An Apology Letter to Mrs. Chamberlin, Grade School Librarian

June 28, 2016

Dear Mrs. Chamberlin,

I am so sorry.

I'm sure there were reasons, possibly extenuating circumstances, but that's not an excuse. I do know that once I left my book outside on the patio and it rained, and we paid for that one, but I bet you had to send numerous notes home, and that wasn't right. I should have been more responsible and taken better care of my library book, but I didn't. And I should have brought you the money right away but I bet it took at least a few weeks. Before email I am certain there were notes lost, notes not delivered, notes purposely misplaced in hopes of finding the book. I know you had more important things to do than chase down an irresponsible child who had ruined a library book.

Maybe you don't remember, and quite possibly I shouldn't bring this up, but let me also apologize for routinely finding books that were not really appropriate for my grade or reading level. You know that shelf, the one that was directly across from the biography section? I loved those books, and I now realize that those books were there for children in the upper grades, and I should have waited until at least fifth grade to ask to check them out. Do you remember the time I found the book about the women suffragists; it had a black and white photograph of four women holding placards on the front, and I ran around the library showing everyone my amazing find? I think I may have been a little disruptive because you took that book away from me and stashed it behind the desk with Mrs. Osborn. I also have vague memories of sitting quietly alone for a good period of time following the suffragist book incident. I'm sorry.

I'm not making excuses here but I'm wondering if you still have those carrels, the ones that were on the floor and kind of comfortable? I ask because I know that more than once you had to remind me (and I'd guess Jim L.) to be quiet when we were in those carrels. Here's the thing, we were reading, but we were also talking, about the books. Have you read "Henry and Ribsy"? That's funny stuff. Wasn't there a story about Ribsy trying to save the garbage because he thought it was Henry's? Can you blame us for laughing? Yes, I'm certain we were too loud and I'm sorry. I bet Jim is also. You shouldn't have had to ask so many times, but you know, maybe had I been reading that suffragist book...no, we would have still found something to make us laugh.

A few years ago I found all my old report cards; my mother was holding on to them for this exact reason. Attached to my third grade report card was a receipt, signed by you, for $6.00: lost book replacement cost, received of Allyson Lang. I saved it, made a copy, and hung it on the door to the library where I now work. It's a reminder to our students that everyone looses books and that no one should feel terrible about it, accidents happen. Between you and me, accidents happen far too frequently. There are some students who make a genuine mistake (say leaving a book on the back patio when it rains) and they feel terrible about it. But there are many who say things like "I never checked that book out" or "I already returned that book" or the absolute worst, "my mom forgot to return that". Mrs. Chamberlin! Did their mother check out that book?

Libraries are such an amazing way to teach children about sharing and community and responsibility. Imagine, you allowed me to take home a book every week of my grade school life, and you trusted that I would return that book in the same condition. I know I let you down but I'm grateful that you allowed me to pay for the book and continue to check out for the next three years. Mistakes happen, thanks for understanding that.

I hope you enjoyed your job, running around in those burgundy pantsuits and pixie haircuts, trying to maintain order in that sprawling suburban school library. It was my favorite time of the week, not just because I read funny books with Jim in the carrels, but because I loved finding books in the library that I was genuinely excited to read. Did you know that I read every biography of a first lady in the library? Every one. Abigail Adams was my favorite, still is, followed closely by Eleanor Roosevelt. On the table next to my bed is the new biography of Louisa Adams, wife of John Quincy. I'll finish it this summer, and I bet I'll think of you and the tall shelf in the far corner, where you kept your biographies, when I do.

My apologies for all the time you spent chasing after me and my books. I'd like to say it was childhood exuberance, and that may have been a factor, but there was also childhood irresponsibility in play. I should have returned my books on time and paid quickly for those left in the rain, I've learned my lesson.

Thanks Mrs. Chamberlin, I really loved library.

Your former student,

Allyson Lang

Fifth Grade, Better Now Than Then

On the first day of fifth grade, in my new upper grade classroom (about which I was most excited), I eagerly waited to hear my name as Gwendolyn Winans called out names from her class roster.

"Lang, Allyson? Allyson?", impatiently asked, as she peered over her glasses, scanning the room.

From my desk I waived my hand wildly, having always been a child who liked to have her name called, being just self important enough to think I had something interesting to say.

"Allyson? Oh there you are. Hmm. I hear you're a trouble maker", and she moved on, to the next on her list.

Apparently my reputation as having something to say arrived in the classroom before I did. I was always a talker but rarely a trouble maker, and I was soundly defeated on my first day of school. Fifth grade was not the best year of my young education.

My daughters walked into the first day of fifth grade today, to a new classroom and a new teacher and a new set of classmates. I am confident that their first day will be more successful than mine was, although one of them is quite a talker.

Have a wonderful day girls, and stay away from teachers who peg you as trouble before you have a chance to speak.

"Say Cheese!"

It's picture day at school today which means that I asked my children to each bathe last night.

"We BOTH need to shower? Come on!"

Sadly what passes as clean for one does not translate to the other, no matter how close you are. Yes my dears, it's not much but I thought being clean might be a good start.

"Mom, they are not taking a picture of all of me, just my head. No one will know if my feet are dirty".

The joy of having raised logical and exceedingly bright children, their ability to poke holes in every sort of solid argument I put forth.

"Nor are they scratch and sniff photos, you will not be sharing any of your odors with your classmates for eternity, just yesterday and tomorrow, but today, you shower. Clean hair, clean faces, a good start to every day".

The water was turned on, the racing of children, completely naked, down the hall commenced, and, once soaked, the serenading (last night a mix of Train and Julie Andrews), began. Shower night was officially underway.

It's possible that the best thing that can be said about my fourth grade picture was that I was clean.  My well scrubbed and freckled face appeared on top of a blue plaid blouse, one with a small ruffle near the top, one my mother loved. My mousy brown hair, cut just above my shoulders, was brushed before school and hung, as it always did, straight and shaggy around my head. This was as good as it was going to get, and then Someone Else's Mother appeared. She waved her plastic comb at my head, the same one she had used to tame the tresses of every child photographed before me.

"Oh dear, what have we here? Shall we try and flip it up? Or maybe comb it back this way, to feather it away from your little face?.

Lady, I'm nine. In a few short years everything you are saying is going to be intensely important to me but right now, I'm nine and my hair is straight and brown and clean. I'm pretty sure the eggs that stuck to my chin after breakfast were removed when my father scrubbed me with the belt of his trench coat and that my shirt, while pretty ugly, is crisp enough to be presentable. And that is how this is going to look for years to come, clean and crisp, but not feathered.

She smiled, I ducked, but the plastic comb with the disease laden teeth made their way to my head. 

"Allyson, what happened to your hair?', weeks later, as my mother opened the envelope of pictures. There it was, the work of Someone Else's Mother, a large clump of hair sticking straight out from my left ear, somewhat feathered, completely ridiculous.

It used to be that the girls chose matching outfits for picture day, hoping to appear on Facebook twenty years from now, via a scanned yearbook photo, as twins. Last night Mary began pulling out dresses, offering choices for both that were coordinated if not matching.

"No, no, not that one, doesn't fit, hate that one, yuck, no, spilled toothpaste on it, really Mary?", said Kate.

"Can't I just wear jeans?", and the answer was yes, of course, as long as you wear something nice on top. Her Kansas City Royals t-shirt was deemed not nice, or not nice enough. She fussed her way through her entire wardrobe, finally deciding on a lovely navy dress with a simple collar, a perfect choice for picture day.

Of course all that fussing matters not at all when you find that a pre-bed shower means that you went to sleep with not entirely dry hair, resulting in what can best be described as Flock of Seagulls on one side, matted mess on the other.

"MOM!", wild laughter from the bathroom, as they both crowded in front of the mirror to get a glimpse of Kate's hair.

We squirted it with the water bottle, brushed it back and slid on a headband. No amount of feathering could repair this damage, it was the beautiful smile and clean face that was saving this school photo.

Several weeks from now, when the big envelopes come home, we'll see the results of wardrobe mania, flying hair, and yes, a bath. Several years from now we'll deal with concerns over hair styles, pimples, and clothing beyond what fits and is not covered in toothpaste. And I am certain I will long for the days when being clean was the biggest hurdle and comfort and coordination were the biggest goals.



Bedhead, a truly funny book about waking up with hair that finds it's own way, and of course, school pictures. By Margie Palatini, available here.

Traveling through My History

It was not the answer I expected, not from my pragmatic and history obsessed child. Kate was asked  "where would you go if you could travel in time?" and I so smugly thought that I knew the answer. Kate would find a seat in the corner of Independence Hall and watch the signing of the Declaration, or she would stand in the crowd when Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address.

I was wrong. Kate, who usually chooses to think with her mind rather than her heart, answered immediately. Forgoing a chance to ride on the back of Paul Revere's horse as he made his way from  Boston to Lexington, Kate opted instead for a seat in Mrs. Grow's fourth grade class, at a desk near mine. "I would go back to when you were my age Mom, and I would be your best friend".

From time to time my girls say things that actually make me stop, breathe and realize that at the end of the day they are becoming just the kind of people that I really hoped they would. They are becoming the kind of people I would like to have as friends.

Unfortunately I can't offer you a seat at the next desk but I can introduce you to someone who made fourth grade my favorite place to be: my partner in too much talking, too little working, and hours of laughter, testing the sanity of our poor teacher.

I'd happily give up my seat in Independence Hall to find a friend like Jim for Mary and Kate.

All They Wrote, Plus Bibliography

Jupiter is the largest planet, Mercury is closest to the sun. Jupiter has a big red spot, Mercury is the fastest moving in the solar system. Two children, two research projects, two planets no longer lost to me in the world of knowledge known as outer space. Second grade snuck up on me, I thought we had few years before I would have to turn to the World Book and Google to answer questions. "Mom, what's seven times four?", I know that. "Mommy...how do you spell calendar?", done, right from the top of my head. But temperature range and atmospheric conditions on Mercury? Not found in the storage space above my shoulders.

It was Mrs. Jean Hardy, in sixth grade, who assigned to me the most difficult and complex paper I ever completed in all my years of schooling: a research paper, with bibliography and presentation, on Gothic architecture. Hours of fact finding, days spent huddled over the encyclopedia at my grandparent's house, library time that included actual studying, thousands of one sentence facts scribbled onto lined sheets of notebook paper, all to be cut into strips and reassembled into a coherent and well thought out paper. "Don't forget the endnotes" said Mrs. Jean Hardy, who thought that perhaps, in sixth grade, we all had some idea what an endnote might be. It was a horrible and grueling process, one that scarred me and left me determined to never again surrender to the painful and sleep robbing task of writing a research paper. That was sixth grade, this is now.

Granted, assisting in the completion of two reports for a second grade class was a bit less taxing than being the primary writer of seven pages of flying buttresses and finials, but none less stressful. As I sit here tonight, surrounded by completed papers, bibliographies and visual aides, I know with confidence that I will be startled awake around 3:00 am, the victim of the dreaded "I Slept Through A Semester Final Exam" dream.

Thank you to Mary, Kate, their second grade teacher and of course, Mrs. Jean Hardy for tonight's restless slumber. Yawn.

Genuine thanks to Mrs. Hardy who taught me to diagram sentences, prepare and present an informative speech, and work very hard for an A. She was one of the best teachers I have ever had and I am still grateful for her critical eye, high standards and willingness to reward good work.

Appreciative, Then and Now

There are those who subscribe to the commonly held belief that cooks don't bake, and bakers don't cook. I am a believer, and in that I consider myself a decent cook, good not great, it follows then that I don't bake, or at least I shouldn't. But Monday night I was up late, buried in a lemon blueberry bundt cake, elbows deep into a cinnamon crumble coffee cake, chopping pineapple and cutting strawberries, way past my bedtime. Tuesday was the Teacher Appreciation breakfast at school, for reasons unknown I was left in charge of the bakers.

Aside from my want to someday be one of those moms who can whip up cupcakes for the entire class in minutes more than the actual required baking time, I have a genuine affection for teachers, and a need to thank them for choosing to spend their days with my children, exposing themselves to every kind of childhood illness imaginable, understanding just how precious these children are to the parents who dropped them off that morning. Two little girls who like school more each day than they did the day before, their teacher has provided them with a wonderful place to learn and grow, and I believe, without a doubt, the kind of beginning to education necessary to foster lifelong learners. For that I am forever grateful.

Mrs. Unruh scratched on almost every paper I handed in "write more! write more!". She kept me after school, as I remember, every day for talking out of turn; she was challenging, tall, and sometimes scary, and she encouraged me to do what I loved. Mrs. Grow, tired of hearing me yell out "gadzooks" every time I needed an expletive, suggested I create a dictionary of my own words. Mrs. Willingham, in all her sing song glory, taught me to recite poetry and to remember to always send a written note. And Mrs. Chamberlin patiently showed me book after book, imploring me to explore behind the cover, to read things on the other side of the library, and to discover characters beyond Ramona, Encyclopedia Brown and Henry Huggins. Maybe the best way to thank the teachers is to remember them, even when you are old, and to know just how greatly they impacted the person you became.

The lemon bundt cake was beautiful, perfectly shaped and covered in a pretty yellow glaze. The crumb cake was brown, spotty, lumpy and reminiscent of what I assume an underground sewer eruption might look like, at the street level. Confidently I sliced a piece of the lovely bundt, it was gooey, a beautiful yellow mess, a molten like somewhat raw cake, probably not edible, at least not safely. The hideous eruption was wonderful, moist and unsightly, tasty and not full of food borne illnesses. But of course I knew, as Mrs. Chamberlin taught me, you can't judge a book by it's cover.

Suit No Tie

Minutes before I had been sound asleep, snuggled next to my grandmother while Bopaw snored loudly in the next bed. The piercing sound woke us all, startled us into sitting positions, and my grandfather, his few remaining hairs disheveled, looked around, mumbled something to my grandmother and went right back to sleep. Calmly she reached over, picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. That she understood him was a clear benefit of almost fifty years of marriage, not a full set of teeth between them, garbled noise was the chosen form of communication when awakened by a screeching horn in the middle of the night.

Patiently she waited while the phone rang, although to be clear, not a chance anyone could have understood a word she had to say had someone stayed behind to answer the phone in the middle of what I was certain was a raging fire. In my yellow and brown Pebbles Flintstone pajamas I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway finding a full floor of guests as without teeth and hair as we were, all in various stages of pajama clad confusion. "It's a fire! Get up! Bopaw get up NOW!", my eight year old self near hysteria, jumping like mad at the foot of his bed. He rolled over, raised his eyebrows and thought about throwing me out the window, to facilitate my escape from the burning building.

Preparing me for this dramatic event in my young life, third grade Anxiety Training. In Mrs. Coit's room, where we were subjected to 30 minutes of intimidation and manipulative terror masquerading as education, it was fire safety week. Fire fighters visited our school, pamphlets were distributed and the responsibility to get the family out of the burning building now assigned solely to the eight year old family member. We were to map our exit routes, draw up a plan and run family fire drills weekly. My father had no interest in this, not once did we practice our escape, no emergency fire ladders were purchased. The Fire Film Scare Series culminated in a horror film staring the family who had no plan, the final shot of the dog, the only survivor, on the front lawn, an errant tear in his eye, as his entire family perished in the blazing inferno behind him. I had trouble sleeping.

"Get up now, please!", and shocking, still no answer at the front desk. Bopaw got up, put on his robe and slippers, and stepped into the bathroom to run a comb through his hairs. He then checked the hallway, muttered something and went in to put in his teeth, "well Mother, she's right, everyone does appear to be leaving. Maybe we should head downstairs". At this point I had gathered Theodore and Baby Kelly, my two always travel companions, and was standing, jumping, at the front door, waving my goodbyes to all the survivors en route to a lower floor. Mimi was up, and working furiously to ready herself, while doing her best to calm the now panicked eight year old, still in the Pebbles pajamas.

My dear grandfather went to the closet and selected a suit, a full on gray wool suit to slip into for his descent into the blazing inferno that I knew would find us on the way down. This he wore over his blue, with navy piping, pajamas, monogrammed on the pocket. Once assembled he realized that slippers would never do and so, while Mimi and I stood waiting, he put on socks and shoes before announcing that yes, now he was ready. We stepped into the hallway, the only ones left, and Bopaw walked to the elevator. "Oh no, no no no, we have to walk down, we have to take the stairs in a fire!", their combined 115 year old bodies not at all pleased with this announcement, they followed me to the exit door. In what was surely the longest time ever spent in a stairwell, we descended 10 stories to the street outside the Kahler Hotel, pausing at every landing for air. At these breaks I would run ahead, and then back, utilizing all my fire preparedness training: checking doors for heat, staying low and breathing into the damp washcloth I had somehow found time to prepare. They begged me to go on, to save myself and I cried out, "NO! Never, I'll never leave without you", or maybe they were discussing last week's golf game, Mimi having left her teeth to broil in our upstairs room.

A short hour or so later we reached the ground floor. Throwing open the door, having saved my grandparents, Theodore and Baby Kelly from certain death, I stepped confidently into the lobby, knowing that my well developed fire safety skills were the real heroes. There was not a firefighter to be seen, only far in the distance could we see the front desk clerk, shouting "hello" impatiently into the phone. "Mother, did you leave the phone off the hook?".

We took the elevator back up to the tenth floor, false alarm.

For the Love of Books

Mrs. Chamberlain was the librarian in my elementary school. She was small and had short hair and was, in my third grade opinion, a bit booky. She was also very tolerant as much of my young library time was spent socializing with Sarah and Jim and Sami, and not looking at books, as suggested. Her library was large, full of comfortable chairs and tables with row after row of neatly organized books. It took me a few years to find my way but once I did, the library became my favorite place. And when I discovered the biography area, I was set. My quest then became to read biographies of all the first ladies, Abigail Adams my favorite, but thankfully there were many others from which to choose. My library was in a brand new suburban school, amply funded and well kept.

There has been no librarian in Mary and Kate’s school for at least four years. The last book was purchased about six years ago. Librarians are an apparent luxury, one small schools are not afforded. Organized this summer by a crew of parents with encouragement from a new and energetic principal, the library is back in business, on very shaky, yet growing, legs. Because there is no funding for a librarian, it is staffed two days a week by parent volunteers. We shelve books, read to the children and help them check out a book, one book per week. In my two days in the library I have learned this, I know a great deal about books of interest to five, six and seven year children. My need to obsessively amass books for Mary and Kate has left me well qualified for a position reading to children up to second grade. Beyond that I am completely lost. Goosebumps? Do we have Goosebumps? Are you cold? Do you need a sweater? Today we had 9-year-old children, fourth graders, intent on finding scary books. Ramona the Pest and Henry Huggins are the extent of my repertoire, not terribly scary, but familiar to me and available in our antiquated library.

Yesterday we found a dictionary published before I was born. While appreciating it’s aged quality, I struggle to find its usefulness in preparing book reports in 2009. Certainly there are days when I wish my children only needed a dictionary of words commonly used in the sixties, but the reality is that dictionaries, like libraries, need to be up to date. Perhaps the thinking is that information is now widely available on the Internet, and while that is true, there is something important and valuable in knowing how to navigate the library, and a wonderful joy to be found in opening books, turning pages, and discovering new words and worlds far from your small school on the north side of Chicago.

The Chicago Public School system, clearly overburdened and faced with enormous challenges, doesn't allocate funding for a librarian, and so the task falls to the parents, who it seems are more than happy to volunteer their time. My love of books can translate into enthusiasm, but not expertise; there is far more to a library than Corduroy and Babar.

Mrs. Chamberlain would know where to find scary books, just as she knew years ago to direct a young girl, who chose talking over reading, to Dolly Madison, Mary Todd Lincoln and Eleanor Roosevelt. The beagle and I are very grateful.

No More Miss Late Girl

Waking up at 6:30 is an adjustment, for two little girls who like to sleep until 8, and for a mom and dad who proudly embraced their offspring's love of a good nights sleep. When I opened their door on day one they both jumped out of bed, stripped off their pajamas and climbed happily into their first day of school clothing selections (carefully laid out the night before). Today Mary groggily rolled over and fell onto the floor. Kate pulled the quilt over her head in a quiet refusal, she was not getting up. After several rounds of "I Hate To Get Up In The Morning" and one offer to throw ice water on her head, she slung her long legs over the side and stood, like a baby deer, taking the few necessary steps before falling into her sister's bed.

Who can blame them? I hated getting up for school, to the very depth of me I hated it, and was thus constantly late, a habit I stuck with my entire life. Until now, I can't let them be the late kids, that was painful. Mr. Nelson made me actually bring my father into the classroom so that he could be reprimanded also, Dad being the driving force behind Late Girl. He was Late Man, his entire life, wasn't on time once. Although he did beat me to the church, I was late to my own wedding.

I once missed an entire Time Management Seminar; racing to get there I could not bare to walk into a conference room well into a discussion on better managing your time, 10 minutes late. First pitch eluded me for years, until I married Jack. Sadly it's not just mornings, I'm late for dinner, afternoon meetings, if there is a scheduled time to be somewhere, I'll be late.

But not now, I cannot doom my children to a life of missing the first few minutes of everything there is to do and see in the world. And so we get up, and foggily dress, yawning and stretching for most of the morning. It's a race, every single day, that last minute sprint to get out the door, but we do it. Three weeks in and not late once, a couple close calls but we've been there every day for the bell and the march into the classroom.

My Mom playground friends have all been late, each one having to take the walk of shame to the office for the tardy slip before escorting their child to class. Not me, without being smug I commiserate but this cheese stands alone, not one late slip. Of course they don't really know me, they have no idea that I'm the Mom formerly known as Late Girl. Hopefully they never will.

Bubble Lady

Sarah's parents allowed it in their house, and not just a few pieces, sometimes there were boxes. She was always very generous, offering me a piece, or two when I was visiting. Of course I would have to savor every bite before my dad came to pick me up, the delicious pink goo was not allowed in our house. How I envied Sarah and her cool parents, but then her mom did cut the orange in half horizontally, wrapping each piece in foil, she always had the very best lunch at school. Her mom was just a step up on my mom who sent me with a meal ticket for a hot lunch, this the same woman who forbid Bubble Yum in the house.

Once I forgot and I rode my bike home, mouth full to capacity with a well chewed wad of pink confection, and then I blew a bubble. It popped, all over me, in my hair, on my face. I stopped at Kristen's house, her very kind mom covered me from ear to ear with peanut butter and stripped me of the tell tale mess. The distinct peanut odor was difficult to explain.

It wasn't just Bubble Yum, all gum was forbidden. No Trident, no Double Mint, absolutely none of that really cool gum that squirted when you bit into it, none. When I was with my friends I tried it all, grape gum, hard ball gum, multi colored gum, nothing scared me, there was nothing I wouldn't try. My parents knew, but they often looked the other way, until the night I sneaked a piece right before bed, and then I fell asleep. The next morning was spent at Dad's barber, having my gum covered hair cut, and not in any sort of attractive way.

They enrolled me in the Patricia Stevens Charm School. Somehow my parents convinced my friend Amy to join me, perhaps a case of gum was offered, I have no idea. There we learned all the things one must know to be a proper young lady, how to sit with your knees together, when it's appropriate to use the pickle fork and, very important when growing up in Kansas City, how to introduce your teacher to the Queen of England. And then Miss Patricia Stevens delivered this bombshell: Ladies do not chew gum. Immediately I removed the book from the top of my head, stood without monitoring my knee distance, and headed for the door. I was captured and returned by two women wearing pearls.

Thirty years later I have yet to meet the Queen but this I know, gum is horrid, I hate it. At some point in it happened, I became that woman, the uncool mom. Instinctively I hold my hand under any mouth when I see the chomping, strangers on the bus look at me in an odd way but really, someone must stop them. Patricia Stevens isn't here, might as well be me.

Subject Verb Agreement

Mrs. Hardey's sixth grade English class was challenging. My seat was in the first row, near the door. This was best, any further back and I could have easily lost interest. But I did not, I was fascinated, diagramming sentences, there was nothing greater than shooting my hand up with the correct answer, "prepositional phrase!". We wrote research papers, with footnotes, and bibliographies; my chosen topic, Gothic architecture. We did demonstration speeches, Chris made brownies and accidentally brought a hard cooked egg (of course I now believe it was all a ruse, part of his ongoing hilarity), Mike showed us all how a bathtub ring is formed. It was the first time I remember really being challenged in school and as much as I complained, I loved it. Mrs. Hardey was the teacher you loved to hate, but if you did well, there was an amazing feeling of accomplishment.

Years earlier I looked up at my grandmother and cooed "goowoo". She smiled back and said "goowooLY dear", and so it began, for the next 30 years she corrected my English at every chance, and I gave her ample opportunity. Despite my frustration she persevered, not letting me get away with one "play good", my guffaws always met with immediate modification, and explanation. My counter was usually "but Mimi, everyone says that" and she would smile and say "it does matter dear, you'll see", and like so many things, she was right, and I am grateful.

And today, thanks to the daily English lessons and the stern and demanding classroom of Mrs. Hardey, bad grammar is like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. It's everywhere, Applebee's based an entire marketing campaign on "Eating Good in the Neighborhood", eek, that's enough to keep me out of Applebee's for the rest of my life. News reporters use adjectives when they need adverbs and perhaps the most egregious, a principal at one of the grade schools we are considering answered a parent's question this way "that is where we're at". The school is wonderful, highly regarded in the city, but can I entrust my children to an educator who dangles her prepositions?

Joy to the World, and Facebook

Quite by accident, thanks to one quick click, I got myself on Facebook. I then ignored all the Facebook items in my inbox as I was certain I had no need for this frivolous junior high "networking" site, poo! Oops, I love it. And here's why, people I used to know, and love, have found me. The funniest person I may have ever known in my life, someone I met in third grade, found me. And from second grade, Sarah, the person who once said to my father, when my mother was out of town, "when the cats away the mice do play", she's out there also. I hate to admit it, I certainly can't tell my sister, but I love it.

All this grade school reunion'ing had brought forth grade school reliving. I can't stop the flood of memories, so real it's as if I'm right now sitting in Mrs. Grow's fourth grade class creating a dictionary of favorite made-up words. Or diagramming sentences with Mrs. Harding, or scooting around the gym on those little wooden squares with wheels, finger amputate'rs more accurately, with Mr. Ward. I can smell it, really.

I find all this quite helpful, given that I am now dealing with two people set to enter elementary school next year. I will be prepared, ready for the fun, the tragedies and the fears that accompany the early school days. Not to mention armed with an arsenal of resources, ready to head off what lies ahead, or, as was the case this week, what lies behind.

Poor Joy, no one ever brushed her hair. Eventually a large mass grew out of the back of her moppy blonde doo, a tangled web of hair, and what I guessed to be gum and ladybugs. I often stood behind her in the hall, waiting to change classes, and I would stare up (Joy, like the entire school, was much taller than me) at the bird nest that grew from the back of her neck, wondering if they would ever find the bottom of this growth. I was certain it would have to be shaved and then spent quite a bit of time imaging how that might happen, would they take her to her father's barber? Or to the nice man at Mimi's hair salon? Would they discover the wishbone from last Thanksgiving's turkey in there? Would a well placed ponytail cover the spot left behind? All at once I was forever grateful to my mother, the crazed woman with the hairbrush, who pinned me down and struggled with me for years to brush the long brown hair I insisted on having.

A well placed story goes a long way. There are no more arguments about hair brushing at our house, the girls have very nicely coiffed shoulder length hair, thanks to Facebook, Jim, Sarah, and of course, Joy.