the summer months, my kid-related responsibilities are pretty much defined by tennis lessons, swimming at the club, packing a cooler with sandwiches and when I should reapply sunscreen. Of course there will still be laundry to do, a house to clean, a lawn to mow and errands to run, but fortunately there are also popsicles to eat, a sprinkler to run through, burgers to grill and a park to be played on.

Oh, and there's also that fridge full of beer to drink.

Anti-Crafty

Depending on who you ask, there are several adjectives that a person might use to describe me, but one word that would never be used is "crafty." Sure, I can assemble furniture, wrap a gift, follow the directions included in most kits and usually color in the lines, but when it comes to creating something out of construction paper, glitter, glue, styrofoam or popsicle sticks, chances are that the results will not be very presentable.

Yesterday I volunteered at the kindergarten Letter Luau. This event consists of games like Musical Chairs, a snack station and a table where the kids could make their own leis, which is where I ended up. I'm still trying to figure out why I voluntarily put myself at this station because the only thing I hate more than doing crafts by myself is having to help a bunch of kids with crafts, but I think it's because I thought that the assembly would be five-year-old friendly and just require some simple stringing skills. I was wrong.

I opened up my bag of supplies to find pre-cut lengths of black yarn, construction paper flowers in two sizes, 1" lengths of drinking straws and a box of Fruit Loops. After glancing at these items for a total of two seconds and thinking "Oh shit," the first kids showed up at my table, eager to get started. This is when I started cursing the fact that there wasn't a pina colada station at this luau.

No one had punched any holes in the construction paper flowers, so while the kids sat there and whipped each other with the black yarn, I hurriedly started punching holes. Of course the little paper-catcher thingie on the hole puncher was busted off, so there were little bits of confetti-sized paper flying everywhere, making the kids shout out like they were in a parade. No sooner did they grab the first flower and straw when I heard someone say "Zoe's mommy, I need help." This phrase was repeated no fewer than 8,752 times over the next 45-minutes. We also quickly discovered that black yarn does not thread through eight out of ten Fruit Loops because the hole is too small, and instead just mashes and frays. And I now know that trying to thread black yarn that now resembles a fuzzy black hamster through a drinking straw is no easy feat, especially when that black fuzzball is soggy with spit because some gross kid has been sucking on it.

Since I was strongly discouraging the kids from using the Fruit Loops, I decided to just drop handfuls of them on the table and let the kids eat them instead. Suddenly, my table was really popular. Kids were shoving those things in their mouths by the handful and in addition to "I need help," I was now hearing "I need some more Fruit Loops." At one point, I stepped back to observe the chaos as if I wasn't directly involved and saw: kids licking their hands, licking the yarn, grabbing cereal, wiping their noses, rubbing their eyes, picking at their ears, sucking on the yarn, eating cereal off of the floor, and then asking me for help. This is when I decided that soap and water just wouldn't do -- I would have to just chop my hands off when I got home.

I suppose you're wondering how the craft turned out, and let's just say that I considered attaching an apology note to more than a couple dozen of the leis. A few of the girls that were actually excited about the concept of wearing paper flowers somehow managed to make a pretty presentable craft. But for the most part, the kids sat there for five minutes of threading-induced frustration and ended up with, honestly, something pathetic. Even the girls, who had patiently threaded straws and flowers one after the other to make a pattern threw their arms up in frustration when they held up their leis, only to have all of the flowers slide into a clump because the punched hole is just that much bigger than the diameter of the straw. One kid, after finally succeeding to thread two things only to have them slide right off the other end of the yarn proclaimed that "This craft sucks!" All I could do was look him in the eye and say yes, you're right. Here's some Fruit Loops.

Now, let's compare: we all know what a Hawaiian lei looks like, and in case you've forgotten it looks like this:

And here's how ours turned out:

I don't know about you, but looking at this thing does not put me in the mood for a luau. It does, however, put me in the mood for a pina colada.

An Educational Experience

It has taken a few days, but I think I have finally recovered from attending the kindergarten field trip to the zoo, and it was definitely a good news/bad news kind of day:

Good news: Even though it was cloudy, it didn't rain. (At least not until right after we left.)

Bad news: The weatherman was wrong (again) about the temperature, so the kids in tank tops were freezing and Zoe is now the owner of yet another fleece jacket. This one has a polar bear on it, though.

Good news: We saw a tiger in action.

Bad news: It was eating action, and the vegetarian kids were a little freaked out.

Good news: Yay for monkeys!

Bad news: Apparently monkeys do some pretty great drugs, which contradicts what the DARE program is trying to teach our children.

Good news: We saw a baby orangutan swinging around.

Bad news: I had to stand next to a dad that insisted on speaking with falsetto.

Good news: There was a great photo op for a picture of Zoe with her friends.

Bad news: Four kids don't fit on a turtle.

Good news: We saw the giraffes.

Bad news: We smelled the giraffes.

Good news: We saw a buffalo. Or maybe it was a bison.

Bad news: The buffalo/bison was in the exact same spot/position/mental state as when I saw him last year.

Good news: After hearing animal sounds, we thought we were going to get lucky and see a monkey in the parking lot.

Bad news: It was just a deranged black-socks-wearing-dad making insanely loud monkey sounds at his kid while his butt was sticking out of the car door.

Good news: I remembered that lunch was going to be later than usual, so I threw a couple snacks in my purse for when the kids got hungry.

Bad news: A granola bar and a bag of fruit snacks split between four kids is not exactly satisfying.

Good news: Luckily, I knew to avoid some road construction on the drive back to the school, and therefore managed to not sit in traffic.

Bad news: The two bus drivers hauling 125 kindergartners with full bladders were not so lucky.

Bad news: Zach had a varsity tennis match and needed to get out of school early, so I had to race back from the zoo in order to get to the junior high. I got there just in time to deal with the fact that the front office completely screwed up his early release, which meant that unless I drove like a crazy person (which, fortunately, I manage to do most of the time anyway) he would be late for the tennis bus. I was so irritated with the incompetence of the attendance office that after we finally got in the car I said "fucking" for the first time in front of my kid, as in "I can't believe how fucking stupid the women are in that office."

Good news: Zach's brain was still in junior high mode, so he didn't even flinch when he heard me say it. After all, it was probably at least the 247th time he had heard it that day.

Good news: I managed to be a good person/mom and made it through an entire field trip surrounded by other people's children without having to bring a flask.

Better news: Since I hadn't brought any booze to the zoo, it meant that there was more booze at home. Or at least, there was more booze at home.

A Moment of Insanity

In a moment of weakness (and because I was suffering from temporary insanity), I agreed to volunteer at kindergarten. I figured since I hadn't been in Zoe's classroom much since November I should probably suck it up and show up for an hour or so. Besides driving to school twice-a-day for drop-off and pick-up, I have pretty much been avoiding the place until after the snow melted and the non-stop stream of strept throat/influenza/ pink-eye/ebola virus notices stopped coming home. Since I hadn't pulled one out of Zoe's take-home folder in over a month and was already committed to showing up, I shouldn't have been surprised when two days before my scheduled volunteer day a note came home saying that someone in the class has strept throat.

For the last couple weeks, the kindergarten kids have been learning about wood. The different types of wood, how to sand it, if it floats or sinks and what it's used for. The most anticipated part of this unit involves each kid constructing a "sculpture" out of wood scraps, using real hammers and actual nails. Yes, that's correct. Kindergartners (some with zero hand-eye coordination) swinging hammers. What in the hell had I gotten myself into.

The first kid I worked with picked three scraps of wood that were harder than marble and grabbed a nail the size of a cucumber. Ah, yes. This was going to go splendidly. In order to save time, and fingers, I decided that I would get each nail started before handing the weapon over. Well, I might as well have been trying to drive a nail with a hot dog bun. Even after several whacks, the nail wouldn't budge and when it finally did the wood split in two, sending a brittle chunk flying across the hallway. Perfect. I tried a smaller nail and noticed that while I was furiously hammering because there was no way in hell that I was going to fail at showing a 5-year old how to hammer a damn nail, and I certainly didn't need him going home and telling someone that "Zoe's mommy doesn't know how to hammer stuff together," the boy that I was "helping" was holding his hands over his ears and had a terrified look in his eye. I said "Here, do you want to try? It's really super fun." He just sat there shaking his head furiously, obviously trying to resist the urge to run away from the mayhem.

Since I seemed to be a magnet for every kid that was struggling with fine motor skills and had just suffered arm muscle atrophy, I stuck to the same script with each kid:

1. Hi. We're going to build a sculpture. Grab three small pieces of wood. No, not that one, that's way too big. A small one. Smaller. SMALLER!
2. I'll get the nails. Please don't touch the nails because I don't know where the Band-aids are. No, do not put the nail by your eye.
3. OK. Sit here and watch me hammer.
4. Now it's your turn. Hit the nail five times, and hit your finger zero times.
5. OK. Let me finish hammering while you watch.
6. Write your name on the back and go back to class.

Another mom noticed that I was finishing three sculptures in the time it took her to get through one and she said "Wow! You're lucky to be getting all of the strong kids! I can't believe how fast you're getting those sculptures done!" That's when I noticed that even though the kid she was working with wouldn't have left a dent in a marshmallow let alone drive a nail into a board, this woman patiently sat there and held the boards while zero-strength girl tap-tap-tapped for ten minutes. Maybe if I had shown up drunk and brought a flask I might have had enough patience for that but COME ON LADY! These kids are only in school for a little over two hours! If we let every kid swing a hammer for twenty minutes we'll never, EVER get out of here! And then we might be stuck here helping the afternoon classes!

With ten parents in a hallway trying to help ten kids not injure themselves with hammers, you can imagine the noise. And I'm not just talking noise. I mean NOISE! Within two minutes, doors to other classrooms and hallways were being slammed as the kids wailed away on these boards and the parents, and some grandparents, were yelling (we had to yell, in order to be heard over the pounding) enthusiastic words of encouragement, along with the occasional "Ow! OUCH! God da...I mean gosh darnett that hurt!"

Since this was technically supposed to be an educational experience and not just a lesson in physical pain, I was told to reinforce some wood-related vocabulary words while the kids were hammering, such as "bent, claw, hammer, drive" and "nail." I made an attempt to use these words and apply them to the project, but I included them in sentences like:

• You need to aim for the nail, not the floor. No, I said the nail, not your foot.
• These nails are junky. They must be from Menards.
• Please don't drive the nail into my thumb.
• Give me the hammer before you impale yourself with the claw.
• No, you can't take the extra nails home.
• Again, that is my thumb. The nail is over there.
• Seriously, give me the hammer. Now. NOW! GIVE ME THE HAMMER!

I think the kids learned a lot from me, and if you're wondering if I'm still feeling generous with my time and going back next week to help with the staining of the wood sculptures -- the answer is no, especially since I gave up inhaling paint fumes a long time ago and have moved on to other things. Like rubber cement.

The Good and Bad of Kindergarten

When Zoe gets home from school each day I always get a pretty thorough report. Although I've noticed that she sometimes leaves out bits of information like "I yelled at Savannah" or "I ran in the hall and got busted," she's pretty good about remembering what song she sang in music, who (else) got in trouble, who picked their nose and if anyone brought in a birthday treat. Now that we are two-thirds of the way through the school year, I've realized that there are some things that I like hearing about more than others.

Things I like to hear about kindergarten:

Zoe brought home her "report card" for the second trimester and we reviewed it together. I congratulated her on the fact that her "grades" have improved and are really good for things like math and reading, but pointed out that she still seems to be having a little trouble when it comes to controlling herself physically and verbally, showing respect and working/playing well with others (stop getting confused, I'm still talking about Zoe). She stared down at the minus signs attached to the "S" marks and decided right then and there that she was going to make those minus signs disappear by the end of the school year. In fact, she said "I'm going to be a behaver from now on."

Thinking that the novelty of her new goal would last a day or two before she returned to her dominating ways, I was surprised when she came home on Thursday and said that "Michael finished a worksheet before me and said 'Ha ha. Nah nah' to me. That made me mad, so I told the teacher and the teacher got mad at him." While I'm glad that she didn't haul off and push Michael off of his chair or stab the back of his hand with her pencil for saying something so completely moronic, I'm not super thrilled that she could potentially be becoming a tattle-tale. I guess I'm going to have to work harder at teaching her the crucial skill of blowing boys off and ignoring them.

Things I don't like to hear about kindergarten:

In addition to the story about Michael being creatively challenged, she also said that "Zeke sits at the white table, and he threw up all over it and it was so gross (fortunately Zoe sits at the red table). So the teacher gave him a trash can and he walked down to the nurses office. It was so gross, so I looked away and pinched my nose." She told me this story while I was making her lunch and right before she plopped onto the couch, holding a book in her hands.

"That's a really gross story, Zoe. Hey, did you wash your hands with soap and water when you got home?" Please let her say yes, please let her say yes. Please let this not be the one day that she forgot...

"Ooops."

Rosco The (Germ-Encrusted) Bear

When Zoe got home from school on Friday, I looked in her backpack and discovered a green shopping bag containing a journal and a bear named Rosco. I then learned that the kids all take turns bringing Rosco home for the weekend and are supposed to fill a page in the journal with pictures and descriptions of where they went, what Rosco saw, the strange noises he might have heard coming from mom and dad's bedroom on Saturday night and if he was subjected to any physical harm.

While looking through the journal, I noticed that most of the kids were able to take Rosco home for their birthdays, so there are several pictures of Rosco propped up by presents, balloons and cakes. There is also a note on almost every page about Rosco sleeping with his host. In their beds. Being breathed and drooled on. Since Zoe is the 16th child to take Rosco home for the weekend, that means he has slept with 15 other children, the most recent of which was sick. Wonderful.

Rosco's care instructions include what he likes to eat (anything) and that he's supposed to receive a bath in the washing machine on Sunday night before he is returned to school on Monday morning. If there were some way for me to be 100% sure that everyone had actually given him his bath, I might actually let him come out of his green shopping bag. And then I noticed that Zoe had taken him out of his bag and was playing with him in her room. Extra wonderful.

I went upstairs and discovered Rosco sitting on a doll size potty chair, having his fur vigorously rubbed down with a washcloth that had been saturated with a bottle of fake soap. Zoe was giving him a bath and telling him that he had to pee and get a bath before she would play with him. Play with him? Ah fuck. What the hell were we going to do with Mr. Germarific that would be journal and picture worthy? The only thing that I had planned for the weekend was a tennis tournament for the boys. If I had known in advance that Rosco would have been coming home this weekend, I would have scheduled some unique activities for him to enjoy.

Up to this point, Rosco's outings with the other kids have been pretty uneventful. He's been to a bowling alley, birthday parties, Costco, sleepovers, swimming lessons and been forced to watch a couple horrible movies. He's eaten at Culvers, played Wii, cavorted with family pets and even had someone "drum on his belly." There's a noticeable absence of activities like "helped the family with the marijuana harvest, fell asleep in a puddle of my own barf" or "stood on the street corner with a few baggies and a wad of cash." He has yet to do his first keg stand, drink a vodka Red Bull, watch porn or go downtown to bail Uncle Mark out of jail. Again.

I guess I'll do my best to find something for him to do that isn't mind-numbingly boring, but doesn't result in us being able to include a picture of Rosco in an orange jumpsuit. Even if there aren't any extra super fantastic events to write about, I know there will be one thing about Zoe's page that will make it unique: there is no way in hell she will be sleeping with that petri dish named Rosco.

Wacky Wednesday

Zoe finally gets to be Star of the Week this week. They sent the pre-printed booklet home about a month ago, probably assuming that some parents were going to put off completing the thing until the Sunday night before the big week. Whether this is a good or bad thing to admit, I am not one of those parents. That sucker has been hanging, completed, on our refrigerator for over three weeks and the anticipation has been building.

As luck would have it, Zoe's week happens to be a four-day week so she gets shafted one day of stardom. Also, her big week coincides with the classroom's celebration of Chinese New Year. Whether this was intentional or not, I will never know. But FYI teacher: Zoe is not Chinese.

One thing I forgot to mention in the previous SOTW post is that in addition to including pictures and completing the questions in the booklet, each day requires a special item to be sent to school and shared with the class. Monday is booklet and picture day, Tuesday is talent day, Wednesday is "Mystery Bag" day, and I won't bore you with the rest. Since there was no school on Monday, I sent Zoe's booklet and "talent" on the same day. Her "talent" was her tennis racquet, but since we aren't lame we don't refer to tennis as a talent: we refer to it as a sport.

When she got home from school on Tuesday with the handle of her racquet poking out of her backpack, I asked her if the other kids thought it was cool that she plays tennis and if she got to demonstrate her backhand. She said: "The teacher didn't have time to do that today. I guess I'll just skip it." Oh yeah, sure. Shaft my daughter one day from her SOTW week, and then don't let her "accidentally" nail the nose-picking kid in the back of the head while she shows off her backhand. I don't think so.

I emailed her teacher (yet again) to ask what happened and if I should send the racquet again tomorrow even though it was Mystery Bag day, or what the hell she wanted me to do. She replied: "I asked her if she had her talent, and she said no. Please send the talent tomorrow and the Mystery Bag, too." I was immediately frustrated and emailed back, saying that "Zoe calls tennis a sport, not a talent. She had no idea what you were talking about when you asked her if 'she brought her talent.'"

Again, I don't know if this is a good or bad thing, but I am a parent that sends signed permission slips and Wednesday Envelopes (don't ask) back to school the following day. If there are art supplies requested for the following week, I send them to school a week early. I do not forget to send snow pants, labeled mittens or library books and none of my kids have had to walk around with the stamp of shame on their hand, alerting everyone to the fact that they have a low balance in their lunch account.

If the teacher would have thought about it for one minute, she maybe would have realized that I most likely didn't forget to send something in for Zoe to share and maybe she could have just asked in a different way. Perhaps, "Is there something extra in your backpack that you brought to show the class?" or "Why is there a tennis racquet handle poking out of your backpack?" These are questions that Zoe would have understood, because they make sense.

Also on Wednesday, in addition to swinging her racquet in class and sharing the contents of her Mystery Bag, it was also Wacky Wednesday. In the past Zach and Charlie have never dressed wacky or done wacky things with their hair, mostly because they have buzz cuts but also because they consider dressing wacky a "girl thing." So since Zoe is a girl and isn't passive or shy, she was more than happy to embrace Wacky Wednesday, including wearing a Squidward tattoo in the middle of her forehead. I guess I won't be surprised, though, if her teacher says: "Zoe, did you remember to wear something for Wacky Wednesday? Where's your wacky outfit and hairdo?"

Bossy? Yes. Kick ass? Yes.

After attending Zoe's kindergarten parent/teacher conference, it has come to my attention that I need to sit down with the girl, look her in the eye and apologize for the genetics that I have cursed her with.

I was told that academically she is doing fine. She's reading, writing sentences, counting buttons, writing numbers and has mastered a pair of safety scissors. Her tying skills suck, but hey, that's what velcro is for. Oh, and the flashlight that was taken away on Groundhog Day that had been sitting on the teacher's desk? Well, Zoe had grabbed it off of the desk on Wednesday and brought it home, without telling the teacher. Oops. Sincere apology, stern look, a short lecture about how "You don't take things, even if it's yours, off of the teacher's desk," a second apology, let's continue.

I knew not to get too comfortable because I had received an email from the teacher a couple days ago that said: "It will be good to talk at the conference. Zoe is having a hard time being kind to others." Ouch. I am raising a 34-pound dictator.

Turns out that if someone is annoying my daughter, she isn't very good at hiding her feelings and definitely is not passive. She has poked kids, stuck her tongue out and said something similar to "You're kind of annoying" along with some other not-very-nice phrases. While these behaviors are all unacceptable in a classroom setting, I know for a fact that I've been guilty of all-of-the-above at some point in the last six months. Oh, who the hell am I kidding, more like in the last week. The difference is that she's ballsier than me since I only manage to shove someone or stick my tongue out in my imagination. And as far as telling someone that they're annoying, I only say that after they're out of earshot.

Along with the lack of tolerance for weird children, she has also demonstrated anger when faced with a conflict, gets frustrated easily when things don't go exactly right and has a hard time waiting for others. While the teacher was explaining these issues to me, I felt a little bit of confusion because I lost track of whether she was describing me or we were still talking about Zoe. How did this woman know that if I ask someone to take out the garbage and it doesn't happen in twelve seconds I end up just doing it myself? And of course things should go exactly right! That's why we plan ahead, dammit!

So, my post-conference chats with Zoe will include praise for her being so smart, but will also stress the importance of patience, non-violent interactions and not telling every kid that picks his nose that "he's so super gross and disgusting." I will also remind her that we love her just the way she is and we always want her to stick up for herself.

As I was getting up to leave, her teacher assured me that she really likes having Zoe in class and loves her personality, and that's when I got teary. I calmly explained that while I understand that Zoe needs to be nicer to her friends and have more patience, there was no way I was going to tell her to sit in her chair, motionless and mute, if someone next to her was making her crazy because that would be sending her the message that being outspoken and having an opinion is wrong. There are a lot of people that expect little girls to be perfectly behaved and quiet, saying "sweetie" and "oh my" while they play with dolls, have tea parties, practice penmanship and adjust the bows in their hair. Zoe likes laughing at the people that fall off of ladders on America's Funniest Home Videos, loves worms and Nerf guns and gets her hair cut at a barbershop where she can dance to The Sex Pistols while she waits for her appointment. And she's not passive.

Before we left, Zoe hugged her teacher goodbye and when we got to the car, for some reason, I started to cry.

Being Five Is Hard/I Like Wine

On Groundhog Day, the kindergartners were supposed to bring a flashlight from home so that they could learn about shadows. Zoe is a little obsessed with flashlights, so I knew this would be a fun day for her.

She begged and pleaded to bring her (my) favorite metal flashlight that twists on and off. I was tentative to send it with her because I was 98% sure it would be misplaced and I would never see it again, but I figured I would have to be willing to make some sacrifices if she was ever going to learn to be responsible.

"Do not lose this, okay? As soon as you are done with the shadow lesson, put it back in your backpack. And don't take it out during the bus ride home. I mean it." (Why do I always say I mean it anyway? What the hell else am I going to say? "Oh, ha ha. Just kidding. I didn't mean any of that. You can lose it if you want to. It doesn't matter.") She assured me several times that she wouldn't lose the flashlight, and went to school with a smile on her face.

As soon as she got home, I was in a hurry to go back out the door because we were going to lunch at her favorite restaurant, Noodles & Co., and then had haircut appointments. I quickly went through her backpack and was 2% surprised to not find a flashlight inside.

"So, did you leave the flashlight at school, or were you playing with it on the bus?" I figured she already knew that she didn't bring it home, so I might as well just get to the point instead of asking, "Did you lose the flashlight?" Well, duh, yeah.

"What? I brought it home. It should be in my backpack. It isn't there? Well, that's weird. Huh. I thought for sure it was in there," she said, while quickly glancing around at everything in the room except me. My daughter is a terrible liar.

"It must be at school. I'll email your teacher and ask her if she'll look around your table."

"No, you don't need to ask her. Please don't ask the teacher." Now she looked at me, and there was fear in her eyes. At this point, I couldn't type the email fast enough.

Sure enough, her teacher replied within two minutes saying: "I have the flashlight. It got taken away from her because she did not put it away when she was supposed to. It is on my desk. Sorry about that."

And now comes my least favorite part of parenting, besides the part where you sometimes get poop under your fingernails. I was pissed because she had already failed to tell me the truth as to why the flashlight was missing, and now I knew that the teacher was ticked which makes me even more pissed, which leaves me with the following options:

1. Ignore the truth and accept the lie, but get angry because she was irresponsible and lost the flashlight.
2. Force her to tell the truth, and then get angry anyway because not only did she lie, but she was naughty at school.
3. Tell her I know the truth, but that I need to hear it from her, and then when she confesses, yell like a lunatic.
4. Send the teacher a case of wine and an apology note.
5. Suck it up, maintain composure, and drink the wine myself.

I tried to access the calmest voice possible, and then said: "I know what happened at school, so you have two choices: If you don't tell me the truth, then we won't go to lunch, and I will be really disappointed and pretty angry. Or, when you tell me what happened and apologize, I won't be mad, and you can go eat mac 'n cheese."

She's sorry, ate all but three bites of the mac 'n cheese, and I'll get the flashlight back tomorrow. Oh, and being a parent is hard, but wine is tasty.

Star Of The Week

A few years ago, when Zach was a fifth grader and Charlie was in third, I allowed myself to drink a couple extra back-to-school celebratory cocktails because it meant that after five years of assembling Star Of The Week (SOTW) posters, I was beginning my three-year reprieve.

In kindergarten, SOTW means that the kid gets to wear a star necklace, spend five days sharing fun facts about themselves, sit on a star rug, and be a line leader. The teachers like to think that it helps build respect and understanding for one another, and build a stronger classroom community. I, on the other hand, am pretty sure that the other kids mutter a G-rated version of "Stupid stuck up bitch" when the SOTW is wearing her necklace and sitting on the star rug.

Now that Zoe is in school, I'm back to having to celebrate SOTW, and the school has made a few changes to the program. Apparently they realized that the posters had become yet another way for moms to one-up each other, trying to see who could spend the most money at Archivers or JoAnn in an attempt to make the other children feel even more inferior. "Look, my mom used swirlybobs, rose embellishments, and butterfllies, and decoupaged my curvy cut picture on a piece of vellum, which is attached to foam core using flower eyelets, and then she used glimmer mist spray to add a special touch of shine."

Now the teachers send home a booklet that has been pre-printed with questions on plain white copy paper, and I'm supposed to add pictures and "help" Zoe fill in the blanks. I may have to revise our answers a little bit, since the space provided in the booklet is kind of small.

My full name is: Zoe Joy Adkins, but for some reason people sometimes call me "Stinker Face, Fart Queen," or "What Were You Thinking." I prefer to be called Zoe.

The best thing about me is: Well, everything, duh. If someone doesn't agree with me, then that means they're stupid.

My family pet is a ___, and it's name is: We have a dog. At least, I think it's a dog. Do dogs smell bad and sometimes poop on the floor? Yes? Okay, then yes, we have a dog. His name is Cosmo, he's really super old, and he smells bad and sometimes poops on the floor.

I have lost ___ baby teeth: Zero, okay? Go ahead, rub it in. Stupid Tooth Fairy, who needs her?

The color of my hair is: Brown. But in the summer I get these really cool highlights without even trying, and it seems to irritate my mom, because whenever she brushes my hair I hear her mutter, "It's not fair. It's just not fair. I pay for my color and it never looks this great."

I am ___ years old, and my birthday is on: I'm five and a half. Don't forget the half or I'll have to hurt you. Sometimes that extra half year comes back to bite me in the butt, because if I'm screaming about something that's not going my way, my mom will say, "Zoe, five-and-a-half-year-olds do not act like that, only five-year-olds do." So sometimes, getting older really sucks. Oh, my birthday is on June 2. It's an awesome day to have a birthday.

My favorite food is: Pears, strawberries, noodles, bacon, apples, cheese pizza, grapes, ham sandwiches with lettuce, pasta, raw carrots, red peppers, macaroni, and noodles.

Please do not feed me: Noodles with more than a tablespoon of sauce, cheese other than muenster, onions, broccoli, cooked carrots, anything spicier than air, blemished fruit, mashed potatoes, olives, or baked beans unless you want me to gag.

I really like to: Swim. Swimming is fun. But I also really like to play video games, run around pretending to be a dog, sing, dance, win, shake my butt, color, hog attention, yell at Charlie, and play Uno. Oh, and I'm an awesome tennis player.

When I grow up I want to be a: Doctor. I'm really good at putting Band-Aids on, but I have a tendency to burst into tears when I see that someone has a bloody ow, so who knows.

A few more pieces of critical information: My favorite number is 100, I like to play with my Playmobil camper, Halloween is the funnest holiday ever, I like things that are pink (but not ugly pink), I can't wait for Spring, I will never get sick of reading "The Monster At The End Of This Book" or watching "Spongebob," Sundays are fun, and is there any animal cooler than a zebra? I didn't think so.

Playing Well With Others Is Overrated

The first trimester of the school year is complete and the report cards have been sent home. While this is normally a pretty uneventful day in our house (no, I wouldn't really beat them if they get a B), this trimester held a little more excitement because since she is a kindergartner, it is Zoe's first report card.

Instead of the standard "A-B-C" grading standard, kindergarten uses an "O-S-N" system. The letters stand for Outstanding, Satisfactory and Needs improvement, although I think it would be more appropriate if they stood for Overachiever, Sort-of-gets-it, and Normal.

I had no concerns about her academic performance, but her tendency to chatter and lack of patience makes me a little nervous. As I reviewed her report card, I was relieved to see that, unlike some adults I know, she "displays self-confidence, has a positive attitude, demonstrates self-control verbally and physically," and in the words of her teacher, "is a pleasure to have in class." Then I got to the "works/plays well with others" and saw that she wasn't doing such a satisfactory job. Or was she?

When I asked her if she is fighting or arguing with the other kids, or maybe even being bossy at times, she initially said, "No mom. I'm always nice to all the kids, and I always sit quietly at the table."

Without saying anything, I just looked at her and smiled. After a minute or so, she clarified her answer.

"Sometimes, Nathan is so naughty. He doesn't listen and he picks his nose, and the teacher says 'Nathan! Go wash your hands!' and he doesn't go, he just sits there. I try to sit quietly, but it's so gross. And Tim. Tim will start to sing for no reason and he sits right by me and it gets so annoying. And sometimes, when it's my turn to play with the truck and that one other boy tries to take the truck from me, I'm not going to give it to him, because it's still my turn!"

After hearing all of this, I felt conflicted. Do I encourage her turn a blind eye to the nose picker, become more tolerant of the impulsive off-tune singer, and give in to the demands of the truck hog? Hell no. This is a girl that is confident, strong-willed, outspoken, smart, and pretty much kick ass. She's a five-year-old trying to figure out how to get along with gross, sticky, linguistically-challenged, hygienically-deficient children. As long as she isn't yelling "Haven't you ever heard of a bath?" while shoving them onto the ground, I think she's doing just fine.

Earning respect without being viewed as a bitch-in-training is something that's nearly impossible for girls to do, and it seems that if they're not being labeled as bossy bitches, they're being called a push-over. I'd rather my daughter risks being called bossy before she has toys taken away from her during free choice time.

Whenever I have the "pleasure" of volunteering in her classroom, I am reminded of the fact that I do not play well with others, and would definitely get a failing grade. But I've had a lot of time to discover who gets on my nerves (a lot of people) and who I would do tequila shots with (you know who you are). The process of getting to this point is something everyone should go through. I wouldn't want Zoe to miss out on this experience just because she was already annoyed by everybody with a quirk or two as a five-year-old.

I don't want Zoe to be intolerant and hyper-critical of kids that may smell funny, eat ear wax, or still watch "Caillou," yet. I will encourage her to be more patient with her classmates, compromise more often, and maybe just subtly plug her ears once in a while when Tone Deaf Timmy starts humming a tune. And I will definitely teach her the "look" she can give to some of these kids that will wordlessly say: "I kick ass. You don't. And your mom dresses you funny."

Would You Like Chaos With Your Coffee?

My mornings consist of three kids and a husband waking up at four different times, making breakfast at least two times, feeding the dog, emptying the dishwasher, taking a swig from the super secret bottle, making coffee, throwing in a load of laundry, packing lunches, blah blah blah. Basically, it's the same as every other mom, except maybe the coffee part. After all, some people prefer tea.

Some mornings go smoother than others, and the motivation to work through each glitch comes from knowing that eventually, for a couple hours, everyone is gone. Before I reach that goal, though, there are two things that are always guaranteed to happen: Zoe and Charlie will fight, and someone will snap at me.

Yesterday morning it started before the first bite of eggs was off his fork. "Knock it off, Zoe. Quit looking at me. You're being rude."

"I'm not looking at you. I'm looking by you. And you're chewing weird." Zoe doesn't believe in sugarcoating things.

"Just. Stop. Looking. This. Way. Then. Geeeez." Charlie said, while turning his back toward her.

"Now you're sitting weird and chewing weird. Hey Charlie! We're going to see Santa in one sleep! That'll be so fun!" We're really hoping that her short-attention-span phase ends soon.

After a few more petty arguments during which Zoe criticized her brother's ping pong serving skills and accused him of being "annoying," it was finally time to pile in the car and head to the Most Funnest Place In The World, also known as school drop-off.

I needed to deliver a bag containing three plastic shopping baskets, a giant box of noodles, four cans of tuna, and a shoe box (please, don't ask) to Zoe's kindergarten room. The bag was too heavy and cumbersome for her to carry, and I thought: "Hey! I have this useful sixth grader! He can carry it and Zoe will think it's really cool that her big brother is walking her to class! Now I don't have to get out of the car at drop-off and risk bumping into the VC!" When I informed Charlie of the chore I had for him, his expression didn't exactly radiate goodwill and a voluntary willingness to help. I reminded him that Santa's watching his crabby mood and taking notes, to which he replied, "Yeah. Mmm hmm. Sure mom."

After securing my spot in line for the minivan/SUV parade, I pulled up to the curb and waited for the kids to hop out. Zoe was the first out, followed by my carpool kids, and then...no Charlie. I turned around and looked at him, peripherally detecting the angry looks being shot my direction from the other drivers because: "I was taking too long to drop-off! Get going! What's wrong with you? Don't you know how the drop-off procedure works? Go! GO!"

After giving him a few seconds, I finally said, "Charlie. You have to hurry up and get out of the car. There might be a drive-by."

"I WOULD!" he snapped. "But my backpack is really heavy and I have this stupid bag of baskets and tuna and crap that you want me to carry, ALL RIGHT? MAN!"

I noticed that a few people were on the sidewalk wondering why in the hell I was taking so long, and I didn't think they'd be very impressed with my "scream like a lunatic while I hit Charlie with the bag of tuna" show. So in my best I'm-such-a-happy-mom voice, I said to him: "Get out of the car. Now. And this attitude of yours might just guarantee that you end up without any Christmas presents from anyone. In fact, I might just make you give some back from last year."

Silently, he got out of the car, and I'm sure he would have loved to have slammed the door on me. Unfortunately for him, though, I have power-sliding doors, so he had to settle for pushing the button with a little extra force, which doesn't really have the same dramatic effect, but still pisses me off.

Volunteering. Need I Say More?

Yesterday, I tried to get some Christmas shopping done before volunteering at school. Unfortunately, since the amount of time I had was even shorter than usual, I felt a little rushed and didn't have very much fun. I was so disoriented at one point that I found myself staring at The Cake Bakery for a full two minutes before regaining enough common sense to walk away from the end cap. At least I knew that Zoe's appreciation for my appearance at the Kindergarten Fall Festival would compensate for the fact that I was going to spend an hour surrounded by sticky kindergartners instead of shopping. Plus, it could even be fun since I was volunteering with a friend.

After having my I.D. verified for the three M-rated games I was buying for the boys and stopping at home to drop off milk, I headed to school a few minutes early. My strategy was to get there before anyone else so that I would be able to pick the party game that required the least amount of involvement. I believe in putting a lot of effort into playing sports, cleaning a house, or slamming a beer. But "The Corn Kernel Race?" Not so much.

I scanned the list of games and everything seemed to require a lot of smiling and exuberance: "Strut Like a Turkey," "Bowling," "Pumpkin Relay," and "Musical Chairs." All of them except one: "Hang Hat On The Scarecrow." I grabbed the bag of materials and waited for my friend to show up, somehow managing to avoid Fanny as she rushed around trying to organize everyone.

The game turned out to be a variation of "Pin The Tail On The Donkey." But instead of tacks we had masking tape. And instead of birthday party attendees dressed in festive clothes, there was a girl wearing the shortest miniskirt I've ever seen and boys dressed in sweats that smelled like fried Spam. Oh, and since we didn't have a blindfold, we had to say, "Shut your eyes tight! No peeking!" before we spun them around three times. I wasn't looking for an explanation as to why we didn't have a blindfold, but when the teacher said, "We aren't allowed to use a blindfold anymore because of lice," I decided that the kids could probably handle spinning around all by themselves without my having to touch them.

Towards the end of the party, one little boy started telling me about his pet turtle, or about his upcoming trip to grandma's house, or how he really likes anchovies on his pizza. I really have no idea what he was talking about because I was so distracted by the gumdrop-size green booger embedded in his left nostril. All I could think about was grabbing a crowbar and prying that sucker out of there. Too bad I didn't notice him a few weeks ago at the Halloween parade, because then I could have borrowed Zoe's.