Reader. Writer. Thinker. Homeschooler. Insomniac.
RegularDad: Who wants more meatloaf?
10-year-old: Me!
7-year-old: Me!
RegularDad: What about you hon? You want another?
Me: No. I’m good. I’ve got a big hunk right here still.
7-year-old: No fair! How come you got the big hunk?
Me, chuckling telepathically to RegularDad, who’s sitting at the other end of the table, slightly red and smiling Real Big: Oh honey, let me tell you… because a long time ago, I was THAT HOT.
Conversation before turning out the light:
RegularDad: Ya know what I’ve always wondered? How’d they decide on six million dollars? Like: why not the Four Million Dollar Man, or the Ten Million Dollar Man? Why six?
Me: I dunno. I guess it seemed like a lot of money back then.
RegularDad: Yeah, I guess. And you know what else bugs me?
Me: What?
RegularDad: They rebuilt his legs with bionics. And his arm. And his eye. So he could jump from the top of a ten story building and land without breaking his legs, right? But imagine the spinal compression factor. A jump like that would have compressed his non-bionic spine and just paralyzed him right there. It’d be like: ded-ded-ded-ded-ded-ded-ded-ded-CRUNCH!
Me, laughing: Uh-huh.
RegularDad: And imagine this: he picks up a car with his bionic arm… but the connective tissue in his shoulder isn’t bionic, so wouldn’t the arm just rip right off him and be stuck to the car he just tried to lift?
Me: I guess so. You’d think they’d have budgeted for those kind of issues.
RegularDad: Yeah, but they only had six million dollars, and I guess the money they could have spent on that went to providing the sound effect of when he was looking through his bionic eye, so there you have it. What a waste. Who needs to listen to THAT all day long? So, again, why not seven million dollars?
Me: I wonder what that would amount to in today’s economy, factoring in inflation? It’d be something like the 97 Trillion Dollar Man! And we’d pay to watch it, too.
RegularDad: Yeah, today the Six Million Dollar Man would be some dude with knee problems and an HMO.
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This post will only make sense to people over a certain age, I suppose. People who were watching network television in the 1970′s will totally understand this. People who are significantly younger will probably not. It’s only fitting, perhaps, that the Beloit Mindset List has been released for the class of 2014. I’ve always loved these lists. They’re my way at looking at aging while keeping a big smile on my face.
For those who want to know what my post is talking about, and for those who just want to see it again, here ya go:
We’re eating popcorn and apples and grapes, and going over the review questions outlined in the Story of the World, volume 3, by Susan Wise Bauer. We’re on Chapter 19, in which India collapses due to a string of weak emperors, and in which the English subsequently take control of the country, via the East India Company’s hired armies.
Me: Who decided to send an army against Siraj and the Indians of Bengal?
6-year-old: Um… the… um… the…
9-year-old: The traders?
6-year-old: HEY! I WAS GONNA SAY THAT!
Me (quietly): That’s okay… calm down… do you remember the name of the traders?
Silence. Blank stares. My 9-year-old flips her coloring page over to start doodling on the back of it.
Me: The East India Company…. Think for a second how weird that is. What if Wal-Mart got mad because we never shop there and hired an army to attack us?
They both start giggling.
Me: And who led the army of the East India Company?
9-year-old: Um…(flips her coloring picture back over to read the caption at the bottom)…Robert Clive.
Me: And after the battle, Mir Jafar became the new nawab of Bengal. But what happened when he didn’t do what the people of the East India Company wanted him to do?
9-year-old: They sent another army and attacked him.
Me: That’s right. And then what laws did the people of Bengal start to follow?
6-year-old: Ummm…. No hitting?
More giggles all around.
Me, trying not to laugh too much: No… not that kind of laws. Bengal wasn’t exactly a “no-hitting” city.
6-year-old, all excited, because this time she’s surely GOT THE ANSWER: No pinching?!?
Thus ends our history lesson for the day.
6-year-old: Kerry was totally doing it again at karate tonight.
RegularDad: Doing what?
6-year-old: Touching me. She does that all the time. She just follows me around and touches me. Ugh!
8-year-old: Well, she had a really rough day today, you know.
6-year-old: She did?
8-year-old: Yeah. I heard her mom telling all the other moms that at daycamp today, Kerry’s teacher made everyone practice letters ALL DAY LONG just because one of the parents complained that the kids were playing instead of getting ready for the school year.
6-year-old: No WAY! All day long? Practicing letters?
8-year-old: Well, sometimes they’d take a break and paint for a while, but then they’d have to go back to practicing letters for, like, 8 whole hours.
6-year-old: EIGHT WHOLE HOURS????????
RegularDad: That can’t be right.
Me, from the kitchen: No, she’s got it right. At least that what her mom told us.
8-year-old: Anyway. So maybe that’s why she was touching you. She had a hard day.
6-year-old: Well, I still don’t like it. I tell her again and again, ‘Please stop touching me,’ but she just keeps on doing it.
RegularDad: How old is she?
6-year-old: Four.
RegularDad: Four? Oh, well now, it’s pretty common for someone who’s four to not listen to you when you ask them not to do something. You’ll just have to keep repeating yourself.
6-year-old, from the lofty heights of maturity: Yeah, four is pretty young, I guess.
8-year-old, in a completely genuine tone of cheerful matter-of-factness: That’s really true. You know, when you were four, you didn’t listen at all. In fact… you still don’t.
As dinner winds to a close:
8-year-old: Mom, when do you think we’ll be able to take a trip to Egypt?
Me: Um, I don’t know. I’m not sure we’ll ever get to go to Egypt, much as I’d like to.
8-year-old: So, you think maybe it’ll be in 10 years?
Me: No. I don’t know. Like I just said –
8-year-old: Or maybe 5 years?
Me: Look–
8-year-old: Do you think it’ll be more than 5 years or less than 5 years? Do you think we could invite Grandma to come with us? When would—
Me: Okay. It’s now 6:15 in the evening. I have been answering questions since 6:15 this morning. I am now officially closed to any new questions. I am unable to answer any more questions until tomorrow morning.
8-year-old: Seriously?
Me: I can’t answer that. It’s a question.
RegularDad: Hey, I saw on the way home that the new ’09 Corvettes are on the lot now. Mind if I drive over and pick one up?
Me: I can’t answer that. It’s a question.
RegularDad: Okay. Since you didn’t answer, I’m gonna assume that’s a yes. Thanks!
Me: Nice try.
5-year-old: Hey Mom. Would it be all right if instead of finishing all these peas and my salad I just go get a piece of chocolate and have that instead?
Me: No. Eat your vegetables.
5-year-old: Ha-ha! MOM!!!!! You answered a question!!! Ha! HA! HA!
I just stare at her until she starts fiddling with her salad again.
5-year-old: Mom, I wasn’t really asking for chocolate, you know. I just wanted to make you say something you said you wouldn’t say.
Me: So, making me say something I don’t want to is better than chocolate?
5-year-old: Oh, yeah.
20 MINUTES BEFORE BEDTIME:
5-year-old: Mom, can I watch TV?
Me, loading the dishwasher: No.
5-year-old: Well, what am I supposed to do until bedtime, then?
Me, impatiently: I don’t know. Go in the living room and meditate or something until I’m ready to read you a story.
5-year-old: Meditate? What’s that?
Me: You know, like Master Shifu in Kung Fu Panda… “inner peace… inner peace…”
5-year-old, suddenly lifted to penultimate heights of excitement: OKAY!!!
She then runs into the living room and sits down in a lotus position and starts chanting inner peace… inner peace… over and over again, while I congratulate myself on not only handling that conversation so well, but on finding an activity for her that might possibily help soothe her turbulent 5-year-old soul, and not to mention the fact that it might come in handy on those nights when I just need an extra 15 minutes or so before I sit down to read to her.
15 MINUTES LATER:
Me, finished with the dishes: Okay… it’s time to pick out a story book.
5-year-old: WHAT??? NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
Shen then jumps up from her lotus position and begins stamping her feet in the throes of an escalating tantrum and pretty soon she’s practically throwing herself to the floor and screaming the entire time:
I WANT TO KEEP INNER-PEACE-ING!!!!! I WANT TO KEEP INNER-PEACE-ING!!!!!!! I WANT TO KEEP INNER-PEACE-ING!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And the Buddha wept.
So much for those extra 15 minutes.
CONVERSATION BEFORE I WENT OUT TO THE STORE:
RegularDad: Here ya go. It looks like something official.
Me, opening the envelope: Ooooh, goody. It’s my voter registration card.
RegularDad, who just discovered two days earlier that he is not registered to vote: Yeah. Goody.
Me: Sorry, hon.
RegularDad: What do you care? We’d just cancel each other out anyway.
Me: Not this year. You said you weren’t voting for McCain.
RegularDad: Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I was gonna vote for Obama, you know.
Me: Really? You weren’t?
RegularDad: Nope. Don’t like him either. I was gonna vote for anyone else.
Me: Oh.
RegularDad: You shouldn’t vote. That way it’ll be like we cancelled each other out, like usual.
Me: Nice try.
CONVERSATION AFTER I GOT BACK FROM THE STORE:
Me, glancing at the table where I thought I left my voter registration card, and seeing only the empty envelope: Hey, where’s my voter registration card?
RegularDad: Whaddaya mean? You lost it already?
Me, looking pointedly at him: You know, hon, I don’t NEED to show them that card when I go vote. You do know that, don’t you?
RegularDad: You don’t?
Me: Nope.
RegularDad: Oh, well, in that case, your card’s in the kitchen. You left it on top of the crock pot.
Me, calling from the kitchen: Hey! How do you all want your sandwiches cut?
5-year-old: The Great Pyramids, please!
8-year-old: Triangles…but big, like yesterday.
RegularDad: Two trapezoids and a rhombus!
8-year-old: Da-ad!
RegularDad: Just kidding. I’ll have an ellipse with an eccentricity of 0.8.
5-year-old: Da-ad!
8-year-old: Mom! Dad’s making up words again!
RegularDad: Am not! You know what an oval is, right? An oval is an ellipse. And an ellipse is a circle with an eccentricity that’s equal to zero.
8-year-old: Well…okay. But Mom won’t cut sandwiches into circles, you know. She says it’s a waste.
RegularDad: Oh, well. Okay. Gimmee a dozen rectangles, then.
Me: Rectangles it is…wait–what??? You can’t have 12 rectangles. I’m just gonna cut this thing in half for you, okay? And sweetie (glancing at my 8-year-old), those were real words. When you’re in high school in a few years and doing higher math, those words will make sense.
8-year-old: Yeah, but you still won’t be able to eat them for lunch.
We’re rolling along a NJ county road caught behind a loooong line of cars. We’re doing exactly 5 miles under the speed limit because the car way at the front of the line is being piloted by the World’s Most Cautious Driver EVER. We’ve got about 17 more miles to go before we can exit this road, and it doesn’t look like that cautious dude up front is planning on pulling over any time soon. In the back of the van, the girls have started on what I believe is about the 92nd verse of “The Poopy Song.” Did you know that the 92nd verse is the same as the first? Do I have to tell you that all other previous verses were also hauntingly familiar to that infamous first verse?
I glance over at RegularDad and see his shoulders squared, his jaw set. He breathes a little teeny sigh and keeps on staring at the line of cars ahead of us.
Me: I read recently, on some message board or other, that if you pray for patience, you don’t just suddenly get this Whopping Butt-Load Of Patience. What you get instead, is opportunity after opportunity after oppotunity to Practice Being Patient.
Behind us, the girls are belting out yet another verse of the ever-popular Poopy Song. The crawl of cars in front of us slows down even more.
Me: You…haven’t been praying for patience recently, have you?
RegularDad: Huh-uh. Not me. No way…. Have you?
Me: Nope. Me neither.
Waiting in traffic at the NJ turnpike toll exit, my 8-year-old spied a car pulled over to the side of the road, loaded with a family of people, luggage piled high on the top of the car. Next to the car, a man spoke urgently on a cell phone.
8-year-old: Huh. I wonder what they’re doing.
Me: Looks like they broke down. Bummer. I can’t imagine a worse place to break down than the toll area of the turnpike. (Brief silent pause.) Well, actually, I guess it’s better to break down here than somewhere in the middle of nowhere. (Another brief silent pause.) Well, actually, with cell phones, I guess it wouldn’t matter if you were in the middle of—
RegularDad (with a wink and a knowing grin): Oh, well, gee… I guess a flip-flopper like yourself would vote for Obama after all, wouldn’t ya?
Doing my part to show the world that the home- schooling community is more than just a bunch of crazy fundamentalists. There's plain old regular crazy people who homeschool, too. Like me.
Email me:
regular_mom at yahoo dot com
