Where all the Eclairs Went

Zoe is walking out the door to school, turns around and goes back to the kitchen to get a big box of eclairs.

I watch, and maybe perhaps probably raise a pre-dawn judging eye.

Her: What? they're for polysaccharide Thursday.

Me: Polysaccharide Thursday?

Her. Polysaccharide Thursday mom. I bet you don't know what a polysaccharide is.

Me: It's a sugar.

Her: No (sigh) it isn't, I love you.

Me (to the closed door, but not too loudly): Yeah? Well I can name all of Henry the 8th's wives!

And with that she left, taking every single one of the eclairs with her.

AMH 2010 9:30 Grades

Summer School Students are different; most of them are laser focused and love having class everyday.  This is a lot of A's. I usually give 20 A's in a class of 70!

Tale of the Albino Roach

I make it a habit to wake up in the morning almost two hours before dawn specifically so I can have a little time by myself before I have to be nice to anyone.

Sometimes Zack is up all night and is still up when I wake up and the best I can do is roll with things.

On this particular night-morning  he's been up all night waiting for me.

"Mom, I'm starving, but I couldn't go in the kitchen all night."

"Fine.  Eat. OK." (That's me, uncaffeinated, just a fountain of compassion, right?)

"No Mom, I saw a ROACH and I'm never going in the kitchen alone at night again."

"Fine. OK." (Me, staring at coffee maker, praying for it to go faster.)

"Mom!! Seriously!!! I am never going in the kitchen at night alone again because I saw a ROACH."

I try to find the best, most compassionate, most parentliscious answer, but it's early and also I pay plenty of money to the bug man and so I doubt the roach sighting. All I can manage is "A roach? seriously? did you kill it?"

"No, Mom, because it was too gross. It was an albino roach and it's gross and I'm starving."

"An albino roach? Do those exist?"

"Yes, it was gross and bumpy, and I'm never going in the kitchen at night again and can you PLEASE go get Chickfila before you take Zoe to school?"

"No Chickfila. Where did you see this albino roach?"  He points at a corner of kitchen.

I think to google "do albino roaches even exist" but at this point I know it doesn't matter because they are real to my son.

I look at the ground where he points and there it is.

A peanut shell masquerading as an albino roach.

I pick it up and announce, "Oh my, a scary albino peanut shell."

Zack comes closer and agrees with me a peanut shell caused him to spend the night unnecessarily hungry.

He shakes his head and admits the whole situation was "pretty nutty."

I agree, then before he can ask I tell him yes that was funny but it doesn't mean I'm racing out of here to buy you Chickfila.

We laugh and he makes himself something to eat while I drink my first cup of the day.

Pretzelitized 3: Cookie Dough is not an Ingredient

 My Sunday was full enough without rolling dipping string cheese in hot Cheetos and frying them.  I get everything done on my list and make a list of the things I have to finish before 9am the next morning.  Zack is busy in his room doing Zack things, going on missions and submitting assessments and whatever else is he has going on.

 The hot Cheeto thing didn’t come up again until late Monday when I asked if he needed anything from my quick run to Publix.

He said no. 

 I reminded him about we were going to make the hot Cheetos cheese thingys and he shrugged it off because he wasn’t sure he wanted to make it, he was still thinking…. Could he please show me a video?

For some reason, I gave in, completely stopped my momentum, I sat down and watched the video.  

Perky background music set off shiny forks flashing around making “Three Ingredient Recipes.” 

A few seconds into the video I have to break it to Zack this video is a sham, “cookie dough is NOT an ingredient” and he gets what I mean. Eggs are an ingredient.  Milk is an ingredient. We snicker together at how ridiculous it is to call cookie dough an ingredient but are stuck for a better word. 

The video continues the recipe and when the second ingredient is announced I throw my hands up in fake exasperation. “Oreos are not an ingredient!”  

Maybe they are, I could be wrong. 

Who puts oreos and cookie dough together? who? Geniuses, I guess. 

I couldn't look away. 

We watch, mesmerized, as a hand lays out neat rows of Oreos on top of a flat layer of cookie dough and then TA-DA pours brownie batter over the entire thing.  

As it happens we shout out BROWNIE MIX is not an ingredient EITHER together and laugh but not so hard that we shake the screen and miss a vicarious bite.

He then shows me a video where someone is  making pizza dip that looks like a pepperoni pizza, then another video on how to making bowls out of churros by piping churro dough around the bases of overturned muffin tins. This is way out of my league, and also, churros meant to be straight not all curly like bowls, so I just can’t.

Ten minutes later Zack tells me he knows I need to go, but maybe can he just show me this other thing and I say yes, yes, of course yes. 

 Two hours later I’m still in there and in no hurry to go anywhere.

We watch videos on deep frying candy bars. Apparently the trick is to use pancake batter.  Maybe you knew this, maybe this is normal in your world, but my mind is blown. Pow.

We watch someone mix flaming hot Cheetos with marshmallows and make something along the lines of the horrible step-sister to rice crispy treats that is lumpy and orange and so vomit inspiring that they added a caption I saw in no other video: “This tastes better than it looks!” Doubt it. Pass.

We learn how that ice cream bread is a thing (pint of ice cream, flour, sprinkles, bake, you can try it but for me I’m thinking no thank you!)  and that s’mores can be fried but first you need to freeze them.

We learn that peanut butter stuffed skillet cookie is a thing, and that the trick to making neat banana Nutella sushi is to smooth the chocolate on just one ¼ at a time, then rolling the banana log in rice crispy treats. 

We watch a whole series about what can and cannot be made in a waffle iron, then get up and try to make tater tots in the waffle iron.

 

Can you waffle iron tater tots? YES YOU CAN

Score. 

After that I head out to the grocery and come back with pizza dough and brownie mix and cookie dough and crazy things like that.

(continued)

A Problem or a Blessing? A Tale of Two Hamburgers

I am standing in line at a fast food counter at crowded Turnpike rest station because my kids are starving because our six hour drive is taking much much longer today.

No problem, I'm in no hurry, no deadline, no big deal, right?

I stand in line long enough to notice that one person who was taking orders was completely bilingual, and the other person taking orders seemed to lean on her to translate and explain. 

When it was our turn to order, the only register that was open was the 20ish guy struggling with English.

My daughter ordered for herself and then for my son. She's easy. He's difficult. His hamburger must be cheese-free and mayo-free and untouched by mustard or any vegetable. Zoe asked for her brother's burger to be made with ketchup only and the nice guy rang it up and handed me the receipt.

Nothing on the receipt said anything about a special order so I leaned in and asked in my awful Spanish if the burger was ketchup only. He smiled and said yes, yes, ketchup only.  I gave him the thumbs up, he gave me a thumbs up back.


Minutes later, our order was ready. I thanked him and spun away to get to the car, to get to the Turnpike, to get home.

A little voice inside me told me to check the burger before we got into the car. Nothing against my son, but he has this thing of losing his mind when things go wrong and I didn't want to deal with that on the 250 miles remaining in our trip.

With my back to the service counter, I put the bag down on a table and opened the burger. 

It was fat and full and heavy and had cheese, mayo, mustard, red onions, ketchup, tomato and lettuce.

Awesome.

 I didn't want to embarrass the poor guy -- he was having a hard enough day struggling with English and impatient people who might thing bilingual people are more of a curse than a blessing.

I threw away all the toppings and wiped the bun clean, then asked Zack if he could eat it.

 He shook his head and said, no, but don't worry, he doesn't need to eat it, he'll just eat the fries. 

No, I didn't pay $7 for fries and a Sprite. I had to bring the burger back.

The poor guy behind the counter asked with his face and his hands (but no words) "what happened" and I said "ketchup only?" and he nodded and took it from me.  I

hoped no one saw. I didn't want to get him in trouble.

Minutes later he called me back and handed me the right burger.

 Zack checked it and approved.

Fine, time to get back to the car and the rain and the rest of the trip.

As I was turning the car on, Zack reached into the bag to hand his sister her food. First her nuggets, then her fries.

Then something else.

HEY! THERE'S ANOTHER BURGER! He shouts from the back, and without me even asking, he adds, AND THIS ONE WAS KETCHUP ONLY! IT WAS THERE ALL ALONG!

All the sudden I felt very embarrassed for assuming my new fast food friend didn't understand me, and then I felt even worse for looking in the bag and expecting a problem instead of making room for an unexpected blessing.

Homeschooled

It is the first day of the first week that Zack is officially being homeschooled and I've already filled his brain with the French Revolution, Haitian Revolution, War of 1812 and Battle of New Orleans.

He and I are walking along quietly and I point at two planes flying so close together they look like one big plane. Before he can spot them, they are gone.

He shakes his head at me, like I'm crazy.I can't stop looking at the sky, searching for the two planes. They were JUST there and poof where did they GO? This must be how dogs feel when balls disappear under the sofa and squirrels dash into trees. I must find the planes, must, must, find the planes.

Planes don't just disappear, I tell him.

No, Mom, they don't. I'm sure they just  turned on their mirror mode so they became invisible.

Really? Planes have mirror mode? That's a thing? I ask him, quite satisfied with this answer. Of course mirror mode would make the airplanes disappear into the cloudless blue sky. Of. Course.

Yes, Mom, look it up, he says with such certainty that I almost want to believe him.

*Marvin's Book: The Story of a Professor and a Promise* is Free on Kindle 9/9-9/14

Here you go, in case you haven't read it -- it's the story about a student of mine who passed away suddenly in 2000, how his death connects to how I run my classes today, why I publish exam bloopers and how this all ties to the Hero Scholarship for Veterans at TCC

PS Don't have a kindle? Just download the kindle app on any computer, tablet or smartphone.

http://www.amazon.com/Marvins-Book-Story-Professor-Promise-ebook/dp/B0074B088W/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1410260931&sr=8-2&keywords=marvin%27s+book+kindle

Judgement at Dawn

A scratching noise under the sofa wakes me up.

Zack is sunburnt and was up until 2am making sure I knew how miserable he was. Now that he was finally quiet I wasn’t going to let the puppy wake him up. 

I shine my iphone towards the noise and see her white-tipped stiff tail sticking out from under the part of a blanket that his hanging towards the floor.

What do you have there? I fish around under the sofa and find a cup, an empty cup. Awesome.  I pull it out and keep it out of her range as she jumps and twists and tries to get her prize from me.

I offer her this, then that, but nothing is calming her down.  

She clearly wants an adventure and all the sudden I see no reason to not indulge her.

Well before 6am the two of us walk outside under the partially full, waning moon.  A few bright stars pepper the inky sky behind fat white clouds. A breeze comes down from the trees and sends us happily on our way.

Within minutes I am transfixed by the chattering of birds (and squirrels?) as they wake up in their nests and (I imagine) tweet out in bird lingo something like -- MOM MOM I’M HUNGRY MOM MOM I’M HUNGRY MOM SHE’S PECKING ME  HE’S STEPPING ON MY WING MOM MOM MOM THAT'S THE WRONG WORM MOM OHHHH I’M HUNGRRRRY MOM

I wish them all good luck.

The next thing I notice is that silent houses come alive as we walk by, as though my puppy’s presence is triggering dog alarms causing all the other dogs to wake up and bark at their groggy owners demanding food and or freedom. Good luck to all of them as well.

Just as we pass a darkened lot my happy curious puppy freezes. 

This isn’t like her so I keep walking, scanning in front of me as best as I can. 

There is a solid, still fur lump on the grass ahead. 

Since we are in North Florida and since my coffee has already kicked in, I allow myself several guesses.

It could be an armadillo (no, too furry).

A raccoon (no, too calm and regal).

A baby deer (no, too round).

A new species of dog eating  fluffy rattlesnake (hope not).

A tiny baby bear cub (oh wait, please don’t let Mama bear be behind me) or a cat.

I take another step towards it, then another.

It seems dead or injured in its supernatural stillness.

I take another step and in the twilight I'm almost definitely sure that I make out triangle ears and a puff of a tail. 

Hello Mr. Cat, I say in my friendliest pre-dawn voice while my puppy tries to get closer to the cat, hoping to make a new friend.

The cat maintains his silent pose, not threatened by us and in no hurry to even show he notices us. 

I recognize the gaze – he’s judging us.  I don't have time for that.

I pull my puppy away and we scamper up the hill and around the corner and back home where the puppy falls asleep and I slip out to work before anyone can stop me.

100 Books My College Students Assigned Me: Movie Review: The Fault in Our Stars

At the very beginning of this 100 book journey a student asked me how hard I wanted to cry when I read the book she assigned me.

Her approximate quote was: Hard? or REALLY hard?

I told her I could handle the hard stuff, bring it.

So she brought me The Fault in Your Stars, and I fell in love with it instantly.

Beside the fact the book was engaging, smart and funny, it also brought my daughter and I closer together because she saw me reading it and came to warn me, ohhhh, you're going to CRY!

She took a picture of me reading the book and sent it to her friends so they could see me BEFORE I started sobbing hysterically, then told me I would be allowed to take her to see the MOVIE when it came.

Fine, fine, I told her, and went back to the book and cried my heart and soul out with happiness and sadness as the beautiful wonderfulness of, oh, you know what I mean if you read the book!

Fast forward to June -- I'm 50 books farther in my book journey but The Fault in Our Stars has left an indelible mark on my imagination and soul.

I want to see the movie badly enough that I'm willing to take a pack of 8th graders who may/may not let me sit with them but will definitely let me pay for them and feed them and drive them around for a few more years.

At first the coordination is nearly impossible.

What if we meet X at Y and bring Z to point B and then K's mom can drop her... but wait, we can only have 5 people in our car....

Then it falls into place.

I take a bold step and buy the tickets on Fandango. I'm not a buy-things-on-my-iPhone woman, but I have to tell you it was way easier than I thought it would be and I will definitely do it again.

On the day we are to see the movie Zoe gets her first paid babysitting gig.  Fine, fine, off she goes.  The only problem is that her friends all arrive before Zoe can get home, and we find ourselves in this awkward place where they feel like they need to talk to politely talk me and I can only take so much politeness so I offer them to wait in Zoe's room.

Fine, Zoe gets home and I give every 10 minutes to eat and get in the car. The movie starts in 90 minutes but I have no patience for crowded theatres. Get there early and ready to win or stay home, right?

To get our tickets I just need to show the movie lady my email from Fandango and then we head into the theatre where we stand in a long line that moves slower than Space Mountain when Space Mountain is broken.  We aren't that far back in line - maybe 30 people are in front of us -- so for the next half hour we get to judge people walking by.

  Look Zoe - that looks like X if X were only a happy  person that looked friendly! She agrees. Look Mom, I want those shoes. Look, look at that dress, I'm in love.  Wait, wait, check the back of her head is that....?

A movie person flanked by officers (mall officers or real officers? not sure) opens the velvet gate and unleashes us to fill the movie.  Teens and tweens and sorority girls in all combinations with and without men and mothers and dates and food stampede to fill the room.  We find a row right in the middle and spend the next part of our night out judging people who arrive late and look puzzled that no one saved them a seat.

Almost 2 hours after we left the house the movie finally starts.

Its better than I'd hoped for.

When Gus pulls out tulips I reach into my tiny purse and pull out a wad of paper towels and silently fill one.  I hear sniffs and coughs from people who read the book and know what's coming.

The only time I slid out of the movie (I was on the end of the row, so this was permissible)  was during a hotel scene that I knew wouldn't be too steamy so I slipped out and checked email and let the girls  watch the PG-13 skin on skin action in relative privacy.

At one point in the movie I swear I hear howls, sniffs and coughs covered by a few giggles and "stop it, stop it, don't cry, you knew this would happen!"

I knew it would happen and I cried too, filling 5 select-a-size heavy duty papertowels.

By the time the movie comes around to full circle I am so tired from crying that my head hurts a little (in a good way?) and I want to escape the crowd and sit under the stars and feel their peace.

I Could Very Much Get Used to This

Today is Day #4 of freedom.

Yes, OK, I live in a free country and I was born a free spirit, but for 200ish  days a year I wake up and am bound to spend about 4 (unpaid) hours a day driving in circles.

Circle #1 is taking Zack to school.

Then I come home and take Zoe to school.

After that I get to go to work, usually arriving mildly traumatized from whatever was lost, found, done, undone or whatever.

Too soon I have to leave work and do it all again.
Drive back and pick up Zack.
Take him home.
Get Zoe.
Take her home.
Recover briefly then circles around the kitchen (or back in the car to Publix).

No more driving in circles until August.

I get to go to work like a regular person, and act like this is my job.

I could very much get used to this.

The Two Deaths of Chunky the Hamster

I thought I told you, but I guess I only told one of my classes. Yes, now that I think harder on it, I didn't write the story, I only told it as a whispered confession to an auditorium full of students to fill the last two minutes before lecture starts.

It went something like this.

For awhile my kids had two hamsters. At first they knew which one belonged to which kid, and I think for a week or so the hamsters were held and played with and even called sweet pet names.

After a month passed it was clear both of the hamsters were really mine. That's fine, I liked them. There was the chunky one who climbed like a monkey to beg for treats, and the tiny one that kept getting out.

The tiny hamster became known as Houdini for his relentless attempts to escape for freedom giving one millimeter of opportunity.  Once I found him in Zoe's closet. Once I found him in Zack's closet. One day I found him floating in my bathtub, hanging on to a hand towel shivering for dear life. I rescued it, we bonded.

Another day I spent time picking through the hamster food to figure out which seeds the chunky one really loved.

 Not the brown things, not the black seeds, not the pellet thingy. Each time I handed him those through the top-security bars that held him in his tiny zoo, he would spit them out and look at me like, "lady, you can do better than that, now come on....I'm hungry...."

Finally I found something that looked like a soy nut. He loved it and reached out for another.

 I found him another then another and for half an hours I sat there and let him stuff himself like Chip and Dale on a binge. His eyes started to get sleepy and he finally refused a precious nut.  I promised him we would do this again. We bonded.

Fast forward a year.  One day I get the desire to clean out both hamster cages and let them switch cages. One cage was metal and fun for climbing, the other cage was plastic with twists and turns to hide in.

Then a week later I went to feed chunky his binge nuts and noticed he'd broken out of his new zoo. 

Fantastic, maybe the other hamster wasn't Houdini, maybe the damn cage was at fault.

I looked here and there and over where Houdini would get off to when he ran out, but nothing, no sign at all of chunky hamster for over a day.

Then next evening I was sitting on the sofa and stood up to get some water.  Just as I shifted my full weight onto one foot to push myself (bounce? spring?) off the sofa, I felt a soft furry crunch under my foot.

Oh no, that damn chunky guy was trying to get my attention so I'd feed him. But no, I didn't seem him there and I killed him. I'm equal parts freaked out and grossed out.

 I want to scream but then the kids will scream and there will be no peace and right now the peace is my friend. 

I have to handle this.

What do they do on TV? I try to channel Sopranos or  Shameless or Boardwalk Empire or Orphan Black. What would they do?

I  get an old  hand towel and pick chunky's limp lifeless body up with the towel and... and... its dark outside and I can't bury him. Not tonight.

But I have to do something with him so I put chunky in an empty ziploc box  and put him on the deck.

No, no, no, once I've done it I can't close the door behind me.

 What if some hungry wildlife that lives in the forest next to the golf course sneaks onto the deck and eats my poor chunky corpse before his funeral?

I can't let that happen, so I find a ziploc baggie big enough to fit the fat lump of a towel with a chunky inside.

I zip it up and put it in the box and leave it out there until the morning when I can dig a little hole and bury him.

The next morning when I went to bury the hamster I found chunky had miraculously come back to life and unwound himself from the towel and tried to escape from the baggy that I had unwittingly entombed him in.

 I looked at it for one second - just long enough to confirm that chunky wasn't how and where I'd left him - and involuntarily shrieked.

That's how the kids found out chunky the hamster was dead.

When they asked how he died I told him that I"d stepped on poor chunky the hamster and left it at that. 

What? No Boxes this Year?

On the Friday before Veterans Day, Dr V -- the professor whose office shares a small narrow hallway with mine -- stood in my office door and smiled.

I had a student in the office, but the look on Dr V's face was such that I had to interrupt our deep discussion and ask WHAT???

Melissa, he said in a deep voice accented with his breeze of African lilt, every year for Veterans Day, every YEAR, there are bags and boxes and lines of students filling the hallway with donations. What happened? 

I sit quietly and nod.

He's right. I haven't mentioned this. I figure people usually DON'T talk about what they aren't doing, so I'm completely in the scope of normal.

I didn't tell my classes this semester that all my other classes for uncountable semesters have pulled together for a variety of causes and events from sending boxes to soldiers at war to throwing dinner parties for local vets living in transitional housing. I didn't tell them about how much fun previous classes have had.

I didn't tell them anything because this semester they aren't doing it.

That's right. This semester I stopped having a service project and substituted it with a large research project, asking my students to prepare a slice of history "only they can tell."

Why? Good question. I have an answer.

Last Easter my students and I delivered over 50 baskets to the doorsteps of veterans living in transitional housing. We worked up a huge sweat going up and down the stairs bringing baskets of chocolate and toiletries and treats but no one complained, no one got tired.

On Easter Day I woke up extra early to bring baskets and bags and boxes to a group home of profoundly disabled adults where Alex, one of my students, lived.  We had a blast and I took a bunch of pictures.

That afternoon when I got home, my 9 year old son Zack walked up and looked me right in the eye.

"No Easter eggs, and no Easter basket this has been a strange Eater," he said, in a voice that sounded like he was trying to figure this out.

"Oh no," I said.

I wanted to say "Oh no I completely forgot to take care of you" but that sounded worse.

"So either the Easter Bunny is fake or he forgot me," Zack says and I realize the depth of my transgression.

I spent the day before Easter fixing up baskets for strangers. I didn't boil eggs, didn't hide eggs, didn't buy basket grass or Cadbury eggs.

Nothing. I lost myself in work and my students and forgot my son (and my daughter, who actually didn't mention a thing or complain, but ohhh she has her days, it just wasn't THIS day).

Zack won't always  be in elementary school, he won't always want to study vocabulary with me, talk about Minecraft with me and generally interrogate me about miniscule facts he doubts, but while it lasts I need to be open, I need to make space.

And that's why, this year on Veteran's Day, there were no boxes, no baskets, no dinners.

This year I'm working a little harder at being Zack's mom, every chance I can get.

I'M INVISIBLE

We are walking out of Target after each of the kids spent their $20 and I bought coffee.

Zack has a large nerf sniper gun.

Zoe has cute white shoes.

 I'm wishing I'd bought myself something but what I need to do is get us home so I can get writing and finish my report.

As we start to cross the parking lot Zack grabs my hand and asks, "Does this mean you're going to be invisible when we get home?"

What? What? I ask, snapped out of my daydream about the Almond Joy bar I didn't buy.

"Does this mean when we go home and try to talk to you, you're going to put your hands over your ears and shout I'M WORKING! I'M INVISIBLE! I'M NOT HERE, YOU CAN'T REALLY SEE ME SO DON'T TALK TO ME!"

I pat him on the head and agree, yes, Mom has HUGE deadline to meet, but I'll try not to act crazy. 

He nods his head then slings his huge weapon into the car, and pulls it across his lap ready for whatever comes next. 

Special Forces*

One of the hardest things about being a mother is helping my kids find their passions, then keeping them from drowning in them.

Left unchecked, my daughter would spend her days monogramming everything in the house, then decorating and redecorating her room with layers of color using tricks she studies on Pinterest.

Left on his own, my son would disappear into Call of Duty.

Maybe he has. His summer so far has been day after day of rallying a group to go on missions. When I told him that people actually get paid to go to war the boy almost lost himself with joy and fell deeper into the game.

 I know, I know, I should force him outside, force him to chase a frisbee or at least play with his neglected hamster.

But I haven't.

 I've enjoyed watching him play, learn, study tactics and explain weapons to me. I've also enjoyed not hearing "I'm bored" a single time. Instead, he wakes up everyday knowing exactly what he wants to do,  hyperfocused on playing to win.

This morning for a moment I thought maybe he went too far, I thought he was accumulating nukes when he showed me something flashing on his screen.

I wanted to ask him straight out, You have nukes? Are you working with Iran? North Korea? Do I call the UN? but I decided that was too direct of a tactic. Of course if he had nukes and was working with the Axis of Evil he wouldn't tell me.

I was left to my own resources, to Special Forces.

Just an hour a ago, maybe less, he started complaining his Wii U pad was running out of energy and commanded his unit "protect him" while he plugged it into his charger.

Uh-oh. He wiggles the charger, wiggles it again.

The charger wasn't working.

 He tried it in this outlet, in the other, then said it was broken, broken forever.

The boy who talks smack about everyone's Mom during the game was suddenly 9, suddenly scared and angry.

Stay calm, I told him and examined the part of the gray charger cord which was knotted up angrily. I took my time and pulled it apart, unlacing it from itself.

There, try again.

He tried.

Nothing.

I handed him my iPhone and told him to google "WiiU pad replacement charger"  -- that kept him calm. They have them at Target, at Amazon, at Gamestop. Places my son can't go without me. He needs me again, and now that he's cut off from his other passion maybe we will even go to lunch and stroll around the bookstore I think wishfully, but dare not say out loud.

Within minutes he is more than calm, and off studying YouTube videos on Call of Duty like Quarterbacks study gamefilms.  

I'm still sitting on the floor holding the broken charger when I see the little marks there, there, there and there all next to each other, exposing copper wire.

I look over and realize where the charger had been, right there, next to the square of plastic and metal.

And from between the tiny metal bars I swear the sneaky jealous hamster winked at me and smiled.

Kiss in the Dark (Sniper Story)

I tuck him while doing a mental celebratory dance.

All of June my kids stay up later and later and sleep later and later while I keep my normal schedule. This is kinda nice because the mornings (and by "morning" I mean everything before sunset) are so peaceful while the kids sleep and I get work done.

This particular night is different because I fell asleep at my normal time then woke up with a headache. The only tylenol in the house had caffeine added to it, and I took it at midnight and it hit me like a gallon of Cafe Cubano. So I hung out with my kids watching TV and laughing and talking.

Zack is hungry and asks for bacon, fully expecting me to balk. Whatever, I say, and go about frying it up. When I hand it to him I warn him to NOT tell other kids his mom made him bacon in the middle of the night, and he nods with seriousness before going back to his game, the game that his taught him what C4 is, what a Bouncing Betty is, and how to gather a group and go fight a mission.

Finally Zack finally begged to go to bed.

It isn't dawn yet, I told him, tossing down the gauntlet.

It doesn't matter, he tells me. His eyes hurt, he's tired. He's going to bed.

So I follow him into his room and leave the light off. I fluff his pillows and pull down the comforter and tuck him all in then try to kiss him. But it's dark in his room and I miss.

Stay still he tells me, then leans up and kisses me right on the lips.

How did you DO that I ask, laughing.

I'm a sniper, he replies, then turns over and goes off to sleep.

Camp Art of War

Zack and I are studying military history and building forts.

He builds the forts.

 I attack them.

Sometimes I come in and hang out and pretend to fall asleep. Then I attack him.

Sometimes I jump through the ceiling. I win.

Sometimes I send in good things to eat, and tell him I killed him. Score.

Once I attacked him crucial fortification with a Spongebob ball calling it a "naval bombardment"

Today it was my turn to build a fort.

My fort was square, like the Alamo, and had a yoga mat on the bottom because I hear most of war is spent waiting and waiting so I didn't want to be in the "dirt."

Zack curls up next to me, like a good son should.

 I tell him stories about people just like us who lived a million years ago caves and painted on the walls.

What would you write? I ask him, not at all trying to be a teacher or professor or anyone who had a right answer in mind.

"I'd write F.U. British!" Zack said, then he killed me.

Permelia Pentacost and the Other Boleyn Sister

As summer winds down I face what I need to face, taking care of tasks big and small. This is 'something" to do, but it isn't everything, it isn't nearly enough, I need more, I have to be engaged, I have to have something to think about.

That's why I love ancestry.com.

 Just a few hints give me the names and more hints and minutes later I'm knee deep in a boom of relatives on my father's side who settled along the German Coast Louisiana in the early 1600.

Because this is NOT a video game I don't have to plant crops or build hospitals for them.

That would be cool, but this is easier. No surprise hurricanes will come through; in fact as I go through who arrives where, who the meet and marry, and how long families stay put, I can see the forces pushing and pulling them from Europe to America and then to smaller communties within it.

 Through a twisted hint from the back of a century old family photo I find the curious name Permelia Pentacost.  I wonder if the father was a revivalist preacher, if he changed his name to escape something.

Later (hours? days? have I slept?) I find a wife who has 5 children in Tennessee and then left them all behind -- or maybe she brought a daughter? but not her husband because  she was married at Nauvoo right on the evening of the famous Mormon slaughter, survived the slaughter and was buried in Utah thirty years later.


Every bit of this research is delicious, it tastes so good I have to shout out to my kids.

Zoe! Another ancestor who fought in the Civil War! This one on the.... Union.  Don't forget last night the one we found who fought for Alabama. We definitely fought on both sides, but we have to see if our ancestors fought each other.

She waves a feeble "thanks" at me and leaves me to my work.  As a history professor, researching history is work. It absolutely has to be, it has to count, so yes. Mommy is working on her iPad - iPhone - Mac (all three at the same time) stringing invisible people into a web of a family.
 
I chirp at no one in particular "oh my GRANOLA these women had 14 kids each?!" and "can you believe this name? Nimrod Stillwell? Why? WHY?"

Zoe sighs and Zack ignores me.

Minutes later I have to talk again. I have to share my excitement

 Zack! My ancestors were part of the war of 1812! and the Revolutionary War! I can be a Daughter of the American Revolution.  Isn't this awesome?

Awesome for you, he says, still unconvinced that what I'm doing is as satisfying as MarioKart.


They stare at the TV and ask what we are going to do, next, after Mommy stops compulsively mining for data, looking for gold.

 I don't answer the children and instead follow every research link, critically analyzing each bit of data before I accept it to merge in files (how could this mother be born after their child? How could this man be his own son's mother? Huh?)

Then I found some true treasure.

 Behold, the OTHER Boleyn Sister, is my daughter's 15th great-grandmother.

But since the kids don't seem too excited, I'll keep it to you, to me and let it unfold itself into a Forrest Gump romp through history.