Noted

During the school year, I take note of clever things my students say.  The standard here is imprecise...but if I laugh out loud, I write the remark down.  This month didn't offer a great volume of funny remarks, though to be fair the first notable comment, by student H, set the bar incredibly high.  It may very well be my absolute favorite of all time:

"I like my law-making slow and incomplete."

A few days later, student B offered a comment in response to the news that Rachel Clinton (an accused Salem witch) was charged with making beer disappear from kegs.  Said B, "I don't think that was witchcraft."

On the basis of these two remarks, I'd say that we're off to a fine start.

Caught in the Act

It's not as if I didn't have my suspicions, of course.  But on Saturday evening, while I was in the room, Tiger boldly engaged in his criminal violation of the flowers.  I watched in stony, judgmental silence.  I made pictures of the offending act.  I made noises about a potential prosecution.

He didn't care.

Violated

Most days when I come downstairs in the morning, I am greeted by a floral display that has been substantially re-arranged.  Often, there are flowers lying outside the vase.  The cats, of course, are no where to be found.  And if confronted they will employ a "what me?" look that would fool Antonin Scalia into affirming their plea of innocence and immediately commuting their sentence to time served.

Mark Twain once wrote that "A cat is more intelligent than people believe, and can be taught any crime."  My cats seem to be pre-wired felons.

Of Veggies and Willpower

There is a story from my childhood about me and brussels sprouts.  My mother made them for supper one night; I was 5 or 6 years old.  When I saw them on my plate I was less than entranced.  In fact, I refused to try even a bite of the dreaded (and dreadful smelling) vegetable.  My mother induced me to give them a bite with the bright exclamation that , "they look like mini-cabbages."  But I didn't like cabbage either and so I was unpersuaded.  A few hours later, I was allowed to leave the table.  No sprouts had left my plate.

I was a strong-willed child.

As an adult, I learned to make an amazing silken cheese sauce.  I came to really enjoy brussels sprouts when they were served in cheese sauce.  A few years back, right around Thanksgiving, there was an NPR interview with Mollie Katzen, an amazing vegetarian cook whose cookbooks I enjoy.  She talked about making roasted brussels sprouts.  It sounded quite promising.  I've been roasting sprouts ever since.

It's easy to do and oh-so-yummy.   The details:

1 pound of brussels sprouts, washed and halved or quartered
1 tablespoon olive oil
salt to taste

Heat the oven to 425 degrees.  Line a cookie sheet with foil and then cover the foil with the olive oil.  Place the sprouts cut-side-down on the foil.  Place the sheet of sprouts on the center rack in the oven.  Roast for 10 minutes.

Remove the cookie sheet from the oven and re-shuffle the sprouts, so that more of the sprout surface will touch the hot oil.  Don't worry if a few leaves come loose.  Just let 'em be.  Place the pan back in the oven for 5 more minutes.

Remove and leave on the pan; they will roast a few more minutes from the residual heat.  Add some salt to taste and serve.  They are tasty hot but can also be served at room temperature.

My parents will note with satisfaction that my 9 year old turns his nose up at the idea of such fare.  He won't even look at them on the table, not even when I brightly announce that "they look like mini cabbages." 

Whatever.  That leaves more for me.

Friendship

On Sunday afternoon, JT enjoyed the company of  his buddy B.  Like the other boy B, JT and this B have been classmates and playmates since they were 3 years old.   JT can no longer remember a time before my ex de-camped from family life.  But by the same token, he doesn't remember a time when he didn't see B at school.  There's a lot of comfort in that kind of friendship.

And on Sunday, there was a whole lot of humor of the 9 year old boy variety.  It was a glorious late summer day with bright sun and clear skies.  We three ate an early supper together and then hit the park in the last hour before sunset.  I spent a day getting chores done while laughing boys provided some background noise.  If there is a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon, I don't know what that would be.

Date Night

This fall, JT and I made plans to celebrate the start of the school year and mark the end of the summer.  We decided that we'd go out to supper together.  He'd pick the restaurant and together we'd review the best parts of our summer.  As we started to contemplate our evening together, JT took to calling it our "date night," and, with a nod to Dr. Freud, so will I.

My companion brought charm and hunger to the table.  We talked about the start of the school year (the teacher he was scared of is strict.....but not mean at all, he reports; art and gym are still his favorite subjects but science is pretty cool). We talked about our best memories of the summer (that bike ride in Cape Cod is a guaranteed do-over for next summer).  He made me laugh and smile.  But mostly he made me feel incredibly blessed to be his mama.

Life As I Occasionally Know It

The other day, I strolled through the kitchen and was brought up short when I saw this on the counter:

My life is so glamorous.

Real LIfe Conversations with JT: Mix-Up edition

The backstory: Every once in a while, especially when he expresses a preference vastly different from my own, I shake my head and gravely announce to JT, "I brought the wrong baby home from the hospital."

Yesterday, as JT and I entered my classroom to grab up my school bag at the end of the day, another teacher's class (I call it the all-boy freshman lineup) was leaving the room.  One kid looked at JT and then looked at me and said, with a hint of incredulity, "He looks just like you."

Before I could say anything, JT nodded sagely and then announced, "It seems you didn't bring home the wrong baby."

Apparently not.

A Boy and His Sticks

It is a well-documented fact that my son loves nothing more than a game involving the outdoors and sticks.  He has an entire collection of sticks in the front yard and I know better than to remove even a single one.  Because he will know.  And there will be hell to pay.

Last week, as a result of some impressive windy storms, a large branch was knocked out of the backyard tree.  When I asked JT to help me carry the branch to the curb for the town to collect, he was only too eager to oblige.


And so it was that he became the master and conqueror of the biggest stick ever. 

The neighbors are understandably wary.

Survey Says

A few weeks ago, the U.S. Census Bureau sent me a a household survey, part of their work to prepare for next year's national census.  Like any useful survey, the collection of demographic information was a part of the project.

Demographics are always difficult for me.  I know my age and gender, my ethnicity and level of eduction.  These are the easy questions.  But then comes the question of my marital status.  And now all my baggage is unpacked.

It's not just the unwelcome reminder of how much my life has changed.   I'm always better off if I live in the moment rather than reflecting on how I liked my old life; how much I enjoyed the security of being part of a partnership.   That life is gone now and dwelling on the past doesn't change things.  In the meantime, I've got some survey questions begging my attention.  I'm not divorced, because of course, I was never married.  But I have an ex, and dealing with that feels a lot like what I imagine feeling divorced feels like.  I am a single, though in my mind that raises images of a life I certainly don't live.  There is no category for someone like me.  So I chose an inadequate answer and move on.

But the effects linger.  I struggle with finding what I've come to think of as an elusive but magical place: the sweet spot where I can be satisfied with the person I have become; with the life I now lead.  A place where I can appreciate and understand the past for what it was and look to the future for its prospects.  Mostly, I just try to live in the here and now.  I avoid painful reflections about who I once was.  I don't think about the future.  I know that my life is more than the sum total of my successes and failures.  But when questions arise, confusion about my past, the uncertainty of my present and the empty palette of my future combine to make the present an uncomfortable place.