Homework and Zombies--Welcome to the New School Year!

First, a disclaimer--my daughter couldn't sleep last night, which, of course, means I couldn't sleep last night, and to make matters worse, our smoke alarm randomly went off not once, but twice in the middle of the night! So, if you were listening to this blog instead of reading it, you would hear that tired, whiny voice that I send my children upstairs to bed for using.

Now then, do any of you three who actually may glimpse at this blog occasionally have any advice whatsoever for helping a child remember to take their homework to school and turn it in????

And, yes, I realize my kids must learn to suffer the consequences for their actions, but when we've just spent the last 1700 days telling our Freshman how high school actually counts for something, and you have to perform well if you want to get into college, I still feel the necessity to bail him out on the second day of school. Hey, the government can do bail outs, so can I, right (of course, maybe they should have handled things differently, but there it is)?

Am I wrong? The only problem with that, then is the fact that since it is only the second day of school (and the kids just got their schedules the first day at school, so we parents didn't even see where their classrooms are--I think they do that on purpose--note to self: get a copy of his schedule and go locate his classes) I have no idea where my son is right now. When I got to the school they told me I was not allowed to go to the classroom without pre-arranging a visit with the teacher, so I could not take him his work myself (I even told them my plan to show up, embarrass him badly enough that he never forgets his work again--they didn't like my plan). So, I asked if they could give him his work. They said no. They could put it in a drawer for him to pick up at the office. So, I asked if they could send him a note to come pick it up. They said no. So, I asked how he was supposed to know it was there. They said I could text him. I said his phone was off--AS PER SCHOOL RULES NOT TO BE USING YOUR PHONE DURING SCHOOL HOURS! They said sorry. Sorry? (this was the point where my former, less diplomatic self would have ranted about parental rights at a public institution and would have made a break past the 102 pound 16-year-old manning the front desk and gone running from class to class calling my child's name until the 122 pound woman--not sure what her title is--driving the golf cart around locking the gates, ran me down)

I took a deep breath, smiled, and walked away (then I called my husband and cried out on the sidewalk--remember, sleep deprived).

Well, they are sorry, I'm sure. And I forgive them. Otherwise my frustration will fester and boil and bubble up until I write scathing e-mails and blogs and make angry phone calls and contact the school board, Congressman, President, and Jon Stewart. In fact, I not only forgive, but I thank them for bringing to my attention my need to have a back-up plan for emergencies. When the zombies and aliens invade our town, I need to know that my son will not be getting the message. So I better have an escape plan, a meeting place, and figure out where the biggest hole in the school fence is.

But until then--back to the question at hand--does anyone have any suggestions for getting a kid to turn in his homework on time?

Summer Time, Free Time, and Flying Potatoes

I find myself saying this a lot: "I don't know whether I should be proud or horrified!"

My wonderful 11-year-old created a potato cannon today. He tried to explain to me all about how he was going to do it, and I tried to follow and understand everything he said--I really did. I figured in theory it would work, but it wasn't until I heard a small explosion (similar to a very big pooof sound) and got a whiff of singed hair that I really realized it was more than just a theory--that cannon was fully functional!

He took apart a lighter, got a PVC pipe, some tape, a drill, and a bottle of hairspray, and voila! Next thing I see is a potato flying across the patio (I at least had the wherewithal to tell him to keep it outside, aim it toward the pool, not get too close to the fence where it might over-shoot and hit a car on the road below).

Is this a sign it's time to go back to school, when the summer-time inventions include flames and projectiles? Before he burns the neighborhood down (did I mention the death-ray he built earlier this summer)?

Start squelching that creative curiosity with text-books, schedules, and over-crowded classromms before it's too late--that's what I say. Oh, wait--this kid's home-schooled!

Enchanted Unicorns and Tiki Torches--Recipe for Sucess

You know when your five-year-old asks in her prayers that her magical enchanted unicorn birthday party will go exactly as she hopes, that she has something magnificent in mind. And that is serious pressure.

So, after trying, and failing, to get a picture of what she was envisioning for her gala event, I finally took her to Party City to see if they had what she wanted.

Hold everything! When we walked in the door the entire display of all things “Hawaiian luau” were swarming us.

“I know what I want!” she screamed—literally. “I’m going to have a Tiki party!”

Now, knowing the fickle mind of a young girl, I put off planning anything, figuring she would change her mind to the mystical pony or haunted castle or some other theme probably six times before the final party day. But she didn’t. Tiki party it was.

“What exactly is a Tiki party?” you might ask yourself. Well, so did I. I gathered real tikis we had collected from various vacations, had my sons design posters of tikis, got out the limbo stick and hula skirts, had straw hats and tiki torches—yeah, I was feeling rather proud of my efforts, even rivaling my sisters’ skills in party planning.

But, as it turned out, the real piece de resistance was simply a giant orange flower piñata.

So, when it came down to it, I think I could have thrown out a few dried snake skins and stinky gym socks, and she’d have been completely satisfied, as long as we had the fabulous piñata (of which, of course, I have no photos—picture the Mystery Machine’s floral decals, and you’ve pretty much got the piñata).

I should have known—friends, swinging a big stick, and loads and loads of candy make any party a success. Remind me of this next time I try to knock myself out trying to put together a birthday bash!

Weird or Crazy?

So, Mitt Romney may be "weird" (see my prediction for my new favorite word at momsformitt.blogspot.com), but at least he isn't crazy!

Like I have to actually say this out loud, but there are some CRAZY political candidates out there (and opportunistic photography only makes it worse).

Oh, wait, this is just Ted Nugent performing at Rick Perry's gubernatorial gala.

Michele Bachman

Rick Perry

Mad Eyes Moody

This should be a fun year! And maybe a little "weird."

(In case you don't read MomsForMitt.blogspot, I mean "weird" in a good way when referring to Mitt Romney)

Heart of a Hillbilly

I just noticed a show called “Hillbilly Hand Fishin’” actually exists! It’s on TV! Does a team of people just sit around and think, “What’s the weirdest reality show we can come up with today that includes the word fishin’? Or Hillbilly? Or both?” I want that job!

I may mock, but seriously, if it had not been the Sabbath with my children asking to watch a scripture video (which quickly turned into Phineas and Ferb), I am afraid I would have sneaked a peek. I do not like fish, I do not like fishing (everything smells like fish) or fishin’, but I have to admit I think if I had a DNA analysis done I may just find the HB gene—yep, HB for Hill Billy.

Maybe it stems from my childhood fascination with the Clampett family of Beverly Hills, or my love for red gingham, or maybe from my secret wish to one day live on a pumpkin farm in a house I’ve built by hand (so, wait, does that make me a country bumpkin instead of a hillbilly?). But I guess I long for the simple life. Sure, I may do it Eva Gabor style from Green Acres, but if it means wide open spaces, leisurely pace, and a good foot-stompin’ banjo band, then head me for the hills and call me Billy. Just keep me away from the fish.