The Tooth Fairy's Third Cousin

Recently I heard that a fellow mom and writer's son had a pomegranate seed removed from his ear.

The mystery for his mom was that he had never, to her knowledge been near a pomegranate, let alone figured out how to peel it and stick a seed in his ear.

Of course I knew what was going on. This was the work of the pomegranate fairy.

If you haven't heard of the pomegranate fairy, you're not alone. She's often overlooked in the news because no one really eats pomegranates anymore and the tooth fairy has more extensive marketing.

The tooth fairy's fame is in large part thanks to major contributions from dentists in an ongoing effort to bring some positive publicity to the loss of a tooth. But that's another story.

Anyway, the legend of the pomegranate fairy goes way back to medieval times when mother, in a fit of exasperation, pleaded for divine intervention while eating a pomegranate. Her children had, for the 384th time forgotten to pick up their plates from the table, and, quite frankly she had HAD it. She hurled the pomegranate through the window, beaning a passing fairy.

This fairy, rather than fluttering on to a quieter neighborhood decided this was a sign that things were getting out of control and somebody better start listening or else!

Thus the first pomegranate was planted. Pomegranate fairies planted pomegranate seeds in children's ears so they would develop the ability to listen to their parents. Like so many things of singular importance, modern science has not determined exactly how this works, although the theory around our dinner table is that it probably has to do with the sticky, red juice.

Whatever the mechanism, the great news was that for generations children were listening to their parents, eventually leading to the birth of the greatest generation of all.

Unfortunately, with changes in fairy legislation in the 1980s requiring adherence with 13 international treaties and 94 new FDA guidelines referencing pomegranates and their use in the outer ear, fewer than seven PFs (as they are known in fairy circles) are working in the US today.
Those valiant seven are overworked, underappreciated and just plain tired (sound familiar?) and, as with most people with way too much to do, they blow it routinely.

As a result, some of the seeds, instead of being properly planted, are slipping into the ear canals causing distress to the recipients, freaking out parents, and sending children to ENT doctors for pomegranate seed extraction.

Of course, they don't teach about the pomegranate fairy in medical schools these days, so when a seed shows up, everyone is astonished. Mothers search their gardens and children don't listen to a word that is being said until they hit their 20s.

Which explains a lot, don't you think?

Hold on to that fire hydrant thingy

Can someone tell me what this is? And why is it chained to the fire hydrant? Is there an aftermarket for fire hydrant parts? Has anyone seen these for sale on craigs list and so now they have to lock them up?

Teacher, How Do I LOVE Thee?


School has started!

On behalf of every mother who has spent all Summer covering her children with sun screen, washed every single towels in the house practically every day and wept every night after observing what happens to the house when children are home all day, I just want to say to every teacher out there:

I love you.

No, seriously. I love you. It's not like. "Like" is for baby sitters and substitutes. This is all out get-the-heart-shaped-boxes-of-chocolates LOVE.

Why do I love thee? With apologies to Ms. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, let me count the ways:
I love you for teaching my children how to add when I can't get them to put two socks in the laundry basket. Which is why their socks won't match in a week. Just a heads up.

I love you for teaching my children how to write their names when I spend the last few months believing they didn't even know their names – unless I used all three of them. (You know: "Sierra Paloma Prosapio! Come over here and put this shirt in that laundry basket." "Mireya Brisa Prosapio! Is this your toy embedded in my foot?")

I love you for showing me that my children are capable of sitting AND eating at the same time. Would you take a photo for me? I'd just like to see what it looks like.

I love you for somehow keeping my children relatively clean without having to resort to a garden hose.

I love you for taking my children for HOURS so when they come home I have had time to miss them and cherish them. And get to yoga class.

I love you for helping them when they are confused, smiling at them when they do well, and fighting the desire to banish them when they begin to drive you crazy.

I love you for teaching my children that lines are part of life, so the next time we are at the movies my child won't cut in front of 30 other people yelling "me first!"

I love you for facing crazy parents (of which I will be one) because when our children come home upset and we immediately ask for a teacher conference to find out how to keep our child from crying—ever.

And most of all, I love you for choosing to teach children, even though we don't pay you enough – not nearly enough and when I am Queen, teachers will be paid their weight in gold. Weekly.

So, to Mr. Herzog, Mrs. Buxkemper, Mrs. Grice, Mrs. Martin, and all the teachers out there, when Friday rolls around on this first hectic week of school, I want you to feel it.

Feel the love.

Confessions of a loafing mom

School starts Monday. Last year I was relieved. This year I feel like I owe my daughters’ teachers’ an explanation. Or an apology.

Last year we did Summer reading.

This Summer we did Summer loafing (do you get a T-shirt for that? How about just a pillow?).
Last year we worked on our math skills during the break.

This Summer the closest we got to math was checking the SPF on the sunscreen and the depth markers on the pool.

Last year we did at least one science project that involved research on the internet, a notebook and a formal presentation.

This Summer we had a surprise biology lesson when we found out that the mouse we bought to replace Patches (who was lost in a recent cat vs mouse drama) was pregnant. Next we’ll have a marketing lesson as we try to find the mouselettes (or what ever you call baby mice) a new home without a reptile. I am not raising food here.

Oh well. One out of three isn’t bad, is it?

But I still feel terrible. I’ve been a terrible substitute teacher this Summer. All my lesson plans went out the window early. Every big idea has remained unchecked on the “keep ‘em ready for learning” checklist.

This is why any time I entertain the idea of exploring teaching as a possible career change, I feel lightheaded. I can’t stick to a grocery list, let alone a lesson plan. Sure we’re doing some late Summer cramming, but it’s likely to have the same result as any crash course. Lots of jumbled information swimming around in a sea of stuffed animals, bubble gum, and slightly damp towels.

So an extra shout out to our teachers who make up for those of us who have embraced summer vacation a little too fully. We promise to pick up the slack, help with homework, and try to encourage our kids to learn about something more than how to tell when a mouse is pregnant and not just fat.

By the way – anyone need a pet for his or her classroom? We’ve got a few to spare.

Second careers

I came across a really cool blog today and it reminded me of this old crib notes. Of course since I wrote this I've had to return to working full time, so it's a little bittersweet.

Motherhood is my second career. And, as an enthusiastic amateur parent (I figure I can go pro once they head off to college), there are times that I long for my first career.

It's never about wanting to go back to the actual type of work I used to do. I just want to go to the office where everyone can manage the basics. Where people feed and clothe themselves without insisting on the shiny black shoes that were last seen outside under the trampoline, which is now a muddy morass only a demented crocodile would venture into. Where people use their regular names and no one runs around referring to herself as either a horse or a princess or an action hero.

In the office I had a title that lasted for years and didn't have to suddenly go from being a fairy godmother, an animal trainer, and a queen in the space of five minutes. (Okay, so I like the queen part, especially when I get to wear the crown.)

In the break room we chatted about television programs without mentioning a talking turtle, monkey sidekick or story-telling elephant.

Back in those days I never had to mop the bathroom twice in one day (I'll spare you those details), clean breakfast cereal out of my floor mats or read seventeen picture books in a single sitting. I can't remember a single time I had to break out the baby wipes, nor did I ever, ever, say the word 'poop.'

It was a different world.

There are some similarities between the work place and being a full time mom. Just like at the office, I still have to come up with creative explanations to address long-standing problems. For example, now I have to explain that Barbie is recovering from bunion surgery and has to go barefoot for another week because her shoes were lost about five minutes after we got her home from the toy store.

I still have to balance competing interests within the organization. Sometimes we have to flip a coin to decide which book we are going to read first: the Magic Tree House--Hour of the Olympics or Moo Says the Cow.

I have to work long after everyone else has left to prepare for another day. Lunches have to be packed, clothes have to make it out of baskets and into the drawers, and I have to clean up the debris of the day's activities.

And I still have to attempt to calm unreasonable people. Only this time the people are much shorter and tend to cry when they don't get their way. Well, actually, that last part IS a lot like the office I used to work in.

I used to come home from the office and see my children for two, maybe three hours in a day. I'd try to reconnect on the weekends, when I wasn't flying out for meetings. Now I live in their world 24-7, where horses talk, Barbie is obsessed with pink and nobody but me can reach the breakfast dishes.

All and all, it's been a good career move. While I could use a little less mop time, I am proud to say that I've developed a pretty decent whinny.