The Cranky Voice of Experience

The bad thing about experience is that most of your illusions are gone.

For example, right now we are very organized for the first week of school. So organized that a little tiny voice in my head began to suggest that somehow we have been transformed into a well-oiled, school-on-time, backpacks-set-out-the-night-before, paperwork-completed machine.

But the cranky voice of experience knows better. In fact by the time you read this, the cranky voice will be shouting “I told you so” as I run back to the house four times for lunch boxes, paperwork, books, and probably, shoes.

I have tried all kinds of things to get us to stay on the organized track.

Lists. I have so many lists that I have a box around here somewhere with ones I’m not sure I can throw away.

Organizers. There’s one on my phone, one on my computer, one on my desk (somewhere), and one in my purse. Unfortunately none of them talk to one another, nor are they remotely organized in the same way. My phone is still reminding me of appointments I no longer have to go to and my computer has refused to let me enter anything until I tell it I’ve gotten at least one of the other 47 things done.

Teamwork. After all, being organized shouldn’t be one person’s job, particularly the least capable person, right? I mean, why should I be in charge? Surely in the wide range of personalities around here there is somebody better suited to the Herculean task of the school year. Unfortunately, being unorganized is apparently either genetic or contagious.

Training. I’ve had an offer to go to another time management class. But when? Who has time?

Prayer. While this has been effective in nearly every other area of my life, asking for divine intervention has yet to have much of an impact on finding socks at 7:15 am.

So, I’m left with the cranky voice in my head telling me that what we’ve started tonight – clean children, clothes picked out, 20 pages of paperwork completed (no kidding) - that none of it will last. Within a matter of days, we’ll be running around the house in a mad scramble, pencils unsharpened, shoes missing, and lunch consisting of crackers and cheese in a plastic grocery bag.

In the end, according to experience, the key is to laugh about it.

Teacher, How Do I LOVE Thee?

In honor of the first day of school, a reprint of a favorite of mine...

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 Mrs. Jarica, Mrs. Buxkemper, 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.

Ready, Aim, SCHOOL!

School starts next week and we’re ready.

Well, no, we’re not, but it feels nice to pretend that we are.

We do have all our school supplies. Everyone has clothes that fit them THIS week. We even have shoes.

There’s a set of lunch boxes, backpacks, and pencil cases packed and ready for action.

We had the last party of the year, complete with sleepover (at which there was very little sleep).

We are even on tap to get the final hair cut out of the way next week.

It’s almost like I’m getting the hang of things after 11 years. What’s next – matching socks?

Whoa. Let’s not get crazy.

Still, I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to wake everyone up early. Or get them to bed early.

I’m not ready to give up all my summer lines like “let’s grab a movie” or “why is the dog blue?” or “did someone spill soda? Again?” or “where are all the towels?”

I’m not ready to serve breakfast before 10 am and dinner before 9 pm.

I’m not ready for the paperwork, homework, and calendar work of the school year.

Even though it’s been a brutal summer, and there’s not a single blade of grass that has survived in our yard, and the smell of sunscreen in completely and utterly embedded in the furniture, I still want summer to linger. The fact is that everyone in the house is ready for school to start, everyone but me.

I want two more weeks of late night movies on a Tuesday and running around in Pjs all day for fun. More painting the dogs unnatural colors. More wet cats. More…summer.

But school waits for no mom. Open house is tomorrow, Friday we’ll think of five things we still need to do, Saturday we’ll get at least three of those done and Sunday the kids will be so excited that it’ll be a wonder that anyone gets to sleep on time.

Monday morning we’ll be lined up, rushing out of the house to get there on time, the smell of sharpened pencils, shampoo, and grilled cheese in the air.

And finally, at home, there will be towels.

When Cats Meow…

You don’t have to be a parent for long to realize that prolonged silence is always a bad sign.

The problem is that it’s often so welcome that you don’t snap that you should immediately put down that book you actually read two pages of, get up and run over to the area where your children are and be prepared to: hose them down with soap and water; rescue them from the top of something that not even the lizard would climb; or phone the insurance company nurse.

Again.

This was one of those times.

We were upstairs and I was experiencing some pride in my children. I had told them to “entertain themselves.”

What was I thinking?

The problem is that we are at that point in the summer where the first words in the morning are “I’m bored” followed quickly by “I don’t know what to do” and the ever popular “Mommy, what are you doing?”

Remarkably, they are reluctant to take on any of the 500 chores available to alleviate boredom.

Apparently no one is THAT bored.

It was the day I had banned television after a marathon of cartoons had my daughter quoting Sponge Bob with reverence usually reserved for Thomas Jefferson. Sure, it had been a struggle, but they seemed to be managing. Then I realized that it had gotten quiet. I tried to ignore my mounting sense of doom.

Then I heard a door downstairs close. Next came the sound of running water. This was pretty remarkable since washing hands is right up there with any one of the 500 chores. But miracles happen, right?

Have I mentioned that it’s very dangerous to be an optimist in our family?

A few minutes passed, then I heard a forlorn meow. Very forlorn. As in “abandon hope all ye cats who enter here.”

I closed my eyes and thought about how resilient our cat is, a requirement of every Prosapio pet. Surely they wouldn’t be…

Then there was a shout.

“No! Don’t open the door!”

“But it’s scarwee!”

The knob rattled and there was another shout. I could hear the door open.

“Why did you open the door!?”

“I was scarwed!”

A few seconds later, the cat was up the stairs, shaking copious amounts of water off her legs and glaring at me. After a few more half-hearted shakes she gave me that look that begged the question:

“How many more days until school starts?”

Queen of School Supplies

When I am queen of the universe (I’m sure my paperwork will arrive any day now), one of the first things I’m going to do is fix the school supply thing.

When I am queen, shopping for school supplies will no longer be the all day march through aisle after aisle, store after store, like a deranged scavenger hunt. There will be no more looking for two days for map pencils. Or blue, green, yellow, red AND purple folders. But not just plain folders in these specific colors – folders with brads AND pockets in these specific colors.

I have to tell you, in my day, school supplies were limited to the basics: writing implements of either ink or lead and a tablet. That’s it.

Now school supply lists are like some kids’ Christmas lists. Red pens? 150 Sanitary Wipes? Sharpies with fine points? We don’t even allow our kids play with Sharpies at home ever since they started to paint the dogs, fine point or not!

So, it goes without saying that I have a few ideas on how to improve the entire school supply system.

Yes, when I’m queen the following rules will be in place:

1. Map pencils will be called by their proper names – colored pencils (thanks to the teacher in aisle 12 who helped me avoid a total meltdown looking for map pencils, which I assumed were attached to some sort of road maps).

2. If all the store has with brads and pockets is yellow folders, then the class will just deal with having yellow folders. That’s what the half dozen sharpies are for, right? Just write RED at the top. Problem solved.

3. School supplies are limited to the school supply aisle only. Tissue paper and cleaning supplies are to be moved into the school supply aisle for four weeks leading up to school.

4. More items will be available in pink. With glitter where possible.

5. All major stores are to get their school supply list early and stock what’s ON THE LIST ONLY. If anyone needs 64 crayons, drop me a line.

6. Better yet, stores will be required to prepackage all the basics materials in a ready made box you can just pick up at the back of the store. Then all parents’ have to contend with is a pencil box and insulated lunch sack, in pink, covered in glitter.

Ah, it will be so good to be queen.

Living in the hick... er, hills

I wrote this when we first moved back to the Texas Hick... Hill Country.

Having moved back to the lake from a brief tour of duty in the city, certain things stand out.

For example, I noticed a big change in the types of birds we spot regularly. In the city, our number one bird was the pigeon, gray feathered eating machines swooping down for popcorn and crackers at every opportunity.

Now it's the turkey vulture. There's a bird you don't want swooping down on for a snack.

I'll be the first to admit that vultures soaring is pretty majestic, but I do feel the need to move more overtly when they appear to be circling us as we are hanging out on the playground.

Move along, boys. Still alive and kicking down here.

There's the sign on the bait fridge at the grocery store that says "Live bait. Do not eat."

I don't know about you, but it concerns me that someone felt it was actually necessary to explain that you are not to eat live worms. Because it's not bad enough that there are live, chilled worms by the checkout and ice machine, there are people who apparently mistake them for sushi.

Maybe it stems from being a tourist area. It certainly impact our neighborhood retailers. At every convenience store there's an impressive display of items designed solely for the cooling, carting and consumption of the number one beverage -- beer.

At our corner store I can find koozies with witty remarks, ice chests that have better wheels than half the cars in the parking lot, floating coolers, and the occasional drink tube hat complete with dual straws. Now there is a fashion statement. I tell you Milan has NOTHING on us.

Speaking of fashion, it really is all about the shoes. It took me a while but I've adapted and somewhat embraced the idea of flip-flops as formal wear. I have my own pair of flip-flops in the garage, waiting to be put into service any day now. More importantly, I've learned not to look down anymore lest I get an eyeful of what only a podiatrist could love.

It's a week into the season and out here we celebrate a whole different set of nature's subtle signals that summer is in full swing. The roar of every neighborhood boat, blowing out a few gallons of lake water. The deer drinking out of kiddie pools. The tie-dye shirts on the side of the road, flapping in the 100 degree breeze.

To think, the only sign we used to have in the city of summer was that all the school zone signs had stopped blinking.

Ice cold worms, beer through straws and circling vultures – I tell you, there is no place like home.

Spin test

The best part os shopping with a seven year old is that every dress requires a spin test.




The results.

(when you're 10 no spin is required. but the scarves are cool.)

Where the rubber meets the brain

Bingo!

There’s nothing like a road trip to bring out the best and worst in a family.

We recently took a long road trip north of Dallas, and pretty soon not even the most entertaining movie was enough.

Tempers were fraying like old t-shirts, the sisters had turned on each other, and we contemplated the fines involved with abandoning the car on the side of the road.

But, since it was 100 degrees, escape wasn’t really possible. Plus I married one of those “we-don’t-stop-till-we-get-there” guys, who clearly ignores all the advice from AAA to get out and stretch every now and then.

It’s a good thing I’ve got a strong bladder.

So we decided to start a game of highway bingo.

Okay, I decided to start a game of highway bingo.

At first there was great resistance, even disdain, for the entire idea by everyone in the car. Still I know these people. These are my people. They just needed a task.

Sierra, slumped so low I wasn’t sure her spine was still intact, flatly refused to play at all. I gave her a card anyway. Then, after a sullen 15 miles, she asked for a new card, having already found everything.

That was it. It was GAME ON. I couldn’t create cards fast enough. Sierra was blowing through every single one, thanks to a flexible interpretation of “car.” Mireya refused to compromise on her card one iota, insisting that a suburban was neither a truck nor a car. This drove her more flexible sister completely nuts, which led to a brief bingo time out for all involved.

In the front seat we had a tougher card to try to play and were going for a bingo “blackout.” We did great until we got to brown horse.

It’s amazing how many colors horses come in and how many of those aren’t brown.

Eventually we found everything – cell towers, black cows, green cars, eighteen wheelers pulling empty trailers, the letter x on a license plate. Sure, there were some tough ones. “Road kill” was inexplicably difficult, and “police cars” were pretty scarce. But by the time we pulled into the garage, we were playing one big car-wide game of highway bingo, screaming at the top of our lungs every time we found something.

And let me tell you, when you’re screaming “RED HORSE! RED HORSE!” it’s definitely time to get out of the car.