Life is a nightmare. Life is a really, really bad dream and then you wake up screaming in an icy sweat and you’re late for the bus and the dog ate your homework and the shower’s cold and someone hacked off your feet with a nail file while you slept. C’est la fricking vie.

I seem to be a tad down these days. I find it hard to be chipper and upbeat when all I really want to do is ram my stapler up my co-worker’s ass and staple his small intestine to his urethra. Take it away, Mormon Tabernacle Choir…Digestive tract’s connected to the…peehole.

Fucker.

So please forgive my short-post-ed-ness while I nurse this hangover. Occupational hazard.

The holidays are quickly approaching, ladies and gentlemen, and you know what that means. Hot cocoa and mini marshmallows? Get real. I’m talking, of course, about playing the Santa card. It’s pure magic, dear readers, and I don’t give a flying eff if it WAS invented by Hallmark. If I saw Mr. Hallmark on the street tomorrow I’d kiss his fat face because he has saved my dear boy’s bum from a spanking on more than one occasion. As soon as the birthday streamers hit the wastebasket, it is ON. Santa is WATCHING, Spence, so if I were you I’d reconsider shoving that straw up your nose. As positively thrilling as that experience would be, it will most definitely land you on Santa’s Horribly Naughty Very Bad Boy List, and would it really have been worth it? I think not.

We are perfecting our Reindeer Games so well, that I usually only have to throw him the crazy eye and Spence KNOWS I’m thinking about ratting him out…Only once have I been forced to ask Nathaniel to please look up Santa’s phone number for me. The boy made a mad dash to right his wrong (damned if I can remember what it was now), screaming all the while, “I’m being good! I’m being good!”

My own parents never exploited this to its full potential. In fact, they told me at quite a young age what the deal was. In all honesty, I’m not sure they ever let me believe there was a Santa. I’m afraid I dashed quite a few friends’ imaginations to pieces. Santa? Santa Claus? Oh you poor misguided child. I’ve got news for you, buddy.

I’m a bit torn now, as to the prospect of having to break it to my own kid some day. I think 3 is a bit young, and I’m certainly not ready to give up the priceless value of the Santa card in my hand yet, but what is the right age? 4? 5? 6? When he out and out asks me, maybe? Is there a Santa, Momma? No dear. SWEET. I’m never cleaning my room again.

This one may have to be handed over to Daddy Dearest. Honey, when you get a chance…Could you cover sex, drugs, and the nonexistence of Santa? I’ve got to run do that…errand…thing…you know. I’ll be back later. Point me in the direction of the nearest bar, I’ve got to go mourn my son’s innocence and come up with an equally intimidating incentive…The Apocalypse, perhaps.

It has been brought to my attention that when asked to spell out my last name, I always say “‘V’ as in ‘victory’… blah blah blah blah blah.” HA! You really thought I was going to give out my last name on the Internet? Conspiracy theorist I’m not, but that seems a tad dangerous even to ignorant li’l ol’ me.

I hardly realize I do this, sort of a knee-jerk reaction I suppose…I’ve been doing it for years and had heard my father do it for years before that. Yup, we’se some spelling fools. This is where my issue comes into play (surely you knew I have many, many issues). Why do I want to be one of many in a long line of monotonous spellers handing out boring little phonetic tips to boring little FedEx guys in our boring little daily routines?

So…Please no one forewarn him…The next time that poor dear unsuspecting FedEx man asks me how to spell my last name, I’m going to say, “You know, ‘V’ as in ‘vasectomy,’ blah blah blah blah blah.” Cock my head pertly, make a little snippety-snip hand motion, smile sweetly and return to my desk. I’ve got $5 that says he remembers how to spell my damn name from now on. Don’t feel bad for him…It could be worse…I could go with my first instinct, which is of course vulva.

Rage against the tedium!

I believe I’ve touched on the subject of depression, and possibly even the current slump I am in, but I also think there is a hidden danger in need of being exposed…The abuse of anti-depressants. I have reason to believe certain workout divas who shall remain nameless must choke down bottle upon bottle of these happy pills before jumping deliriously in front of the camera and going to TOWN. Either anti-depressants or crack. No sober person is that THRILLED to be sweating buckets after performing her ten thousandth grapevine. Grapevines are just not that exciting. Yet their eyes are rolling back in their heads with orgasmic ecstasy, impossibly huge grins splitting their Barbie heads in half while their backup dancers slowly shrivel up from dehydration, matching smiles melting into puddles on the floor. Except of course the chick in the back who’s doing the “modified” workout, moving very slowly and carefully so as not to kill any elderly women or asthmatics who might be trying to can-can at warp speed like the rest of us poor suckers. Easy there, Grandma, let’s not get crazy and oh, I don’t know, burn calories.

I know I really need to step it up in the workout department, I know this, but I simply can’t find it within me to face that cheerful bitch every single morning. I’d happily, however, show her a perfect left, right, left in a dark alley behind her workout studio.

My novel marketing idea is to show it how it REALLY is…I’d get in front of that camera in my holy sweats, take extremely long water breaks, and flop down at the end, exhausted and irritated and in desperate need of a shower. Stretching be damned. Of course, the background track to Sweatin’ To The Real Shit would not be high-powered jamming techno, but the high-pitched whiney I need juuuiiice…Mooommaaaa…Juuuiiice…Mooommaaa…Juuuiiice…Mooommaaa…Juuuiiice…And one and two and one and two and one and two…In my world, both trips to the kitchen for young’uns and/or swift kicks to their rears count as working out. If you’re balancing a baby on your hip simultaneously, add 200 calories burned. Hi-yaa.

I think I’m stuck in this hamster wheel for now, though, ladies and gentlemen…Until of course I can launch the Suck My Thighs Fund, coming to a drugstore coffee can near you. Exercise: the poor man’s liposuction.

It’s absolutely mind-blowing to watch your children grow and develop and see your own traits emerging in them before your eyes. I hope, along the lines of genetic therapy, the ob/gyn’s of the future can prepare some sort of checklist that allows parents to choose the qualities (I use this term loosely) that their children possess and toss out the ones that might be bothersome.

For instance, my poor dear Julian may never sit himself up completely. He tries his damndest, a Herculean effort each time, but he only ever gets as far as the point where his thighs come into view, then flops back, disgusted. This is my fault, of course, since he’s inherited both my thighs and my loathing of them. He’s going to be really pissed when he discovers he also has my cankles, which are of course the absence of any sort of shapely ankle whatsoever, just a sort of running of the calf directly into the foot. Poor kid. It’s probably a positive thing we never had girls…Cankles are the sort of torture only Mother Nature could invent for the female psyche.

Spencer is the beneficiary of his father’s gift (I also use this term loosely) of gab. Some day, when the two of them, you know, speak the same language, I can only imagine the marathon conversations that will ensue. I may finally get some reading done.

And that Warrior of Teenage Wasteland, Alden, has CLEARLY inherited his father’s love of practical jokes. I am absolutely awash with sympathy for our pitiful mailman, who, due to the tedium of summer, has been subject to everything from a gorilla-costumed hand thrust out of the mail slot to a “Just Married” sign taped to the back of his little truck. He even found the latter to be quite cute and funny, that is until he got halfway down the street and realized the joke wasn’t complete without the customary aluminum cans on a string.

And so our bloodline continues, proud bearer of the Receding Hairline, the Goofy Gene, and of course that damned mutated Cankle Chromosome. If we start breeding with supermodels immediately, we could have shapely ankles somewhere around the year 2095.

I fear I’m going to have to have Spencer’s head examined. He seems to have quite the issue with memory (“membry”). All is well and good when we are playing the card game of the same name, or when I ask him simple questions about something that happened within the past hour or so…But lately Memory Lane has taken a Stephen-King-ish twist down some dark avenue to Crazy Town.

For instance…

“Hey Spence, here’s that toy truck Dada got you from the store, remember?”

“Yup! I ‘member! And when we go to da STOW-ur (extra syllables for emphasis), Dada will buy me a TRU-uck, and he will buy me IY-uce cream, and da monster will TAY-uk my ice cream, aaayuuund…I will get a bloody NOSE!”

This child has had one bloody nose his whole life, but perish the thought anyone should ever be so heartless as to forget The Day Blood Ran From Spencer’s Nose. To hear him tell it, you’d think we take turns punching him in the face for the fun of it, just to watch the blood fly. Good times.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to encourage his burgeoning imagination, but I think he may have “remember” confused with “what if.” What if a monster came and ate our house all up? I don’t know, head for zee hills maybe? But I certainly don’t remember it happening yesterday. The house, after all, is still right here. Just try telling Spence that. Go ahead, reason with the 3-yr-old. Ha!

So I guess I’ll just keep whispering common sense into his ear and trying to make sense of the tangled mess he spews forth....And trying like HELL not to laugh my ass off at inappropriate junctions that would reinforce his idea of “membry,” like this honest-to-God gem, “Hey Dada, ‘member when you poked me in the eye with a stick?”

I knew his teacher at preschool was giving me dirty looks.

I hope it’s not a phase, honestly. I hope he fine-tunes the master storyteller within and becomes the next Edgar Allen Poe and supports my ass. Early retirement, here I come.

Nathaniel and I are on the hunt. Be vewy, vewy quiet….We’we hunting baby-sittews.

I remember being an up-and-coming teenager back in the day, when I used to have to stave off the competition for baby-sitting gigs with pointed sticks and CPR certification. These days, it seems even friends and family start looking longingly at the door & blatantly checking their watches if you should mention in polite conversation how long it’s been since you left the house without one child on the hip and one up the butt. And the third a half-step behind, mouth running at what I think of as JPM, jokes per minute. Knock knock. Who’s there? Ima. Ima who? Ima stick my foot up yer ass you tell me another joke in the next five minutes, that’s who. Let’s take the JPM down to idle, shall we?? Jesus. I need to get out of the house.

So we’re in the market for a baby-sitter, and let me clarify…A respectable baby-sitter. Nathaniel has the idea that just about anybody, up to and including the bum on the corner and/or a rock with a stern face painted on it, would suffice. I’m going to have to go ahead and, um, exercise my veto…Yeeeah. My argument is this…What would the point be of going out to relax if I am unable to completely relax? That, and of course, the boys’ safety. Just the minor stuff we might want to consider.

I’ve looked in the local newspaper and found a wealth of TWO whole ads that MAY apply to what we need. My next step will be to run an ad of my own…3 children, slightly spanked, free to good home. 2 house-trained, 1 high maintenance, all current on shots, all must go!

And yet, I’m hesitant, due to my penny-pinch-iness…I can just imagine the cost of dinner, a movie, a couple of drinks, and the baby-sitter tallying like the meter on the damn gas pumps…Not to mention the cost of gas! Do you think those nice ladies in the ads would be upset if I asked them to drive out and watch the kids for fifteen minutes while we took a stroll around the block? Hold hands and presto-chango, we’ve got ourselves a bona fide DATE, hyuck hyuck! Ain’t nothin’ in this hey-ur werld sweeter ‘en walkin’ with mah man. If I’m-a lucky, he’ll bah me some ahce cream and kiss mah hand!

Have I mentioned I’m going stir crazy here??

So if you have a reference, someone reliable who doesn’t, say, beat the kids too harshly or make them cut their own switches, or care to loan out your sweet grandmother, please let me know. I can be reached in Padded Cell #155 at the Home for ApeShit Mommies. Whatever you do, DON’T send a file. It's lovely in here, nary a crayon mark or diaper odor around.

Has anyone ever been driven to the brink of insanity by the sound of her own flip-flops?? Damn you, Casual Friday.

My dearest JuJuBee is no longer completely defenseless in this cold cruel world...He is the proud owner of two ridged mean-looking teeth on the bottom of his formerly sweet gummy smile. He can now fend off such offensive intruders as strained grean beans or carrots, and believe me, he parries them valiantly. I have an idea that I'd be more successful if I dipped his toes in the stuff. His own teeny tootsies are never deflected. I imagine they taste like Vienna sausages.

It’s a bittersweet milestone, as this means we’ve shed Infancy and are moving full speed ahead towards that treacherous territory, Babyhood. Armed only with scant memories of what Spencer did at this age, we pat ourselves on the back for having kept him alive thus far, close our eyes, wish for the best, and plunge ahead.

I know Julian himself is THRILLED about quickly approaching mobility. He’s a willing spectator at all of Spence’s impromptu shows (unlike some of us…Hey, these things can be lo-o-ong and exhausting to even watch…Watch me do dis! Now watch me do dis! Did you see? Did you SEE dat? No? Well watch dis time!). Julian watches with wonderment shining in his eyes at Spence running and jumping and singing and making siren noises…Oh GOD, the ever-present SIREN NOISES…And cycles his legs furiously in empathy. I have an idea that if I were to set him upright at just the right moment, he would take off in a sprint on sheer momentum and we’d find him somewhere around Columbus.

So my sweet baby, very likely my last baby, which will of course concrete his place in history as THE baby, is dropping infantile habits left and right. Instead of the repetitive vowel sounds we’ve gotten used to (aaaaaa….eeeeee….oooooohhh), he’s now mixing it up with consonants, which is both encouraging and frustrating to Spence. He can carry on a conversation, but occasionally seems quite dismissive of Spence’s accomplishments (Ohhhh, yeah? YEAH yeah yeah yeah yeah…).

I watch all of this unfold with mixed feelings…How bittersweet that my little one should be so quickly vaulting over milestones with the prize in sight while I cling to his sweet-smelling present and buck the thought of tomorrow. I know, I know, it will be nice when he’s more independent, but we will never again be in this particular pleasant time-bubble where he needs me, truly needs me, and falls asleep each night in my arms with those damned big boy teeth hidden behind his sweet smile.

So if on the day my JuJuBee goes to take his first wobbling, proud step, and you should happen to see my arm snaking out to push him down, just look away and pretend not to see. Don’t judge me.

"You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."
-Source: United Press International, "Bush Proposes Increase in Education Funds," Mark Kukis

Can I get an amen? Can I get a what the EFF are you SAYING??!! It absolutely tears me up that this man, with his poor grasp of business administration and even poorer grasp of the English language, totters around representing this country. Unbelievable.

I stop myself from running away screaming from each televised press conference in the following ways…By reminding myself his terms are almost UP, he is very nearly out the damn door; by hoping he’s vacationed just enough to not have made any real decisions (besides that li’l ol’ Iraq whim); and by finding the humor in the situation. The man makes up words, dear audience. Just the sight of him at a podium, eyes blinking rapidly, goofy grin from ear to ear, desperately looking around for a teleprompter or a meteorite to come crashing out of the sky or just ANYTHING to save him…I cringe. So let’s delve into the humor of the situation at hand, shall we? Because if we weren’t laughing, we’d be crying. And if abuse of the English language sounds as much to your ears like nails screeching down a chalkboard as it does to mine…Enjoy.

"I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family."
—Greater Nashua, N.H., Jan. 27, 2000

"Rarely is the questioned asked: Is our children learning?"
—Florence, S.C., Jan. 11, 2000

"I glance at the headlines just to kind of get a flavor for what's moving. I rarely read the stories, and get briefed by people who are probably read the news themselves." NO SHIT.
—Washington, D.C., Sept. 21, 2003

"The most important thing is for us to find Osama bin Laden. It is our number one priority and we will not rest until we find him."
—Washington, D.C., Sept. 13, 2001

"I don't know where bin Laden is. I have no idea and really don't care. It's not that important. It's not our priority."
—Washington, D.C., March 13, 2002

"I think—tide turning—see, as I remember—I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of—it's easy to see a tide turn—did I say those words?" Holy bumbling idiot, Batman.
—Washington, D.C., June 14, 2006

"I was going to say he's a piece of work, but that might not translate too well. Is that all right, if I call you a 'piece of work'?"
—To Jean-Claude Juncker, prime minister of Luxembourg, Washington, D.C., June 20, 2005

"It's a time of sorrow and sadness when we lose a loss of life."
—Washington, D.C., Dec. 21, 2004

"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
—Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002

I genuinely hope I haven’t offended anyone…My desire is not to turn this site into a political debate minefield or anything of the sort. I simply find myself offended by the slaughter of innocent grammar at the hands of our fearless leader. Did you know even Google is hip to this scene? When I typed “bush-isms,” it politely asked me, “Did you mean bushisms?” We, the American public, have been forced to make up words in order to properly document him making up words!! Stop the insanity.

Strap yourselves in, ladies and gentlemen, it’s going to be a bumpy 2 more years. Lord save us from Dubya.

Nathaniel and I have been drawn towards the latest craze in extreme sporting...Frisbee. We of course plan to take our doubles team all the way to the top (is there Frisbee in the Olympics?) and thought we'd squeeze some practice in yesterday evening at the local park. Julian, so accustomed to the stale recycled air of the indoors, took 2.5 deep breaths of fresh air and promptly fell asleep. Like in the SciFi movies when the astronaut takes a step on an unchartered planet, removes his helmet, inhales cautiously and then cries "It's Ok, it's breathable!" and suddenly keels over. Kind of like that. Poor kid.

So we started out as many young couples would, zipping back and forth across the field, laughing at each other's antics and just full of pep in general. I'm not ashamed to admit I even turned a cartwheel or two. Or eight. As the evening progressed, however (and by "progressed," I mean half an hour later), we found ourselves slowing exponentially, and realized this astounding but true fact...We are not "in shape." Sure, I do my Turbo Jam dvd every so often (you have to do it at least twice a month to be able to technically say, "I work out") and God knows running after these kids keeps us busy, but when it comes right down to it, folks...We are pretty pathetic. Nathaniel is SHOCKED that marathon fishing has not given him a six-pack and buns of steel. By the end of our outing, we are standing within arms-length of each other, half-heartedly chucking that damnable disc and missing half the time anyway. Mr. Morrison is turning in his grave, I'm sure (http://inventors.about.com/library/weekly/aa980218.htm).

So I'm thinking with some free time I have this morning, I'll cruise the Internet for the nicest local nursing homes. Time to face facts and realize dear bald Nathaniel and I are seventy-five and aging quickly. I've got to find a place that caters to our needs...gin rummy, Frisbee, and all the channels Nathaniel could ever dream to flip through. It's never too early to start shopping for a room with a view.

This morning on the radio show I usually tune in to (http://www.roverradio.com/), they were discussing the most recent rash of blame laid on television programs, movies, and music for the way the current generation is flushing themselves down the toilet. The bimbo chick (by the way, can we just go ahead and get all radio stations to ban female dj's? I've yet to hear one I can tolerate. The stupidity practically OOZES out of my speakers) was actually defending the bureaucrats whose own children are no doubt ditching their Catholic school uniforms for doo-rags and boxer-baring pants as we speak. St. Mary’s, repreSENT, G Funk All-Stars style. I completely agreed with the rationale of the male host, who said something along the lines of a) children are their parent’s responsibility to some point and their own people with their own ideas and motivation after another point; and b) shut the hell up, Female DJ.

I’m always reminded of the movie Footloose when this left-wing conservative crap comes to the table…Remember John Lithgow and whats-her-face, his wife, when they realized Holy Gee, I guess rock’n’roll doesn’t equal sex? You could have knocked them over with a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.

So my crazy new-fangled idear is this…To raise my children to think for themselves, along the way encouraging as much music appreciation as possible. If you appreciate music for music’s sake, you’re not dwelling on lyrics like they’re damned street signs on the already difficult-to-navigate roadmap of life. Love of music is something my parents instilled in me (thanks Mom and Dad, may Stevie Ray Vaughn rest in peace) and something I hope my boys express a genuine interest in.

Honestly, I don’t understand why music can’t be a part of everyday life. It certainly is in my household. You can find me singing as I drag my ass through mundane tasks like doing dishes (Tiny Bubbles), scrubbing the toilet (Dirty Deeds), or laundry (Suds in the Bucket). There are approximately half a dozen songs in whatever genre strikes your fancy that apply to any given situation. And if there isn’t, well, make one up! Is saying “clean your room” any fun at all? Try singing that shit in your best Mary J. Blige voice, while your partner hot-boxes for you in the background and throw some “Right now! A-Right now! I sic-a-sic-a-sic-a-said right now!” circa Run DMC at the end. Mix it up. This may get your child beat up on the playground if his friends hear, but I promise you he will remember his childhood as being FUN. And damned if he doesn’t learn to appreciate some old-school. Word.

I knew my approach was working when I went to hand my 3-yr-old his juice recently and he sang out in heartfelt falsetto, “Thaaa-AAA-aaank youUUUuuuuuu dear Maaamaaaaaa…” I could have cried. Life CAN be a musical, and it damn well SHOULD be, in my humble opinion. I’m not adding to my family so much as building a chorus line. Once Julian learns to sing harmony, it’s ON. VivaCity Traveling Roadshow, coming to a so-far-off-Broadway-it’s-almost-back-again theater near you.

In order for me to properly set up this next juicy morsel of good wholesome fun for your viewing enjoyment, I must first tell you a little about Nathaniel. He is a fun-loving, adventuresome man whose life's pursuit is to find the line of my irritation, nudge it, then take a flying leap gleefully past it with both eyes closed.

In this manner we set out Saturday morning for the Metroparks Zoo, where my office was having its annual summer family outing. On the way there, we were discussing the many animals we will see there, what Spencer's favorite is (lion), what Nathaniel's favorite is (monkeys), etc. etc. etc. No sooner had we covered the topic of monkeys than we happen across what appeared to be the two finest ladies our city has to offer taking a leisurely stroll in their Saturday best...halter tops and shorts cut off up to their eyebrows. Lovely. I mumbled something along the lines of, Holy Jeez, put some clothes on, and Nathaniel, not about to let a golden opportunity like this one pass him by, actually TOOTS THE HORN AT THEM. Ha ha. Ha fucking ha ha ha.

Having made their days, I'm sure, we continue on past these diamonds in the rough to the zoo. Since I'm still laughing uproariously over Nathaniel's little prank, when Spence asks if we are there yet for the 2 millionth time, I say No dear, your father's still looking for booty. In hindsight, of course, I've now filed this under Things I Wish I'd Never Said To My Kid. Spence says...Dada is? I say Yes, Dada. He says, He likes booty? I say Yes, yes indeed, very much. Silence from the backseat for approximately one full minute, which in 3-yr-old time computes to about 25 years. Then our tiny genius starts making connections, all on his own, which ALMOST made up for the stupid honking in the first place. It's quite elementary, dear Watson.

Dada likes monkeys? Yes, love.
Dada likes booty? Mmm-hmmm.
Dada likes monkey booty?

I'm reminded of some class I took, probably in grade school, where we learned that if Statement A is true and Statement B is true, you can only deduct that the third related statement is true. Therefore, Nathaniel does in fact enjoy a good piece of monkey booty.

Which would all be well and good and hilarious in its own right, if we hadn't been on our way to the friggin zoo. You might see where I'm going with this.

A lovely luncheon with my co-workers and their respective families begins our outing. I load the baby in the front carrier (I call this my strap-on), slather sunscreen on everyone, and off we go for a relaxing tour of the zoo on a lovely summer day. You'd think we were June friggin Cleaver and Company if you didn't know better.

Pink flamingos, elephants, kangaroos, parrots...We really do have a stellar zoo in our city. Spence is excited and having the time of his life, roaring right back at the lion, finding an exotic STICK on the ground, just absolutely in little boy heaven. At this point Nathaniel and I have completely forgotten about anything but just trying to struggle along, exhausted from schlepping gear and juggling responsibilities...Winding down our trip and thinking about home.

We come across quite the crowd, approximately two-thirds of Cleveland's respectable children and their respectable parents are gathered here at one exhibit, quite excited to be pressing up against a square of glass, on the other side of which is a beautiful hulking black gorilla. Spence worms his way to the front of this crowd, and when he sees what the fuss is about, he understands why.

"Whooo-EEE! Dada! Dada, look! Look at dat MONKEY!"

Something triggers our Parental Alarms, and we start edging towards the exit.

"Dada! You see dat monkey? Just look at dat MONKEY BOOTY! Whooo-EEE! You like dat, Dada? YOU LIKE DAT MONKEY BOOTY? YOU WANT SOME??"

You see, all of this could have been avoided had Nathaniel simply not honked the horn at some young thangs with twice my figure and none of my good taste, all in the name of humor. I hope he's learned his lesson.

So dim the lights and don the gorilla suit, honey, tonight I'm making all your dreams come true.

On the way home from daycare yesterday, my insatiatably curious 3-year-old and I had the following conversation...

Spence..."Will you read this book to me?"
Me..."Not right now, honey."
Spence..."Why?"
Me..."Because I'm driving."
Spence..."Why you driving?"
Me..."Because we need to get home."
Spence..."Why we going home?"
Me..."Because it's dinner time."
Spence..."Why it's dinner time?"
Me..."Because that's what TIME it is."
Spence..."Why that's what time it is?"
Me..."Well...Back in Greek and Roman times, they didn't have any sort of timetable whatsoever, except for knowing when the sun rose and set and by this they lived their lives, but of course those times bred great forward-thinking masterminds of science and together they arrived at the conclusion that it would be wise to assign numerals to each passing segment of each day and to give these segments names. So they devised great machines, like large dials, which filtered the sunlight according to it's position in the sky and the dial would turn and thus they were able to put a number on that valuable concept called time and THAT is what we today refer to as what time it is."
Spence... ... ...Silence from the backseat for approximately 30 seconds...You could HEAR the synapses firing...Then..."You wrote this book?"

When I stopped laughing long enough to steer the car back onto the road, I realized that it will be a sad, sad day indeed when my sweet innocent boy realizes that I am not The Person Who Knows The Most in this world. I will mourn the day when I am unable to answer his trigonometry question or tell him matter-of-factly the purpose of life. There are so many things I myself have yet to learn, it seems a bit scary to me that someone else's knowledge is being built upon the foundation that I have yet to complete. I hope he pushes off from my measly foundation and skyrockets, I really do, and someday I will ask him something out of innocent curiousity, and he will look down (physically) at me and answer my naive question. Or perhaps, fulfilling my dream as the next generation seems so often to do, I'll find myself reading the book he has written, his contribution, and my trip 'round the sun will not have been in vain after all.

I'm considering taking off work in order to volunteer with Spence's field trip coming up on the 31st...Word on the street is they're going to a "cultural garden." I am excited about both the opportunity to watch young children absorbing knowledge like good little sponges and also learning myself exactly what the HELL a cultural garden might be. I have this crazy mental image of berkas blowing in the trees while a river of sake flows with a little sign advertising "FREE FOOT-BINDINGS FOR THE KIDDIES!" in the corner. I have no idea what to expect, although the idea of steeping my son in a little culture really appeals to me. And it would sure the hell save me some money on shoes.

I'm also a little apprehensive about the whole volunteer experience...The last time I volunteered for Spence's class, we went to the park (sounds simple enough, except multiply the idea you have in your head times fifteen toddlers at nap-time, ALL of whom want to swing on the 2 swings) and it started out being a grand time. The single hitch in the whole shebang was when I turned (cliche, I know, the ol' "I turned my head for a SECOND!" line) from manning the bottom of the slide, which the children had down pat anyways (My face was getting tired from all the over-enthusiastic "Hurray! You DID it!"s, what do you want from me) when my fantastically brilliant co-volunteer at the top decided at that very moment to put the tiny brace-wearing handicapped child down. I swear she must have kicked him down with both feet to get the kind of momentum this kid had. All I have to say is Thank God for small favors. And soft dirt.

But this is a new classroom, with mostly new friends and new teachers and hopefully nobody who remembers The Day Elijah Fell. So I'm bravely walking that gangplank called Volunteering once more...Wish me luck. Or better yet, pray your fool heads off those kids survive the day with me. Mu-hahahahaha!

Forgive me if I seem a tad loopy. My son woke up at approximately 3:30 this morning, screaming for Juice! Juice! like he'd just crawled across the Sahara. Normally it's the baby that tends to throw the midnight parties, but for whatever reason poor Spence's subconscious called a pit stop on that track named Sweet Dreamland, desperately needing to be emptied and juiced. The baby, not to be outdone, joined in the festivities, and...I'm one tired Momma, Ok? And in this sleep-deprived state, I vaguely remember having signed up to volunteer on the 31st. Lord help the children.