Personal Foul: Back to School Night

Are you ready for some football?! I know I am. I'm sure my whole family is. We can't wait to watch the Saints' defense get after burly ol' #4 (or as he's known around here, "Mama's old boyfriend).

After weeks of living the Y-league real deal--pads, cup, and swollen pinkie included--my older son is hoping to skip on through the school day and practice (an early one, due to NFL on NBC!) to get him one step closer to officially beginning the pro season. Little Brother's anxious for Mama's game time snacks. Truth be told, so am I. (I'm thinking jambalaya and brats.)

As I mentioned in a previous post, this new life has afforded me one too many comfortable luxuries. The most recently acknowledged is tonight's planned pigskin pajama party. (How nice it is to not have to change outfits for a gathering...) While I'm throwing down spicy shrimp and disparaging remarks to the Vikes' aging QB, my teacher friends will be at our school's annual Back to School Night. Really.

I don't 'spect that tonight's game was given a single thought when the master calendar was created last spring; however, I do know that standard number one in teaching/coaching/parenting/living is flexibility, viewing all plans as "subject to change." I'm also certain I'd be tossing the yellow flag (stones?) if I had to get back into my heels and click back to room 39 just as the pregame music gets going. (DMB's "down on the ba-YOU!" along with what's-her-name. Beyoncé? Kanye?)

I'm not suggesting tonight's school function be moved to another night; I am simply citing the dusty old book of life's regulations tucked away in Mama's head. Even the thought of leaving my family on this night would be a serious violation of those rules.

Some things just don't stack up.

Life on leave has afforded me many luxuries, one of which being a somewhat leisurely breakfast with all three of my kiddos before the Odyssey rolls out at 8:30. My boys and I talk, take our Flinstones, choke down the Zyrtec, and discover what's new in the vocabulary of our little one. We also eat quite well.

I actually own a sign that declares me the "Microwave Queen" but of late--and perhaps only in my head--my sovereignty may be coming to an end. These days I'm using gas, opening the freezer a little less, and making things that "taste like Grandma's." I'm also not wearing makeup, have no hair to blow out, curl, and spritz, and couldn't really care less about dress code. Luxuries? Heck yeah.

When I fired up the griddle this morning for French toast, my children reacted as if I'd told them we were getting a puppy. Or three. "You mean real French toast? The homemade kind?" And I suppose I can understand their surprise and confusion, for their meal didn't come from the usual box or have the flavor of freezer burn. "It's just like Grandma's!" How strange.

When this little (two year-long) hiatus comes to an end, Her Majesty just might return; until then, "Let them eat cake!" From scratch, of course.

Elephant in the Room

As a veteran teacher and mother (by the time babe numero uno hits age three, Mama's considered tenured), my olfactory system has seen its fair share of action. Actually, I'd consider it battle-scarred. Infants and toddlers carry their own special seasonings, for obvious reasons, and rapidly-growing adolescents just can't help but enhance the classroom flavor with their array of aromas. I've likened my kids and "my kids" to many things when it comes to their scents throughout the years: a heavily neglected livestock trailer, Grandma's fried potatoes, one of my seven year-old egg "potions" gone terribly wrong, Stanley Yelnats's kitchen, and many, many more. I can't recall ever telling my children or my students they "smell like the circus." That's not to say I haven't.

While making a tiny after-school pit stop at Staples yesterday, my younger son enlightened me as to what a second grade classroom has to offer the practiced proboscis. We were in the hand sanitizer section, and he begged for the Purell traveler for his desk; not because he fights the good fight against germs, but because "Some kids smell like the circus." First, I had no idea seven and eight year-olds could fall into the blurred area between toddler stink and adolescent stank; moreover, I didn't think a kid that size could produce such a big top stench. I erupted right there in aisle five, praised my son's use of figurative language, and snatched up the Purell, making certain I'd give him a lesson on its proper use. (Oh, and of course I mentioned a little something about how lucky we are to have a nice shower to use every day--fine, every other day--when some folks aren't.)

Gotta run--Ringmaster Mama's got a little issue at Le Cirque. Breakfast's fryin' and the little one's fillin' her trailer.

Just because...

...I can write it on my chalkboard without the usual seventh grade reaction.

Hair-brained

A year of child-rearing leave and three months of summer vacation have taken a toll on Mama's head. Of hair. (Fine, I'll also admit to a decrease in gray matter hidden under the hair. I'll blame my daily dates with Barney for the shrinkage.) Days (nights, too) in ponytails and Britney buns have stressed my strands to the max, and they've begun to wave their wiry, white flags. Which is why, last night, this Jessica paid a visit to her Ken Pavés and made a change.

Maybe it was too much French roast, perhaps it's the need for attention. Then again, it could be the loads of locks I've been losing lately. (Ahem, thank you; I'll take your compliment on the alliteration.) I walked in with surprisingly little fear, looking very much forward to the hour or so of simply sitting. Little did I know, it'd take a good 90 minutes to take off a good ten inches. I walked out with numb buns and an even airier head (hair loss or People's gossip buzz?).

Rather than facing 110 seventh graders, each with a thirteen year-old opinion, this morning I was greeted by my seven year-old and his right thumb, right up. "Nice work on the haircut," he offered.

Follicular flags, begone! Next up: color.

What a difference...

...a year makes. Last year at this time, I was very unsure of my new employment status and very wary of my role as "housewife" (I've always hated that term) and kid/home managerial duties. When venturing out, I'd keep my head down, eyes tucked under my favorite Packers or Cardinals hat, in hopes that I wouldn't run into someone I imagined gave two hoots about my life and lack of profession. I was suspicious of the Wal-Mart associate's "Busy day?" query, certain his tone implied mockery. (Why wouldn't he just go ahead and tell me I looked like Britney before the 5150, minus the paycheck?! Maybe he'll slide an application form in with my Brussels sprouts?!)

Fast-forward to the present and my familiar reality: I still love my hats (duh), I still gross my kids out with the sprouts, and I still buy 'em at Wally (two cartons this morning). Only this fall, as I pull into my usual front-row spot (the key is to park in the garden center, no later than 9:07) and push my cart with the other sweatpants-clad moms and bare-footed babes, I keep my eyes up (how the heck am I s'posed to spot the roll-backs if my eyes are fixed on my chipped toenail polish?), wear a smile ('tis a compulsory component for great conversation with a 15 month-old), sip my joe, and tell anyone and everyone, "Heck yeah, I'm very busy."

I, too, have a dream.

On this day, back in 1963, the phrase "I have a dream" rang down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and throughout Washington, D.C.

On this day in my kitchen, as I once again made my new school year resolutions (as a matter of fact, I alluded to a few of them in my previous post), I muttered something about a dream. I wasn't heard by 200,000 people; rather, nobody was listening.

My vision (among others) for 2010-2011 is to remain organized and keep Mama's School of Life running like a well-oiled machine. Which is why, just today, I cleaned out and filed some of my boys' gems from past years. There's Cat in the Hat, cotton ball snowmen, hand turkeys, feet butterflies, and weekly writing journals with stick Mom, stick Dad, and stick siblings. There's also the story of Dr. King. Which I found today.

I'm quite certain I saved this bit of work because of the very last (and well-glued, I must say) box my son had to fit into King's timeline. Since when has "shot" been in a second grade word bank?

Anyhow, I'm going to take the unearthing of Dr. King's story and my eight year-old's penciled-in answer as a little reminder of the new year's plan for greatness. And the fact that I'm spending my Saturday tidying up.