Yesterday was last minute get-ready-for-college shopping day with Liz. After breakfast among Harley riders and fashionable east siders at the Cafe Hollander, we headed to Greenfields to look for posters. In case you haven't been there, it's the kind of store where I'd have bought flowing skirts, incense, and posters for whatever Madison apartment I had in 1970.

 Liz is a big Salvador Dali fan. This is very cool, but there is Dali, and there is Dali. This is the sort of Dali that appeals to Liz.

 

And there are roommates, and there are roommates.

"Liz. Don't you think you might want to get to know your roommate a little before you put up a poster that might be, you know. . ."

"SCARY?" she completed my sentence. "You think this would be better?" unscrolling a bold red-and-black floor-to-ceiling Che Guevara banner and looking at me with feigned innocence.

"Erm, well, it's very. . . arresting. But the colors might be a little off-putting. Besides, it might not go with her stuff, and she might care about that." This is, by decree of the big dorm room furnishings purveyors, a brown and pink and green year with lots of orange, purple, and teal thrown in. A very un-revolutionary colors year. I don't even have to go where the politics might lead this discussion.

 "How about this," I ask, finding an unusually sweet Dali with butterflies and no naked bodies or Blessed Virgins or melting clocks. A lifted eyebrow is reply enough, but my daughter is trying to keep me calm and so she says, kindly and gently, "it's just not me, Mom." 

She finds something that's imaginative, thought-provoking, and unlikely to make her roommate call for an exorcism. I am relieved. I buy her two beautiful scarves and we head to the car. There, Liz is captive, and I can waterboard her with 18 years worth of pent-up advice, praise, and Mom-neurosis. 

"I'm channeling Sally Field again, right?" I ask, coming up for air myself.  In case you haven't seen Brothers and Sisters, Field's character, Nora Walker, is so much like me that even I can see it when my kids point and hoot during a familiar scene of excessive, sure-to-be-thwarted, mother love.

Time to shut up and turn on the radio. Strains of the Dixie Chicks:

I took my love and took it down, climbed a mountain and turned around, and I saw my reflection in a snow covered hill, well the landslide brought it down

. . . can I sail through the changing ocean tides, can I handle the changing seasons of my life?

. . .Well, I've been afraid of changing cause I built my life around you, but time makes you bolder; children get older, I'm getting older too. .

I'm about to launch into my usual exegesis on why the original Stevie Nicks version  of Landslide is superior when the song hits me and the tears start. "This is about us, isn't it?"

Liz, always much wiser than I am, nods. Later, she will let me hug her longer than she has ever let me hug her. 

This morning, she packed her dad's truck. I handed off a plate of zucchini bars with caramel frosting for the trip, and they were off to Steven's Point.

Take this love and take it down, children. Climb a mountain.  But now and then, turn around.

 

With the trip meter on, it's easy to pretend I haven't just rolled the odometer over 100,000 miles on the dinged but reliable Nissan. But even the lower mileage meter's in the thousands, what with trips to campuses, family visits, and job interviews. Sometimes, you just can't get away with driving less. And even if you do, chances are your life isn't staying in the same place.

Last weekend the kids and I went to Oshkosh to see my sister's family before Liz and Geo head off for school. Geo goes to Madison this weekend, Liz goes to Stevens Point the following one.  The dual departures are just days away, and I'm still in denial.

We hit the road early--or what passes for early with 18-year-olds. There was a little crankiness during the rousting/dog walking/breakfasting period: "hurry up" is no one's favorite phrase. But we finally got into the car.

I'd imagined a charming 80 mile conversation, the kids talking about their lives and aspirations, a joke now and then, maybe a song here and there, me imparting a piece of life wisdom so wonderful that the kids nod with affectionate gratitude, and finally the excited recognition of the "almost there" marker, the buffaloes at Glacial Ridge Farms.

As the kids might say "Mom, what were you smoking?!"

Instead, Geo said "I'm tired. You drive, okay?" Liz claimed the stretch-out territory in the back seat, and Geo reclined his passenger side seat as far as it could go. Head sets were on, and before we hit Menomomee Falls, both kids were out. 

It took a few miles of mostly rural roadside before I lost the old "this isn't how I'd planned it" resentment. The sky was clear, the fields green with short corn and gold with tall grain, and I was driving with my babies on board. Little soft snorey sounds escaped as they slept to the car's hum and vibrations, just as they always had. How many contented miles have I driven, luxuriating in the presence of my children near me, safely strapped in, and, for as long as the car was in motion, not yowling? For this hour and a half, I had them all back.

Yesterday was another fine day for a trip of the same length. I had a job interview in Madison, the second one. It was both fun and intense. I'd forgotten to eat lunch, so I wandered down the construction zone that's Madison's State Street and grabbed some pud thai to eat at the wayside on the way home.

I sat at the picnic table in my job interview dress, trying to manage the noodles with the spoon the restaurant had packed and wishing I'd picked up chopsticks on my way out. For 50 some years I've been eating at wayside picnic tables with family and friends, and those memories joined me. Then, the peanuts usually came in the form of peanut butter and jelly.  But other things haven't changed: the farm on one side, highway on the other, the cleanness of Wisconsin's facilities, the sense of being somewhere safe on the way home.

If you are still long enough, something wonderful will present itself. A young buck stepped out of the woods to eat his field corn, and we shared our dinners in companionable silence.

Then it was back in the car, back to Wauwatosa, back home, where everything is the same and everything has changed.

Once upon a time, my high school friend Vicki, who'd gone to Brigham Young for college because it was the cheapest school with great skiing, called me and asked, "What are you doing next year?" I didn't have any good ideas, so when she said, "Let's go to Madison," I answered "Sure. Why not?"

I can't remember if we drove there in her brother's VW Beetle or took the Badger Bus. But we got there, enrolled, and wandered around until we saw an apartment building on Francis Street with a for-rent sign. The manager gave us the names of two girls who were looking for roommates, we talked to one (Mary Hill of Wauwatosa, it turns out), and we signed the lease. A month later we came back, big brother Jack and a U-haul in tow, and moved into The Surf.

Next step: stand in line for what seemed like a couple of days in the stock pavillion or some such place to sign up for the few classes left after everyone had gotten first dibs.

The message was a subliminal one: Well, you're here. Good luck. Sink or swim; it's up to you.

We thought it was pretty great.

Now Geo's going, but what a different world. There's a sophisticated 2-day orientation, Student Orientation Advising and Registration (SOAR). At the end, you walk away with a schedule and maybe, like Geo, a sweet deal on a Mac laptop. They even let you bring your parents--mainly because parents have changed more than the students. While the kids are off with troops of cheerful guides and advisors in red shirts, the parents are being gently deconditioned by warm and experienced professors. "When your student calls to ask you about their schedule," the charmingly crusty retired bursar tells you, "DON'T answer."

The whole room shifts as people try on a new idea; let the kids float with a different flotation device. The school isn't going to let them sink unless they really want to.

Some of it felt like alternate reality. There are no rotary blades on this single parent's back, and I was not the extremely involved parent for whom much of this excellent program was designed. My kids have been managing themselves for some time, and there was no way Geo would even think of calling me to check on his class choices. For one thing, I don't have a cell phone. I was pretty impressed, though, with the parents who seemed to be ready to learn Korean to help their daughter's new roommate.

But what fun. We met great people from places like Little Chute and Edina. All stayed in Liz Waters, where Geo will be living in fall. Slacker and zealous moms alike were throughly worn out with good will and information by 9 pm. The kids lasted a little longer.

I figure if I stumbled through Madison, Geo will do great. The road is much better prepared for him. And in spite of -- or maybe because of -- my limitations, he's ready to roll.

I think that last Tuesday was the only day in the past week that we've been free of a close encounter of the medical kind.

Chances are, you know where I'm coming from: from the urgent care center to the clinic waiting room to the radiology suite, every place we've gone has been crowded with people coughing and looking miserable.

Yesterday's doctor pronounced it "the February Thing," whatever these flu-ey and respiratory plagues are.

I don't even have to announce my name at the Walgreen's pharmacy on Mayfair and North anymore. They just see me coming and start pulling white paper bags with tiny bits of medicine inside and huge warning lists stapled to the outside.

Darling daughter is getting the worst of it now. First a sinus infection, now another infection that's making her eyelid swell and her face bulge. Her twin took one look and, ever the comforting male, asked "That thing gonna stay that way now?"

The best part of the adventure was an encounter with exceptional customer service. Mary at the Plank Road Clinic called all over town to find a CAT scan facility that would a) take us in the evening and b) be covered by my insurance. If you've ever done this, you know how long it can take and how frustrating it can be. She even got the necessary preauthorization for us. It's enough to restore your belief in human kindness.

A coddling weekend is coming up. Wouldn't mind a cuddling one if my kids were inclined to be coddled that way, but we're all retreat-to-our-dark-corners-and-leave-us-alone types when sick.

And I'm hoping that the "March Thing" will be . . .the harbinger of spring. Too much to hope for the real thing.

At the dark table in the corner of Singha Thai last night, the fortune cookies arrived, as they always do.

It was my birthday dinner, and I was feeling blessed. The food was good, and I was in the company of a long-time beloved friend. George had arranged for an earlier surprise celebration at The Original Pancake House, where he works. Daughter Annie had flown home to Ft. Collins safely, even though the gale winds left our yard covered with a winter's supply of kindling. Earlier, she and Liz had done the Christmas shopping for everyone, and all I had to do was foot the bill.

All that was left for today was last minute shopping and raspberry torte baking.  Life was good. 

Still, I picked up my cookie with skepticism. I tend to get fortunes that read "you will work hard and die," while friend Susan's say "you are beautiful and everyone adores you!!"

But it was my birthday. Good fortune abounded. Surely this time, I'd get a great message. I cracked the stiff egg white and sugar shell.

 "If you persist for a long time, you will accomplish your goals. Eventually."

Damn.

Susan looked sympathetic as she pulled her fortune through the brittle cookie bits:

"Gold coins will rain down on you today!!" She laughed and showed me the new gold earrings her husband had given her earlier in the day.

I am not making this up.

That's the interesting thing about life. You do not have to -- in fact, you probably couldn't--make it up. It's all its own wonder, joy, frustration and sorrow.

I'm typing this with clumsy fingers. Last night, while Super-gluing together a wreath, a tubular overflow incident ensued. My right hand now is covered in rigid adhesive. But the pain from the tiny cut in the corner of my thumb is gone, so there is blessing in misfortune. (If you don't know the Superglue as first-aid for paper cuts trick, it works. I learned it from both a surgeon and a pianist.)

Now I will wake the kids, nestled all snug in their beds. Grandma in Oshkosh is having problems, so there's a change of plans. I'll go up sooner than planned and stay later, and the kids will have to take on the homefront a bit.

An hour ago, my inner Christmas Nazi was marshaling dark thoughts. May all our lawmakers discover first hand what it's like to actually have to deal with the broken healthcare system on a holiday.

But my better angels prevailed. it's a blessing to be able to go there. Another blessing:  the kids' father will come to the rescue and move in with them to help out.

I guess we've got a new tradition: Christmas improv.

May your holiday be full--not so much with presents, but with the Presence of each other and what is holy.

 

Wondering why the auto makers didn't make a bigger objection to the new energy bill signed into law yesterday? After all, it raised standards for emissions control.

The answer became clear within hours, according to the New York Times. That same day, the Environmental "Protection" Agency decreed that states could not pass more stringent bills but would have to abide by federal standards. Sixteen states have waivers permitting them to develop higher standards for greenhouse gas emissions than the newly approved standards. But those waivers have been effectively nullified. 

EPA administrator Stephen Johnson says that federal law trumps science, and “Climate change affects everyone regardless of where greenhouse gases occur, so California is not exclusive."

Well, erm, yes--and so what? Hello, bigger government; goodbye, states' rights.

The automakers are elated. The states, starting with California, are filing lawsuits. 

* * *
Still think sex education isn't for kids? By now, everyone who makes the mistake of reading newspapers or watching TV knows that 16-year-old Jamie Lynn Spears, baby sister of the recklessly fecund Britney, is pregnant. "It was a shock for both of us, so unexpected. I was in complete and total shock, and so was he (19-year-old boyfriend Casey Aldridge)."

Erm. Or . . .HELLO??!!!? You have sex, you should expect to get pregnant. You can drastically cut down the chances by using good birth control--the right way, and all the time. But you can't prevent pregnancy by wishful thinking. Or in this case, non-thinking.

Self-proclaimed parenting expert Lynne Spears, the girls' mother and someone few Tosans would adopt as a mom-model, didn't believe it. ". . . Jamie Lynn's always been so conscientious. She's never been late for her curfew."

Erm, HELLO!!! It's not the time of the night that predisposes girls to getting pregnant, it's the time of the month. That, and having unprotected sex. 

I guess someone should have taught Lynne that first. She seems to have grown up in a place with a Brookfield less-is-more state of mind when it comes to sex education.

In any case, there seem to be no responsible adults in this clan. Someone tell them that babies aren't fashion accessories. 

* * *
Is there a common thread here? Knowledge of the facts of life (science + moral behavior) matters. Ignoring it has consequences. And so does "extreme" parenting, whether too rigid or too loose. 

 

 
 

From today’s (November 29, 2007) New York Times:

 “Yunice Kotake, of San Bruno, California, recently purchased a Fisher-Price Knows Your Name Dora Cell Phone. . . But a few days later, (Kotake and her husband) returned the play phone to a local Toys ‘R’ Us. . .”

It seems that the girls prefer their parents’ real phones, and they don’t want a fake one. So they’ll be getting what they want.

The girls are one-year old.

Their parents deserve the text messaging bill they’re about to receive.

It seems that kids no longer play—they too have (or don’t have) “leisure activities.” They don’t have any use for toys. Even “starter lap tops,” which come, I regret to say, in the shape of Barbie’s purse and Darth Vader’s helmet, are drawing kiddie yawns.

Six-year old Sabrina wants the real thing, “’Cause it’s cool.”

I wonder if Sabrina’s the model in one of the repugnant holiday ads that “adulterate” children and make them really creepy . The one I'm thinking of is set in a posh party. Clueless yet relentlessly groomed adults ask the equally expensively dressed “Sabrina” whether she believes in Santa.

“I believe in cashmere,” she replies, archly.

Back to the real Sabrina. Mommy and Daddy are holding off a bit before indulging her with a real lap top. You should be seven or eight before you start expecting $1000 toys. I mean, really.

 But I’m not going to talk about Kids Getting Older Younger or ask whatever happened to waiting until you’re old enough or have earned an expensive (electronic device, gown, car, insert object of desire of your preference).

I’m not going to talk about the possible health perils of too much screen time, or the intellectual and social effects of replacing imaginative toys with work tools.

Never mind the effects of tossing used “playthings” with toxic elements in the landfills.

I’m just going to point out that technology increases the price—and, maybe, the costs—of everything it touches.

Parents, your kids are watching you and doing what you do. How about doing something more interesting than talking on the phone?

On the other hand, you could send them off to get a job. Why wait? 

While the city is mulling more restrictive ordinances controlling where registered sex offenders can live, Wauwatosa's getting some attention as the home of Joseph Hallows and Mark Lubinsky.

Hallows, a disbarred lawyer who looks like every mother's nightmare of a sexual predator, is facing charges for recent and past sexual assault and more. Lubinsky, a pediatric geneticist, was sentenced to 18 months for possession of child pornography.

Lubinsky is not so scary, either in looks or, I think, actions. He's a slight man with an odd gait who always seemed a little uncomfortable. I have a nodding acquaintance with him from my years of attending ethics seminars at the Medical College of Wisconsin, where he talked with obvious concern about subjects like end of life rituals with families of dying patients.

While his access to children made him a greater potential threat than Hallows, who apparently got to kids mainly through their mothers, I'm willing to hazard that it's because Lubinsky knows right from wrong and feared going down the path to where child pornography can lead that he arranged to be "caught" downloading files.

But this isn't about trying to figure out why educated men, men who, despite their mug shots, are like the ones we are married or related to, work with, and live near, harm children or dream about having sex with them.

It's about reminding us that the creepy looking guys in the Family Watchdog are a very small percentage of the people who commit sexual crimes involving children. The ones on the map are easy to guard against, whether they're 500 feet or 5,000 feet away from your home or school.

Two things to keep in mind. All convicted offenders are not the same. A 17 year old boy who had consensual sex with a 15 year old girlfriend is not the same as someone who rapes infants. And a man who looks at child porn is not the same as someone who creates it.

Most important to remember is that, depending on whose statistics you read, 80-90% of child molestation is committed by someone the child knows, which means someone you know.  Someone who hasn't been convicted or even accused.

Strangers are at the very bottom of the list that includes:

-Relatives
-Caregivers
-Day care workers
-Teachers
-Babysitters
-Youth counselors
-Bus drivers
-Pastors
-Priests
-Bishops
-Clergy
-Boy Scout Leaders
-Team Coaches
-Counselors
-Doctors
-Friends
 

The moon in the nearly bare walnut trees looked Halloweeny enough. But other than that, today didn't feel like Halloween.

It's the first year my kids didn't go out, costumed, in any capacity. Both worked during the trick-or-treat period.

We'd missed the annual trip to Barthel's to pick apples and pumpkins. So last night at 9 pm, I found the last two orange pumpkins that still had stem handles in the box at Pick 'n Save. Then I bought two bags of eyeballs and body parts--chocolate filled with fudge, peanut butter, or caramel and wrapped in ghoulish foils.

Here in the far southwestern corner of Tosa, a walk around the block is about 2/3rds of a mile. You get a lot of exercise trick-or-treating, so I shouldn't have been surprised that fewer than a dozen kids showed up at the door today. I wish I'd given each one handsful of candy instead of just a couple pieces. As it was, I missed out on the pleasure of leading other people's children astray and into candy hysteria.

It's a transition year. I can feel the whole shape of my life shifting as the kids carve away on college applications instead of pumpkins.

Talk about spooky!

 

Yesterday, Liz and a bunch of friends from Tosa and beyond got back from New Orleans, where they were doing cleaning and gutting work in the city’s poorest area. The 9th Ward is essentially untouched since Hurricane Katrina two years ago, and both kids and adults were shocked.

The most poignant moment for Liz was recovering a family’s photo album from what remained of their house. Most of the images were damaged, but there was a picture of the little girl who had lived there once upon a time, and happily by the looks of the photo.

Where is she now? Is her family together? Have they made a good new life? Do they long for their own homecoming?

The kids from Unitarian Universalist Church West in Brookfield and Lake Country Unitarian Universalist Church in Delafield did gut-busting work. They also had a chance to let the world —or at least the readers of the Times Picayune and anyone who walked past the Monticello Canal last Saturday--know about their concerns for the lack of progress in the area. Along with residents, they formed a human levee 120 people strong and 3 blocks long, holding hands.

That might not hold back the water that continues to overflow the streets whenever it rains hard. But it might raise awareness about the need for the government to join its hands with the residents and volunteers there.

***

August 1 is the 716th birthday of the Swiss Confederation, aka Switzerland and before either, Helvetia. This is the day the nationals gained their freedom from the Franks and the Germans.

I know this because one of Tosa’s great hostesses is Swiss and will be celebrating in style. Apples will be involved, but not arrows. The Swiss seem to have gotten the appropriate use of artillery, including the handheld variety, down.

Happy independence day, Switzerland!

Yesterday’s storm blew in cool fresh air and a Midwest jet carrying Annie, my eldest, back from Colorado. Today is a very good day indeed.

The flight was delayed but not much by today’s standards. Her father picked her up, and by a little before 9 we were all assembled around a pretty table at Il Mito on North Avenue.

Fellow blogger Jean Radtke was there gracing an outdoor table.

We were inside, where the place was blessedly not over-air-conditioned. I actually had to take off my jacket.

The food was lovely, but I have to say they’ve carried portion control a little far. We ordered two appetizers, and two of us had soup, yet we had to fight over the tiny bread basket that carried six precious two-inch-square chunks of good crusty bread—about a small baguette-worth.

It was a pity, as the olive oil and garlic and the juice from the insalata Caprese, tomatoes and basil and mozzarella in good balsamic vinegar, begged to be sopped up.

Andrea Bocelli and an unusual assortment of friends serenaded us in the background. I’m afraid we grew a little loud with laughter over the petite breadbasket, about the size of Mac’s palm.

Or was it pleasure in satisfying our hunger and breaking bread together that made us laugh? Maybe both.

If you go there, and I hope you do, let me know your interpretation of the bas-relief frieze on the wall over our table. On the right, Pan or some other satyr pipes a furious bacchanal. The couple on the far left seem to be enjoying themselves, but we debated about the ones in the middle.

Last night, with all three of my beautiful children under my roof, I slept well again.

Since I actually like my kids, most of the time, luring them home now and then has become the summer challenge. I like to see them for a minute or two during all their developmental stages.

I figured it out a week or so ago when the “posse” made a refueling pitstop.

“My, Ms. McLaughlin, that smells wonderful,” said handsome nice young man #1, who may sound like Eddie Haskell but is genuine and just a well-mannered kid.

“Why thanks, dear.”

“May I ask what you’re making?” asked handsome nice young man #2, who is even more polite.

“I’m boiling water.”

Now, I’m not suggesting that Tosa parents aren’t feeding their children, but when boiling water smells like home cooking, well, you may want to consider firing up the old range now and then, just to make sure it still works.

My kids just got back from a trip to Colorado, so I’ve been needing an extra fix of them.

“Are you coming home for dinner?” I implore over the course of several cell phone messages.

“That depends. What is it?” They are spoiled and cruel. But I have a secret weapon: basil from the farmer’s market.

“Pesto pasta, swiss chard with balsamic vinegar, and fish. The stuff from Sendiks in crushed corn tortillas with lime and chipotle.”

“I’m coming home!”

Tonight I fed lasagna and strawberry torte to somewhere between 10 and 14 teenagers. You’d think I’d know but the number kept changing and I just kept dishing.

It’s prom night for both Tosa East and West high schools, and having dinner for Liz’s friends at our house seemed like a good idea when they couldn’t decide between fine dining and Wendy’s.

Things got a little chaotic but with the help of another mom, all went well. I am glad to report that most teenagers (at least the ones sitting around my table) are nothing like the media suggests. These were kind, funny, low-keyed, and mannerly.

And of course they looked fabulous.

This year tuxedos are conservative. Black, wool, and renting for about $150 a pop. No wonder some say the average cost of prom is over $400 for each member of a couple. I don’t even want to know what George spent, but at least he seemed to enjoy doing it.

The most unusual part of his outfit was the Burger King crown he got to wear as prom king.

The figure $29.99 sticks in my head as what guys paid for tuxedos when I went to prom. They were pastels, mainly, and probably polyester. My date, Dave, wore paisley. That’s the tux, not the tie. Lucky the person who doesn’t come of age during a cringe-worthy time, fashion-wise.

Liz, on the other hand, showed that you can do prom on the cheap (about $100) and still have a ball. The biggest cost was the prom ticket: $40. Borrowed dress tailored to fit: $30. Piling into a friend’s car: almost nothing.

I’m pretty sure there’s no correlation between how much you spend on the prom (or the wedding, for that matter) and how much fun you have. There might even be an inverse relationship!

Today the twins turn 17. The day they were born was very like today: bright and too cold. We went to St. Mary's Hospital around 10 am for labor to be induced. It was three weeks before their due date, but each of them weighed close to 7 pounds, and I was READY.

We outgrew our house in Story Hill that day, and a year later we moved to Tosa. We lost a close-knit neighborhood, but we gained another bedroom, a big yard, and a short walk to Underwood School.

While the rhubarb-chocolate chip birthday muffins were baking this morning, I read Wauwatosa Now. "Three of a kind" talked about the retirements of three beloved Underwood teachers. If your getting-ready-to-leave-the-nest kids' birthdays and the simultaneous retirement of their grade school teachers doesn't make you nostalgic, nothing will.

I didn't really know Vicky Peplinski, so my apologies for leaving her out of this. But Sandra McDonald and Joanne Minnesale made real differences in my children's lives.

They won't just be missed because their "different personalities" add to the school mix. They'll be missed because they are great teachers, with special skills, attitudes, and magic.

George had Ms. Minn, as everyone calls her. "She was old," he said as I rolled my eyes, "but she was always keeping up with things, changing, staying current. She was the first person who taught me about computers. And she was a lot of fun. She made work into games."

Indeed. I loved her for dropping everything and taking the kids outside with the first snowstorm. And I hope new policies haven't been developed that prevent teachers from helping kids associate school with this kind of spontaneous joy.

I also loved her for giving kids confidence. Her philosophy of grading is always to give kids the benefit of the doubt, to encourage them by giving them abundant tastes of success. Those tastes leave you wanting and willing to work for more.

I wish every teacher in elementary school had that philosophy. It continues to shape George's school work, job performance, and approach to life.

Big girl Annie, now 21, had Mrs. McDonald during a hard year. Annie was dreamy and drifty, and this was the year those problems came to roost. Much later she was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder, but back then, they weren't recognizing ADD much in girls--who tend not to be disruptive.

If you have a kid who marches to a different drum beat, you hold your breath and pray that the teacher will "get" them. Mrs. McDonald "got" Annie. She recognized her intelligence and creativity. She gave Annie the gift of liking her. And she made more attempts than any other teacher in the district ever did to help Annie develop ways to organize and complete tasks.

Mrs. McDonald holds kids to high standards, but she gives them the tools to meet the challenges. A rather dignified person, she gives and earns respect.

Kurt Vonnegut's character Elliot Rosewater prepared a baptismal speech for his neigbor's twins about to embark on learning life. Its final, most important, lesson is one these teachers taught and modeled well:

Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies -- 'God damn it, you've got to be kind.'

Happy birthday babies; happy retirement ladies.

“Ma?”

“What?”

“Um, are you watching American Idol?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it with you moms?”

“Huh?”

“All the moms in Tosa. They’re watching American Idol. Matt’s mom’s watching American Idol. Berto’s mom’s watching it. You guys are strange. Is that Sanjaya dude still on?”

Apparently my son does not like American Idol. Instead, he likes to blast to blithereens, a word I’m inventing for the occasion, big hulky bad guys (I assume they are bad guys) who race incessantly along stone ramparts planting bombs, blowing people up and being blown up, and such. I ask him the name of the game: he refuses to fess up.

“You’ll just make a fool of yourself, Mom.”

Well, dur. “I do that every day, George. It’s my job.”

“Why do you like it?” The question is sincere.

I like American Idol because it’s about hope and striving, getting better, and there’s a triumph at the end. The American Dream. Never mind all the tears along the way: that’s life.

There's lots of silliness too, of course, and not very believable intrigue, and really bad singing along with the good. And there's the compelling puzzle of the odd taste of American voters.

I like it because of three amazing young women, all in two digit dress sizes, with voices to raise you to heaven. And a handful of forgettable but sort of sweet guys who’d never show up in video games.

“Why do you like that?” I ask of the video game violence.

“Cause I’m an American boy,” he replied, on his way out the door to the Y.

“But you’re grounded,” I yell. There's a mountain of clothing in his bedroom to be climbed--or an entrepreneurial sister to be bribed to do it for him--before he can have a life again.

“You won’t keep me from getting exercise, though,” said Geo. “You’re an American mom.”

He had me there.

Besides not at Mayfair Mall, that is.

Chances are they are in my basement, with their computers, using language I'll ignore, and having a ball.

There's a LAN party going on. I'm not sure what that means, but ominous computer noises are burbling up from the underground, along with giggles and silences and bursts of laughter, then more of the language I'm busy ignoring.

Idgy keeps going down to see what's happening. She can't quite believe that there are all those boys down there, and none of them are throwing balls or doing anything she'd consider appropriate or remotely interesting.

My job as I understand it is to keep the pizza and chocolate chip cookies moving from oven to basement.

The girls have fled. I'm sure that I'll wish I could, too, when 2 am rolls around and the burbling and outbursts are still going on. I told the girls that the guys in the basement are the guys they'll be interested in ten years from now, which piece of bizarre opinion was met with the eye roll and wrinkled upper lip of teengirl disbelief.

Men. You can't understand 'em, but there's something awfully cute about their odd ways.