Game Playing

Picture a sobbing 8 year old boy. Sick with strep and a fever. Head thrown back, wailing. Tonsils bulging. Reddened eyes watering. Reddened nose running.

Mama: "Baby, what's wrong?"

Little C: "Miss M cheated on me!!"

Mama: "Is she seeing another brother?"

Little C: "What? No. We were playing a guessing game and she cheated!"

Mama: "It's all a guessing game, baby."

might have Earned My Stripes with this one

So, this title thing I have given myself? Alpha? If you look back far enough on here you'll see it really is only about my familial rank and not about comparing myself to other mothers. That might change as of this week.

This week I have stumbled upon perhaps my most brilliant parenting maneuver of all time. It leaves the bald-spot incident in the dust. What? Didn't I tell you that one? Well...here it is. Little C purposefully stuck his gum in Big C's hair recently. It was so smashed in there I had to cut it out. THEN I cut a matching bald spot in Little C's hair just to make sure everything was "equal" which is what they were arguing about in the first place. Sharp, huh?

But this week? This week I have invented a move. Like gymnasts get flippy, twisty things named after them, I think this one should be named after me: The Alpha Monkey. Its brilliance rests on the fact that the only counter-maneuver would be to deny their inner desire to be the boss of other people. An ability few children possess.

It works like this. You need your child to do something, say...get ready for bed and the multiple step in involves. If you say, "Go get ready for bed," they will end up playing green army men under their bed. If you say, "Get your jammies on, go potty, brush teeth, and wash your face," they will end up playing green army men under their bed in their underpants.

BUT....

If you say, "You get to be the boss of all the kids, how would you tell them to get ready for bed?" I can almost guarantee they will give you a fairly thorough list. Then tell them to go do it. They clearly know what is expected. They can no longer say, "I know I have been brushing my teeth since I first got them, but I did not know you meant to brush them tonight as well." Or, one of my favorites, "I did brush them....(intervening tooth check)....no, not tonight. Did you mean tonight? I meant that, technically, I have brushed them many, many times in the past. You did use the past tense, mom."

It could apply to homework as well: "What homework did your teacher give to the other kids in class today?" Then there is her list for today as well.

"How much time should it take the average kid to eat two waffles?"

"If you were a detective how would you figure out who wrote your name, in your handwriting, all over your brother's bunk bed?"

"If your brother told a lie to your mother what should his punishment be?"

Try an Alpha Monkey this weekend. Let me know how it goes.

Humans are illogical. We play with logic, like diving deep or flying, but we always have to return to our surface.

On Writing

One of my favorite interview questions people ask writers is, "What music do you listen to when you write?"

I love it for two reasons. The first is that I am fascinated by the lies people tell themselves. Not the ones they deliberately tell others. The ones they casually toss out there in a self-promoting kind of way. I mean the ones where people say, "I only ever eat protein and fruit" and they believe it so you'll believe it. But you know better because you've seen her scarf down 5/6 of her toddler's chicken nuggets while the little cherub wets himself a story and a half up in the maze of tubes. Just like you know she lied to herself when she giggled and hit his hands with gel sanitizer saying she is a serious mysophobe. If she really was phobic and not simply aware of germs, there is no way in hell she'd have suggested having a meeting at the McDonald's Playland.

Looping back, I find it hard to believe that one can craft a quality work while listening to music. Music demands my attention. I cannot come up with original thoughts when someone else's words are pouring into my ears. Maybe what they want is to be seen as someone who listens to that music. And also probably to be read by people that listen to that type of music. Which is why the writers that give the extensive, eclectic list of names crack me up the most. They want to be read by EVERYONE. Well, who doesn't, I guess? These writers who get interviewed probably do listen to the music on their list. I like to imagine someone keeping an iPod Shuffle in their pocket with their playlist just in case they ever get called on the carpet over their answer. And maybe the ideas do hit them while they listen to that playlist. But each sentence and the studious word choice and the editing? Good god, the EDITING? Are we supposed to think that this novel is something that just spilled out of them after downloading something off iTunes? Send me the link, because I'd one-click buy that thing twice.

Writing is work. It is labor intensive. It is time consuming. It requires a singular focus. I feel it in my own work and I see it in the kids I teach. I have had some of those moments where words come from within and out on to the page and I feel like the lucky little conduit. But it was a hell of a lot of work and practice to get to that space. Even harder to stay there.

Which ties into the second reason I love that interview question. I am truly intrigued by the headiness some writers attach to their craft. The routines and the settings and the exact writing utensil and only a certain font...it gets them in the mood or the zone or some level of zen. Whatever rocks your socks, my friends, but you know what I think? I think that some people need to convince themselves they are writers before they can write. Some of them produce wonderful things. But it amuses me nonetheless.

Maybe it sticks with me because I don't write like that. I need to get something rolling around in my brain for a good, long time before I know how it wants to land on the page. I guess I write to convince myself I am a writer. And I hope to, some day, produce wonderful things.

And when the interviewer asks me what music I listen to when I write I will tell the honest truth: an original composition. It is a complex layering of dishwasher, clothes dryer, barking dogs, video game chirps, and the lilt of my children's pleasure (or growling if the game goes poorly) all muffled through a closed door.

Next question.

Where do I write? Where don't I write. I am writing about you in my head right now, interviewer. About what you wish you were doing and how bummed you were when your editor sent you an email with this assignment and my name on it. (And also, I am writing the part about your interviewing me.)

Safety Warning

In all fairness, I ought to make you aware of something. You know, so we don't get 3 years into this and you suddenly realize I'm not the blogger you thought I was. You'll ditch me and run back to Alice Bradley. Ok, that's not true. She's much too busy to blog much anymore so I doubt you'll find her distance very satisfying. Though, I have to tell you, she and I have had a multi-email exchange (name dropping, yes) and she seems like a genuinely nice person. Like the kind of person that would tell you something at dinner and then blog the same thing about you later. Unlike some other people who would have a conversation with you and then you read about it on their blog where they wrote about all the things they were thinking about you during dinner but never said. Bitches. (No, wait. That's me. Not Bitches, then. Amusingly Snarky we'll call it.)

Ok. Confession: I can read naughty into almost anything. Like my new hair curler thing. It is called a 3-Barrel Jumbo Waver. Which sounds like the kind of adult novelty item that would make even my jaw drop in disbelief. Theoretically, I can only figure out what to do with 2/3 of the barrels. It doesn't help that the back says, "Larger Barrels, Faster Results." But I don't think I am the only one confused because there are more safety warnings on this thing than a b-b gun. Including: "Caution THIS PRODUCT CAN BURN EYES." Eyes, really? It is 5" long and 4" wide. But you know (as Julia from Safety Graphic Fun would say) in order for that sign to be there, someone tried to curl their lashes with it.

But what's really bad about this behavior of mine is that it is contagious. You'll start by rolling your eyes when I giggle, and soon you'll find yourself anticipating. It is just a short spiral down to participating. And then there is no controlling it. It will show up in the most unlikely conversations. Soon you'll resent me for ruining tea with the vicar. It's only a matter of time.

Actual Distress

I did something terrible this week. And I find myself processing it in a semi-Elizabeth-Kubler-Ross sort of manner. Below I have outlined the stages of

SORRY I COLORED MY DAUGHTER'S HAIR:

1. Justify it

I have done this three times before and it turned out beautifully each time.

2. Frame it

75% success rate isn't so bad considering I am not a professional.

3. Correct it

Brassy, orange highlights can certainly be fixed with a temporary Medium Natural Brown rinse.

4. Sell it

She looks GREAT with dark auburn hair. It blends well with her very dark eyes, lashes and brows.

5. Recognize it

Aw shit. That's quite red.

6. Apologize for it

I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry...

7. Pay for it

She will be missing a day of school tomorrow and we will be spending half of it at the spendy salon with a color expert to get her back to her actual natural medium brown.

8. (I don't know about this one yet, but I am hoping it involves forgiveness. I also need to point out that Miss M is not mad at me. Bless her awkwardly darkened locks. She said, "I'm smart, mom. I know that blaming you for this is not productive. I just want it fixed.")

Much Distress

These are called "Skinny Boyfriend Jeans." I won't even tell you where I found the picture because it does not matter. These are turning up all over the place. Boyfriend Jeans my booty!! The only way that size 0-1 model is wearing her boyfriend's jeans is one of the following:

1. Her boyfriend is a skinny 12 year old. Which is only ok if the model is a skinny 12 year old as well.

2. She keeps her "boyfriend" locked up in a basement somewhere where she feeds him a diet of prunes and raisins stewed in Yerba Mate while forcing him to wear tiny pants so she can sandblast them juuuust right (while he's still in them)!

3. Trying to combine two hot sellers, marketers lost sight of the best part of wearing guys jeans. And that is the fact that you can do anything in them: bend over to tie your shoes, chase your kids, sit in a chair, breathe. None of which are possible in a low-rise skinny jean.

My first pair of boyfriend jeans came to me circa 1987. We were not dating, but he was a good friend. And a tangled mess of WWF moves between a dozen or so teenagers in his basement left me half a leg short of a pair on a cold, winter night.

I'll explain...It was a time when I was experimenting with the idea of a torn out knee in a pair of button fly, faded Guess jeans. Keep in mind that a few years prior I also wore the first pair of black leggings my Middle School had ever seen. I liked to think of myself, while not actually on the edge, close enough to spit over it after a glass of orange juice. And then at Rob's house on a Saturday night some All-Star Wrestling broke out. Someone grabbed the hole in my knee and the whole thing came right off from the knee down. Rob, being quite a gentleman for a 15 year old, gave me a pair he no longer wore to get me home. Told me to keep them, even.

I didn't even miss the ruined pair. These were well-worn, classic Levi's. Oh...the best pants I ever wore. I am sad right now missing those pants. Girls used to beg me to borrow them. Really. I wore them all through high school and college. I patched the rear, stitched a pocket back on, and could count my thigh freckles right through their thinness by the time I retired them. I'll try to find you all a picture. I'm sure there are several, as I wore them all the time. Hell, I could probably dig up the actual Levi's in my house somewhere. There's little chance I would ever have throw them away.

These days I have a pair of Joe's Jeans in the Ex-Lover cut. They went to all the trouble of breaking them in for me, just like Rob did. But it's not the same. Nothing could ever come close to an authentic, time- and boy-worn pair.

lightbulb moment

One day, I realized if I stopped taking good care of the games and toys around here and stopped expecting my kids to, then more of them would break or lose pieces. This exact thing I was fearing, suddenly brightened my day because it occurred to me that IF they were broken and incomplete I could throw them away without an argument.

And now I share it with you all. Use it well.

English Teacher to the Stars

I may have found the job I'd like! But, like cuddling baby apes, I don't know if anyone is hiring. On the upside, it appears no one is doing it. And there is a real need for it. By all accounts I'm hitting on a real growth opportunity here.

Thinking of how to build a resume, I am going to come up with some brief, little lesson plans based on current songs. For example:

If the Far East Movement had handed me the lyrics to the song "Rocketeer" I would have handed them back all marked up with red pen. And then lectured them on the topic of cliche.

Don't get me wrong. I really like the song. And I sing along all happy up to the point where they say:

I'm like, oh,oh,oh,oh.

Hey, guys, a simile actually needs to make a comparison in order to make any sense at all. This one? It's like lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy. Good try for a first draft. But you have more to give than this. Rework and resubmit by Friday.

a matter of syntax

'Sup, B. o. B.! Thought I'd tell you how much I like your song, Magic. Especially the way I can just make a noise with my tongue sticking out and (as long as I am in tune) I sound just like you! You have some mad skillz there, B. o. B..

I like your song so much I am going to put it on my lawnmower mix. What is a lawnmower mix, you ask? Well, it is only my favorite mix on my iPod. It is the one I play when I mow the yard on my John Deere riding lawnmower. It is comprised of songs that I like to sing really loud. Also, they have to be fast because I speed like a demon, setting the knob-thingy on the Rabbit Setting. Even on the corners, baby. I'm mad like that.

Yes, my neighbors do smile along. They laugh and slow down to make the moment last. Which just demonstrates the power of your music. Especially since they can't even hear it.

Which makes me wonder if you or Pink or Barry Manilow had any inkling while writing your music that a doughy, short mama in the Midwest would be singing along at the top of her lungs, not caring if she gets a bug or a bit of grass in her mouth because your music is just so fun. Well, yes, Barry kind of counts on it. Good point. What? Totally! John Mayer too. That's funny. But he's not on my playlist.

In addition to the praise, I have two points I'd like to make:

1. With your odd acronym, it makes it difficult to follow conventional grammar rules when addressing you in writing. Do I leave the period and add a comma or exclamation? Leaving it off didn't seem right. Likewise at the end of a sentence. Please advise.

2. At my house, when I'm snapping at Moose, he doesn't seem as happy about it as you are when girls are snapping at you. Maybe I'm not doing it right. I'd welcome any advice.

Thanks, B. o. B., I appreciate your time.

Hey, Lorraine:

My daughter told me a joke the other day she thought was funny and insisted I tell it to you. But it isn't so I won't. However, the punch line is this:

"I can see Clearly now, Lorraine is gone..."

She thought you'd love a joke with your name in it. I didn't want to tell her that jokes about adultery and uxoricide are not funny unless you're the office whore. And I also didn't want to lie about singing the ending to you since she reminds me every day.

So here, with love from Miss M and apologies from me :)

Look Look!

Alberta Feretti has designed the slutty Halloween costume version of Carol Burnett's Gone With the Wind curtain-gown!!!

Dear World,

When did we all become muffin-haters? I am guilty as well. I just pulled a chocolate, chocolate-chip muffin into two parts and sneered at the top of it. I'm not kidding. I gave it a dirty look and cast it aside.

Ok, so my question is a bit disingenuous. I know when. So do you. It happened at the intersect of low-rise jeans and high-protein diets.

But I would like to go on the record as being the woman to remind us all that the muffin top is the tastiest part :)

The morning after

Can I start by saying I hate Daylight Savings Time? Also, I think we are angering the sun god by messing with her schedule and we shouldn't make her angry. You don't want to see her when she gets angry.

It should feel like any other morning...only early...but it doesn't. Things like this always happen:

Mama: What is THIS?!!

Little C: (waking an hour early from a deep sleep) huuuuhh?

Mama: It is GUM! On your BED!

Little C: I need that! I am testing it!

Mama: Oh, no. "Does my chewing gum lose its flavor on the bedpost overnight?" is not a valid hypothesis you are going to run through the Scientific Method.

Little C: Why not!?

Mama: Because even if you were able to acquire some product to re-test in the next 10 years, replicating the results is cost prohibitive!

Little C: What?

Mama: What I said was you will not have gum for a long time and when you do, if you try this again, you will pay dearly. Now get downstairs and eat your breakfast!

do you play?

This Words With Friends game...do you play? I do. Generally I do quite well. But I am pretty stuck on this one game. I have come up with an unusually high number of words that don't qualify according to their dictionary.

The Game must be very tired of apologizing to me for it: "Sorry, that is not an acceptable word."

Especially since it really is all my fault.

I wonder if she sits there, in sleep mode, alert but with her eyes closed, just dreading the touch of my cold fingers. Oh, she'll light up. She always does. But her heart won't be in it.

She should have listened to her motherboard and never gotten involved with me in the first place.

take light-years off your figure

I am kind of fascinated by mannequins. I love how they started out trying to look human and now they look like aliens. Even more, I find it psychologically intriguing that they started out trying to look human and now many humans try to look like them.

Which, if I have my logic correct, means we are trying to look like aliens. No thanks. Not for me. I am too short and too curvy to try for that shit. Maybe I could try and look like the alien mothership. That's a goal well within in my reach...and not far from it, either. I am going to put that on my calendar for June.

To serve my circum-40 peer group, I have come up with an idea to help those who maybe are interested in cultivating that mannequin look. It can start with something as simple as nipples. I don't know when they grew them, but they have them. The closest I can pin it on the fashion timeline is within the last 10 years. I suspect it has something to do with the late shift at the torso-molding facility and a couple of co-workers who give the job about 40% of their time and the other 60% to their porn/pot habits.

Specifically we are considering size and placement. Although I live in a cold climate, I am far too interested in staying warm to sacrifice comfort for naturally reproducing the mannequinesqe breast. The solution is easy and cheap. It could even be FREE if you know someone with a toddler.

Cheerios.

Yep. Cheerios. Honey Nut Cheerios seem to work the best for two reasons. First, once you start to perspire a little they stick in place. Secondly, that coating makes them a bit more durable. You can just slip one in each cup wherever you'd like them. Higher. Lower. I guess it depends on which department you shop in. If Young Miss is your ideal, I'd say start higher.

My 3 Favorite Sports:

Mama's little brood of heathens are excited for the Peeps Season Opener tonight!

Starting it right with the chocolate covered duckies. Rounding it out with the classic pink bunnies. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. Peeps without end. Amen.

My only complaint is it coincides with Cadbury Cream Egg Season as well as the Mini Egg Minor League games. And the Reese's Peanut Butter Egg Tournament (which now come in a smaller, 90 calorie size...did you know this?!!).

7 Things No One Else Would Tell You About Me:

I don't win things anymore. I used to. But that was when I actually competed in things. So imagine my surprise when Laurie over at Worn Ragged gave me a Blog Award!! Since I love her dearly and we have become honest-to-goodness friends of the deepest sort, it feels a little like getting a World's Greatest Mom mug from your child. I mean, how could she make that list and not put me on it!? She knows I'd read it. So I think she is just being nice. But I like that about her.

Also, I think the award is like a blog-to-blog version of that slumber party staple, Telephone. See, it is called "Stylish Blogger Award." The meaning of which has been molested in some horrid way that the following graphic is even allowed on my blog!

I write about many things. Style is not really one of them. But I guess I have a writing style. I write in a regular voice in a style-like way. My posts are stylish in the way that they all sound a bit the same. Whew! Was worried about justifying that one for a minute! Pulled it off though.

In order to accept it, I have to do four things. There's that slumber party again.

Thing The First: tell you all 7 things about me no one else would.

1. I can do two, count them TWO, gross things with my eyeballs. I can make them bounce left to right like a Newton's Cradle AND I can blow bubbles out of my tear ducts. Sometimes the right one even makes a high pitched noise but since I have no control over that I don't count it.

2. This summer I had a hysterectomy due to some crazy-ass mass thing growing in my abdomen. It was the size of a 4 month pregnancy and because it was so abnormally huge the surgeon is writing a paper about how he got it all out with the help of a robot. Kind of cool. Only, the thing that still freaks me out (I stay awake thinking about it) is I still have one ovary...so where are the eggs going every month?

3. My navel is not centered left to right. And since I have an OCD thing about lining things up it is a source of much vexation. And possibly the source of the lining things up compulsion.

4. In High School a friend and I caught a nun stealing chocolates donated to the Senior Citizen's Home for their May Baskets. It was a strange time and I was very confused about who to tell and ended up telling no one. A different friend had nick-named her Sister Mary Godiva and the sneaky old bat passed away just this month. Ok...SO I tell that one all the time. I guess I need a new number 4.

4 real #4. My babies all had very clean ears and noses but icky navels. Relating to number 3...I hate navels. Mine the most, but anyone else's too. Just ish!! I have a friend whose husband is a goldsmith. When their baby's navel-jerkey fell off, they saved it and he cast it in gold which she wears on a necklace. You might just think it is a gold nugget if you saw it. And if just reading that makes you wretch a bit, imagine trying to have coffee with her when she wears a v-neck tee. You'll never look at a gold nugget the same way again. You will forever be wondering what did the goldsmith sneak inside of that thing? And now I won't be suffering this particular anxiety alone.

5. I just asked Moose (my husband) for an idea for number 5. He asked if this was a list of things no one else would or could tell you about me. Because if it is could he thinks I ought to fill you all in about my Passive Aggressive Nature. WHAT?! Guess that ought to have gone in column 3, the should column. As in he should not have even said that to me and if he was going to anyway he should have saved it until after Valentine's Day. No chocolate anything for him tomorrow that's for damn sure! (See that right there? Exhibit A which sort of proves his point. But screw him...more chocolate for me! Besides, the other option is just plain old Aggression and I suspect he'd like that one even less.)

6. Ok, here's one even Moose does not know: I cry every day. Usually more than once.

7. I started calling myself a writer because I do write things. Many of which are not this blog or the Baking and Taxidermy one I share with Laurie. Two of which are actually unedited novels one is a screenplay plus many short stories some poetry and my new love: flash fiction. And I did it after hearing Kate DiCamillo speak about how she wore black turtlenecks and called herself a writer long before she actually wrote/published anything. And, finally, she thought she had better write something or call herself something else. So she wrote. Sitting two rows from her and hearing her say those words rang like a gong inside of my chest. And every time I call myself a writer I can feel it echo still. So I kind of want to thank her. I'd love to invite her to the dog park with me and my dogs (because, if you don't know this about her, she loves other people's dogs) and then have her over for soup (because she also loves other people's soup and I am a fantastic cook). But I think that might be crossing a line in a stalker kind of way. Because I know if a stranger wrote to me and asked me to meet them in a wooded area with their dogs and then back to their house where a giant boiling pot was waiting I'd think twice about it too. But I am a huge fan of hers and would like to find a way to thank her, but not in a stalker kind of way. So maybe I'll just leave the soup on her front step.

Thing the Second: I get to nominate 6 other bloggers.

1. My cousin Jen at Cricket and Pip. She's a hoot and love her like the sister I always wanted. (Cross your fingers my actual sister does not read this. But then again, it's not like she doesn't know it too.) Also, Jen is the one who told me to blog. And I always listen to her.

2. My hairdresser Amy. For 2 reasons. 1, she is actually STYLISH! And 2, she is also very, very brave making a bold move at an amazing but stressful time in her life. I don't know if our relationship status technically allows me to be proud of her, but I am impressed by her, that's for sure!

3. For Scott who I have known since 7th grade. Yes, a guy! Let's see you make a foley and a feeding tube look so cool. The posts are not so frequent, but every word he writes is a gift.

4. Miss Julia!! Which reminds me, as soon as I find the connector to hook my camera to my computer I have a picture of something in my pants to send her. Cool it! It is a safety notice printed on the waistband of a pair of yoga pants. Click the link and it will make more sense.

5. For Winona over Here because she hardly ever goes over there anymore. Even though There is actually a style and fashion blog. And I totally get the blogging break, but I miss her writing quite a bit. You should all click on There and maybe we can talk her into an installment of Don't Showcha Your Chocha just for Old Times Sake.

6. And my darling Wendy B. Talk about style AND talent!! Her photos make me want more kids. Like, 7 more. Only, her pictures haven't found a way around that little I no longer have a uterus glitch.

7. Because it wouldn't be me playing along if I didn't cheat...Elena. For she is both earnest and whimsical and THAT is quite an accomplishment.

Thing the Third: contact these people.

Done.

Thing the Fourth: link back to the person who awarded you this prize.

Done. But I'll do it again because I love her so! Worn Ragged: Mommies on the Edge.

And now, for the six recipients to claim their prize of fame, glory, and the world's adoration...they simply have to repeat steps 1-4 on their own blogs. No threat of bad luck or hairy moles. You don't have to mail anyone 6 pairs of underpants or 3 recipes. It is not that kind of chain-letter, oops, I mean blog award.

don't know what you've got til it's gone...

So....

There was a comment on my earlier post today. I deleted it. And I'll tell you why.

It was anonymous and I thought it was insulting toward Moose. I thought it could have been meant in a funny way but on the off chance that Moose read it (I mean, he always reads them because I leave him voice mails telling him to read them) in a way that hurt his feelings I did not want to leave it up. I mean, really, it is not like I am swamped with so much feedback here that it would go by unnoticed in the flood of responses. I also do not get so many comments that his hide has thickened up. So I went into Alpha mode and moderated that one right out of here.

Well, it turns out....

It was not insulting. It was self-deprecating.

Oh that? That is something I can get behind! My husband recognizing a minor flaw that I didn't have to point out? Second helping of that, please!

Arrows are flying

And this time, I think one of them might have hit my son! If it was the 14th he might have been prepared to duck. But, alas, he took one right to the chest.

Spring came early to this frozen wasteland. Or at least to the fifth grade classroom. But with no outdoor recess because of the temp, what do you expect?

Big C comes home with the briefest of tidbits about which girls the boys like. He has no idea which boys the girls like because he never listens to their whispers. I think he only hears the boys because they are all loud and boisterous. And, until this morning, I thought he was on the outside of all of that. Turns out, he's on the fringe. Or maybe in it, though I am not willing to admit that to myself yet.

I'll explain.

We were having a treat of a time at the local coffee spot before school. Little C was making crumbs and Big C was making conversation about structural deficiencies in the cable system of the Brooklyn Bridge and how the designer compensated for the poor quality materials by increasing the amount of it! He did! And it is still holding up the bridge deck today. (Yes, this is how our mornings usually go...)

Until...

The cute red head from his class walked in and it was like Springtime blew in with her. He sat up straighter. Avoided eye contact. I reminded him to be polite and say hello because his natural inclination is to ignore any girl that is not Miss M. As it turned out he did not need the reminder :)

He cleared his brother's trash, wiped off the table, and got himself bundled. Then he zipped Little C's jacket for him (the small one has his arm in a sling) and helped him with his one glove. He walked right up to his classmate and said with a smile, "Hi, Miss A. See you in class!" Then he walked to the front door, held it open for a woman with her hands full and then still held it until Little C and I were through. He helped his brother into the van and buckled his seat belt for him even.

Now, he is generally a well-mannered boy. But this was turning the volume way up.

And the adorable Miss A? She was grinning from ear to ear and blushing between her freckles.

After dropping off the boys I was the one grinning and blushing. Not because my darling middle child might have a crush. But because, facing that possibility, he put his best foot forward and behaved like a gentleman. He was not goofy. He was not loud. He was not rude. And he did not throw an eraser at her (that was big when I was 11).

Instead of the typical, awkward thing...he shined!

Proud Mama, signing off....