If my husband had to tell you the one thing about me and my family that drives him the craziest, it would be that we are prone to over-analysis. Indeed, my sister and I can contemplate and discuss a simple, straightforward issue until only the smelly mane and tail of the dead horse’s carcass remain.
This morning over breakfast, as we practiced his spelling words, I said to 8. “Did you ever mention to your teacher about thattypo on the list?”
“No,” he said.
“We should probably let her know,” I suggested. “Should I e-mail her, or do you want to tell her at school?”
“I can e-mail her,” he offered simply, without looking up from his cereal. Now there was a simple solution to the whole dilemma that hadn’t occurred to me. I pulled up the teacher’s e-mail address, and using his own account, my son typed this message:
Dear Mrs. c There is a mix up in the word shepherd. From “8″
He clicked send. A few minutes later, there was this reply.
Thank You!
And there you have it.
Although, right after he clicked send, I heard him gasp a little.
“What?” I asked.
“I forgot to capitalize the -C-,” he lamented.
That’s my boy.
(If you’re interested in the poll results, voters were equally split between e-mailing the teacher and having him tell the teacher, with ‘Nerd Alert’ getting only one vote.)
Last night, I had this nightmare. It was the future. My 8 year-old son had grown. He was maybe 13 – in junior high. He was in his first spelling bee. It was round 2. They gave him his word. ”Shepherd,” said the bee-master.
“Shepherd,” my son repeated slowly. The crowd was calm, easy word, good speller, but my heart raced. My palms grew sweaty. I started to worry.
13 year-old dream-version of 8 began to spell. “S…H…E…P” he began. He looked up and to the left, he considered. “H…” he paused for too long. “A-R-D.”
NOOOOO!! I screamed and bolted up in my bed, awake and alert. It was just a dream. Spelling bees are still years in our future. I shook off this terrible nightmare, slid into my slippers and stomped down to the refrigerator. 8’s spelling list hung, guiltily, on the refrigerator. I grabbed it and the red pen on the counter, and I quickly scribbled out the offending SHEPHARD and replaced it with SHEPHERD. There. Fixed. I went back to bed and slept a dreamless sleep.
In the calm light of a new day, I need a second opinion or several. So 8’s spelling list came home with an error, a typo, one tiny little mistake. Is this really an urgent problem I need to fix? Should I e-mail the teacher? Should I shake off my Type A tendencies and just let it go?
What to do? WHAT TO DO? You can vote below.
My friend, we’ll just call her Angela, went to work yesterday wearing these shoes:
Not only are these shoes vastly different in shape, you should also note that one is a brown boot, while the other – black. Luckily, Angela was able to turn this misfortune into a tale of triumph, seizing the opportunity to run to Macy’s and buy these more appropriate – very cute shoes.
You all know I am not immune to these sorts of stress and sleep-deprivation induced moves. But, because I believe in equality, I refuse to call this phenomenon “mommy brain”. Indeed, hubs leaves the house at least twice weekly without his glasses or wallet. So what do we call this? And, please, let “Angela” know she’s not alone … tell us your best fuzzy parent brain story.
Based on the dearth of posting it might look like I pulled a Forrest Gump after the Ten Miler and just kept running. I did not.
For those who followed me, metaphorically and literally, from start to finish, I do intend to post about the running. Of course, I do intend to post about a lot of things. You know where I’m headed with all my good intentions.
In other recent news, a week or so ago I shut my eyes tight, took a deep breath and began tiptoeing around in Facebook. So far, I’m living to tell about it.
Interestingly, HLS prefers MySpace, claiming, at six years my junior, that she is “too old” for Facebook. I’m still frightened of MySpace and all its, as a friend described, “music and colors and shiny stuff.”
Dying to know – anyone else in either, and who ya got?
I freely admit there are certain things I have to have ‘just so’. Various daily routines and work issues need to be handled in a specific manner with a practical, programmatic approach. As I’ve surely mentioned, this common trait of those born under the sign of Virgo did not skip over me.
Strangely though, this kind of focus on the details does not translate to hanging pictures or shelving. Much to my Virgo husband’s dismay, I will happily pound three random holes in the wall to hang one painting without even blinking. Who has time to measure?
Kindergarten started. As if that wasn’t hard enough, now we have to contemplate whether to put the kid on the bus. I have mixed emotions, and I know every so often I tend slightly toward the cautious psychotically over-protective about these things.
Back in my day, I used to ride the schoolbus for over an hour from the sticks into town, sans incident. But, alas, it’s no longer my day. Now, we have the Internet. And, consequently, I started today with a link to this article flashing on my home page. Very Helpful.
It’s an open mic. Give me your straight up thoughts on putting the kids on the big yellow bus.
