You Know You're Getting Old When:

- You used to soar down the block in your sports car and now you’re the one who rushes out and yells at drivers who whiz by. After all, there are kids in this neighborhood, you know.

- You used to enjoy counting down the seconds to a New Year; now you count sheep two hours before the New Year.

- In fact, you haven’t seen midnight in a long, long time.

- You get excited about discounts. Any discount.

- You think about throwing out your daughter’s ripped jeans because they look unkempt.

- You think guys with long hair look so 80s.

- You marvel at kids today.

- You wake up naturally. And it’s still dark outside.

- Your 7-year-old has to show you how to work a piece of equipment.

- Your cell phone weighs more than an ounce.

- Texting seems hard and stupid. Why not make a call?

- You watch a snowstorm and worry about how much your back will hurt after shoveling the driveway.

- Pilates feels like a good workout.

- Your rock idols look more and more like senior citizens.

- You attend a concert and prefer to sit down the whole time.

- People ask you what time your party starts. You say, “Eight-thirty.” They respond, “Oh. That late?”

- Going out to dinner and a movie might take too long, so you decide to do one or the other.

- You haven’t seen a 3 in front of your age in years.

Please add to the list by posting a comment.

Signs Your Kid Hears You

10 Signs Your Children Really Hear What You Say:

1. You overhear her say to her little sister, “That was really uncool.”
2. You ask her to do something – twice – and she says, “Dude, I said I’d do it.”
3. You say, “What did you do at school?” and she answers, “I have no clue.”
4. She tells her little sister, “I’m going to count to three. One, two…”
5. She admires herself in the mirror, takes a pair of kid scissors and trims her eyebrows, leaving a gaping hole.
6. She comes upstairs after playing dress-up and is wearing a massive amount of frosty blue eye shadow. When you see her, she asks, “Is it too much? I don’t want to look like a clown.”
7. You try to discuss the importance of hygiene. She shushes you and says, “People will hear. Please be quiet.”
8. She apologizes for screaming at you and says, “I know that wasn’t nice.” (Gee, you think?)
9. She asks about someone’s pregnancy and then says, “Did they put a penis into a vagina?”
10. She tells her friend, “Those are the rules of this house.”

Idiots

Oh, dear.

Whenever I hear about a misguided idiot such as the Nigerian who boarded a plane and decided to become a terrorist yesterday, my initial thought is, “Please don’t be a Muslim.”

My mom, who is visiting, heard the news and said, “He’s Nigerian? Well, thank God he’s not an Arab.”

This is the type of conversation that takes place in our home whenever terrorism rears its ugly head: we stupidly offer thanks if the murder is not a Muslim or a Middle Easterner.

I don’t think other Americans talk the way we do at times like this. I’m sure when Americans hear the news their first thought is, “Thank God no one got hurt.” (We think that, too, by the way.) Or, perhaps, “Typical. Another Muslim terrorist.” (Again, we think that, too.)

We also see a different picture in our home. We see how the act of a few idiots will affect our children’s lives. We see how a couple of unethical and immoral jerks have convinced a few moronic sheep to follow them to ruin our culture and belief. We also see the worst: we see ourselves being slowly alienated from our country and community.

And we hate it.

Any time someone decides to take my family’s religion and deface it I will post on this blog. I do this because I always hear other Americans say, “Why don’t the moderate Muslims speak out?”

We do. To prove my point, here’s what other moderate Muslims have published (but I am sure media outlets have not released): Click here and click here to read more.

As a side note - and just to show we aren't all idiots - Arab Americans have been living in the United States for decades (centuries, even) but most of you probably didn't even know how many famous folks were actually Arab American. For a list of who's who, please click here. You'll be very surprised to know some American celebrities are actually Arab American. (Danny and Marlo Thomas, Casey Kasem, Paula Abdul, Doug Flutie, Ralph Nader, Paul Anka and Jamie Farr to name a few.)

Merry Christmas

Wishing you health, happiness and all the toys your heart desires this Christmas.

New Vision

My mom is visiting us for the holidays and her presence here has forced me to see my kids in an entirely different light. Aimee, who, lately, has been a huge source of frustration for my husband and me, has been transformed into a little genius with a grand sense of humor. My mom thinks Aimee’s diminutive voice, her inquisitive mind and her abundant energy are all markers of high intelligence and obvious talent.

“I’ve never seen a five-year-old child like her,” my mom said. Those are lofty words coming from a grandmother of five, Aimee being the youngest. “Look how she analyzes a situation and asks questions.”

I smiled and didn’t say anything. To me, Aimee’s incessant queries dance on my last nerve by the end of each day.

“She wants to know everything,” my mom said. “It’s amazing how her mind works.”

She actually thinks it’s a good thing Aimee is so curious.

To my mom, Lily is a kind-hearted, quiet child who is content and independent. “Look how organized she is,” my mom said.

Again, I just smiled. To me, Lily has her head in the clouds and can focus only on one thing at a time.

“When I ask to help her she always tells me she can do it herself,” my mom said. “That’s fantastic.”

Uh-huh.

Now I know why God made grandparents. The frustration children provide their parents dissolves quickly into a heap of sweetness, brilliance and wonder. Their often-agitating manner becomes adorable. Their tantrums become hilarious.

I'm thankful for the fresh outlook. As a stay-at-home mom, my vision gets clouded by the day-to-day routine. I just wonder if she'll feel this way about them at the end of her trip.

Stay tuned.

Photo by Alaina Cherup, courtesy of stock.xchng

Relapse

Folks, I'm still trying to beat this cold. Thought I was better but I'm really not. When I am up to writing again, I'll publish another post.

Happy holidays.

Chick Lit

My freshman year of college I was 17, I had a cast on my leg and I was armed with the euphoria of leaving my strict parent’s home for the first time. That same year I met a young Korean-American girl named May who had a very similar background (no broken leg but very traditional parents). She and I became close pals, then roommates and finally best friends while at college. We both pursued a career in journalism (hers, in broadcast, was a lot more successful than my stint in print journalism) and we both lived abroad for the majority of our young adult lives (she was in Asia, I was in the Middle East). We visited each other's foreign homes and have remained close throughout the years. May is one of the sisters I am blessed to have made at Mills (click here to read more on that subject). And even though she doesn’t even have the flipping courtesy to mention me by name in the book (whatever, May), I’m going to pimp, I mean, promote her release because I’m sure many of you will enjoy her story. (Plus, I'm hoping she finally names me in the sequel.)

Here's a brief synopsis of the book take from the inside flap:

May Lee, a veteran of television both in the United States and internationally, shares her colorful and inspiring story of how a shy, insecure youngster of Korean descent became an intrepid, high-profile international journalist and TV host. Her often gritty stories reveal the challenges that she faced along the way, being both Asian and a woman, in a highly judgmental, often unforgiving industry. May attributes her ability to confront and overcome those difficulties to her belief in what she calls her "4 Ps for Success": passion, perseverance, persuasion, and patience.

May recounts her professional journey starting as a naïve news intern in San Francisco to her rapid rise as a journalist working for top media networks including NHK, CNN, CNBC and Oprah Winfrey's women's channel, Oxygen. The desire to make a bold break from the mold led May in 2005 to take the entrepreneurial step of starting her own company, Lotus Media House. Based in Singapore , she launched her own unique, groundbreaking talk show about the modern women of Asia.

May's career, driven by her passion for sharing people's stories through the dynamic medium of television, has required her to draw on all her resources of patience, perseverance, and powers of persuasion. And she has had to do so while facing and overcoming loneliness, fears, and uncertainty in her personal life. Her account of the many ups and downs both professionally and personally is raw and honest, with as many cliffhangers as an afternoon TV soap opera.

May Lee Live and in Person is the first book to be written by and about an Asian female television journalist who has experienced both the U.S. and international media.

To order a copy (and read more reviews) click here.

Go, May!

Cover photo courtesy of May Lee

Bad Cold

Folks, I am at home nursing a bad cold. Will write when I don't have to stop every five minutes and blow my nose or cough up a lung.

Until then, have a good weekend!

The 12 Days of December

On the first day of December the universe sent to me: a hole in the tile and a one less shower for my family.

On the second day of December the universe sent to me: a moldy wall and wood rot, a hole in the tile and a one less shower for my family.

On the third day of December the universe sent to me: a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, a hole in the tile and a one less shower for my family.

On the fourth day of December the universe sent to me: a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, a hole in the tile and one less shower for my family.

On the fifth day of December the universe sent to me: my eldest daughter who made me smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, a hole in the tile and one less shower for my family.

On the sixth day of December the universe sent to me: Aimee’s good behavior*, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

On the seventh day of December the universe sent to me: blustery cold weather with freezing temperatures, Aimee’s good behavior, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

On the eighth day of December the universe gave to me: the stupid Barbie camper**, blustery cold weather, Aimee’s good behavior, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

On the ninth day of December the universe sent to me: a nice present from my neighbor, the stupid Barbie camper, blustery cold weather, Aimee’s good behavior, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

On the tenth day of December the universe sent to me: a job outside the home, a nice present from my neighbor, the stupid Barbie camper, blustery cold weather, Aimee’s good behavior, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

On the eleventh day of December the universe sent to me: a good session with my therapist, a job outside the home, a nice present from my neighbor, the stupid Barbie camper, blustery cold weather, Aimee’s good behavior, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

On the twelvth day of December the universe sent to me: a wonderful visit from my mother, a good session with my therapist, a job outside the home, a nice present from my neighbor, the stupid Barbie camper, blustery cold weather, Aimee’s good behavior, a reason to smile, a reaction to the swine flu shot, a contractor with high bill, a moldy wall and wood rot, and a one less shower for my family.

*for two whole days.

**that my kids begged me for. I couldn’t buy it online or in any store within a 50 mile radius, and I had to pester my mom to go to her local Walmart in the cold and snow and find it, which she did. God bless her.

photo by A B, courtesy of stock.xchng

Rounding The Corner

I now totally get why grandparents have all the fun. They get to play with their grandkids without all the worry and fuss of being an actual parent. I say this because the other day I was in the mall alone and noticed some kids with their parents. Some children were throwing fits, some were playing nicely and others were walking hand-in-hand with their moms and dads. Every time I looked at those little tykes I smiled. Because I was without my own kids at the time I could focus on just how cute they really were.

I wish I could always have that kind of insight when I am dealing with my girls. I sometimes get so caught up in their behavior that I forget to admire and adore their innocence and beauty. So I’m using this moment to remind you to do the same. (Yes, yes, I will, too.)

Our public education system uses the STAR method when disciplining its children: Stop, take a deep breath, and relax. I think it’s a great idea and often times try to do the same at home.

Of course I can say this now because for the past three days Aimee has turned a corner. (Please – knock wood, say a prayer and meditate that she is in this good phase for a while.) This morning, after she brought a stool to the sink and washed her own dishes (and after I ignored the mess on the floor from her being so helpful), I said, “Aimee, I love that you are part of the team lately. We really enjoy having you as part of our family.”

I said those words purposely because when she was misbehaving I had been saying, “Aimee, we are a team and we help each other out. If you cannot be a part of the team you are going to be alone. We don’t want that, and we hope you choose to be with us, but if you can’t treat us nicely and politely, we don’t want to be with you.”

I emphasized how much I loved her but told her I refused to be treated badly. She spent countless hours in her room alone and threw tantrum after tantrum. I thought she would be on this destructive path for a long, long time.

I repeated the "be part of our team" mantra to her over and over. I made it very clear that I would not spend time with someone who was badly behaved.

Now that she is behaving I make sure to praise her efforts as much as possible. Just this morning she said, “Did you notice I didn’t get any tickets for three days?”

“Yes,” I said. “I did.”

“I’m not going to get any tickets all week!” she said proudly.

“I believe you,” I said. “And I’m so proud of you.”

I know she tries. I know it’s hard for a 5-year-old to behave all the time. Sometimes her sleep gets interrupted, sometimes she gets hungry, and sometimes her little body is changing. Those times are the roughest. I will say, however, that my therapist was right about giving more protein and a little fat in the afternoon: I notice when I give her a more substantial snack her mood is elevated. (Try this with your own kids if you notice more afternoon meltdowns.)

So, aside from having to demolish an upstairs bathroom because the folks who previously owned our house didn’t think about waterproofing the walls, I am in good spirits.

Let’s hope it lasts.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Tip the Halls

‘Tis the season to be jolly

Fa la la la la, la la la la

Tip the UPS guy or there's no dolly

Fa la la la la, la la la la

The mailman who knocks upon my door

Fa la la, la la la, la la la

Wants the cash I give to every boor

Fa la la la la, la la la la

Teacher’s need it, some good folks receive it

Fa la la, la la la, la la la

So I give with love and try to mean it

Fa la la la la, la la la la

But why is Christmas so expensive?

Fa la la, la la la, la la la

The amount I spend can get offensive

Fa la la la la, la la la la

Now I have to pay my credit

Fa la la la la, la la la la

'Cause all I've done this month is debit

Fa la la la la, la la la la

Happy Holidays!

Dear readers: who do you tip at the end of the year and how much do you give?

The Christmas Letter

Every year I get about three or four of them. You may get a few, too. The season’s greetings come in the form of a longwinded memo tucked inside an obligatory holiday card. Usually they written by one person who speaks for the family, and often times they are from people I haven’t spoken to or heard from in years. Out of these annoying arrivals there is only one that interests me (it comes from friends of my parents who have known me my entire life), and usually it is written an interesting and good-humored manner. The rest? Just how awful could they be, you ask?

Let me count the ways.

1. The ones outlined by moms who are just oh-so proud of the geniuses they birthed. Little Johnny reads at a fifth grade level and he’s only in kindergarten! Susie is at the top of her class and will win a Nobel Peace Prize by the time she is 14. We are just so proud of our little Einsteins and are sure no child of yours could ever measure up to our brilliant offspring.

2. Most are complete with mundane information about how they have sprained an ankle or had a heart attack but are now on the mend (and, upon reading this information, the recipient is either immediately filled with guilt at not keeping in touch better or secretly happy that karma actually does exist).

3. A few give intimate details about their 10-year anniversary in which the writer and his or her spouse have discovered newfound love. (The reader now has to fight a gag reflex at the thought of the happy lovebirds ‘doing it.’)

4. They describe a Disney cruise, a weekend in Vermont and a trip to the beach about as interestingly as one illustrates clipping a hangnail.

5. The letter wouldn’t be complete without mentioning Dear Husband’s fabulous new promotion (because the man’s boss is no dummy and would never overlook how he works a full eight hours a day), the new house (complete with 24-karat gold hardware in all the bathrooms) and $75,000 car all depict how they are Movin’ On Up.

6. They tell about their volunteer work at the homeless shelters and soup kitchens because how could they not help out those poor folks when they themselves have been blessed with so much?

7. Dear God, I’m on page three. Just how long could this letter be? I mean, seriously. Who has the time to type all this stuff up, make all those copies and fold each letter precisely so it fits neatly in the envelope?

Friends, if you send these letters each year, please do me a favor and spare me. If you really want me to know how you are, call me, e-mail me or send me a personalized letter. But keep the holiday spirit to just a ho, ho, ho.

Photo by sundeip arora, courtesy of stock.xchng

Under My Skin

My husband, after hearing me complain (i.e. whine like a child) about Aimee’s behavior for the billionth time, said, “You really need to learn to not to take it so hard.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “She is relentless. I haven’t had one day in months where she and I didn’t butt heads.”

“No, I do understand. I know she can be really difficult. But you need to not let it get to you.”

He was trying to be helpful. He really was. He thought by telling me she was just a kid and that I’m the parent he would be helping me deal with her better. And normally, I would agree with him.

But let me give you a little taste of what she has been like lately and you can be the judge:

Thursday afternoon I had to make an important phone call. I mentioned this to Aimee who decided – at that moment – to throw a massive screaming fit because she could not find something really important like a sticker or a napkin. I did what I usually do when I need some time alone: I went to the bathroom and locked myself inside. Aimee, much like Glenn Close’s character in Fatal Attraction, would not be ignored. She banged on the door, screamed and yelled at me until I finally hung up and came outside.

So, dear readers, would you be able to ignore her behavior? Or would you do what I did?

I came outside and bent down to her level. In a very calm voice (which took every last ounce of energy I had) I said, “When I am on the phone I will not be interrupted. You may not scream and yell and you may not bang on the door when I am in the bathroom. You lost two tickets for this.”

Want to know what she was doing while I spoke to her? She was gathering spit in her mouth and deciding whether or not she should spew a massive wad my way.

Yeah. He’s right. I shouldn’t let her get to me.

My Challenge

Parenting experts have never met Aimee.

My youngest child defies all advice, flips the bird to consistent parenting and scoffs at natural consequences. She is, simply put, an extremely challenging child.

I wanted to use another word to describe her. But from what I’ve read, labeling children only makes them adapt themselves to an adjective they may not be. For example, one woman I know said she used to call her son the devil, a cross she had to bear and her troublemaker. (Click here to read my original post on this subject.)

“I finally realized what I was doing to both him and me,” she said. “If I couldn’t see him as anything other than difficult, how could he see himself in a more positive light?”

She told me that years ago, and ever since I’ve been cautious to not pigeonhole my kids (at least not in front of them).

So what does a person say about a child who is completely against the grain? I call Aimee challenging. Is that such a bad word? Maybe. Maybe she thinks she needs to keep up with her struggle to find a place in the family.

Once when I was arguing with my brother my mother-in-law (who is a therapist) asked me, “How much resistance do you have when you talk to him?”

“A lot,” I said.

“You need to work on that,” she said. “Take away the resistance and you take away the anger and resentment.”

Perhaps I need to do that with Aimee. I need to take away my resistance when she is in the room. I need to take a few deep breaths when she wakes up and greet her as if she’ll actually be in a good mood for once. (See? There I go again.)

I spoke to my therapist about Aimee yesterday. (Did I mention how much I love therapy? Seriously. I highly recommend finding a great therapist if you are feeling overwhelmed and need an objective and unbiased mind to help you out.) I mentioned how, rather than have fewer tantrums as she got older (which the “experts” say should be the norm), Aimee seems to be having more. And these aren’t just run-of-the-mill tantrums (those used to crack me up). These are loud, physically grueling, spastic tantrums.

“Lily was no picnic at this age, either,” I said. “But I do remember age five being the time when she began to mellow out, and I also noticed at five and a half she was mature enough to handle the things that used to make her go crazy.”

My therapist asked me when Aimee’s tantrums took place.

“It’s weird,” I said. “We’ll be having a nice day, she and I will do a craft and then all of a sudden she is a nightmare. And she stays that way until bedtime. It’s a lot like her witching hour when she was a baby.”

She asked me if Aimee ate a snack. “Yes,” I said. “She usually has some crackers or some pretzels. Sometimes she’ll have some fruit.”

“Ah,” she said. “This could simply be an answer of low blood sugar.”

She said I should try and give Aimee snacks that were higher in protein and fat, such as peanut butter and apples, or plain yogurt with fruit and some nuts, or even a hard-boiled egg.

I thought about what she said and immediately felt relieved. Aimee has the metabolism of a hummingbird. She eats (and is hungry) all the time. My therapist’s advice made perfect sense.

“I’ll try that,” I said.

So yesterday, I did. And she seemed to be able to hold a consistent mood until dinner, which was a refreshing change. I’ll see if it works today, too.

In fact, I’ll do just about anything to make this child’s mood and temper tantrums go away.

Photo by Wong Mei Teng, courtesy of stock.xchng

Choices

For once (and this should be written down by someone because it will probably be the first time in a long, long time) I’m not going to judge. Just today, I’m just going to tell you what happened and let you all decide for yourselves. (Psst: Calling all Judgmental Moms! Please post a comment so I get some validation.)

Someone close to me told me a story about a woman who has four children (three boys and a girl). The girl is now a little past 2 years old and this friend was telling me how the woman's daughter, Q, refused to get dressed one day.

“Every time [the woman] held something up, Q would scream and say, ‘No!’,” my friend said. “So after an hour, she finally gave up and let her go to her brother’s baseball game in a tutu and diaper.”

Just to clarify, the girl went to a public baseball game, with lots of other families there as well, and she was wearing nothing on her top (i.e., naked) and a tutu on her bottom.

Oh. My. God. I am bursting at the seams to say something but already committed to staying mum. So, dear readers, tell me: would you:

1. Argue with your 2 year old for an hour;

2. Allow her to go half-naked to a baseball game;

3. Handle the situation any differently?

Do tell. Really. Please. I’m dying to hear what you have to say on this subject.When I read your replies I'll write something further on the subject.

Sunday

7:15 a.m.: Wake up to Lily’s footsteps creeping down the stairs.

7:20 a.m.: Drag myself out of bed, walk downstairs, kiss Lily good morning and make coffee.

7:30 a.m.: Put on a down jacket and warm boots, trudge outside in the snow and ice and get my newspaper. (Dear Husband usually does this but he’s away visiting his mom for her birthday.)

7:43 a.m.: Aimee comes down the steps. “Good morning,” I say. She frowns.

Oh, dear.

7:44 a.m.: Aimee asks to open the Pet Shop calendar I bought to mark the days until Christmas. It has 24 little doors and prizes inside leading up to December 25^th. She opens one and finds a polar bear figure. The calendar only has three figurines in total and when we got it I said, “You will have to share one of the Pet Shops. So if you get one and want to wait to decide which one you want, that’s a good idea.”

“No,” Aimee insisted when she opened the very first Pet Shop on day one. “I want this one.”

So this morning she sees the second figure and goes absolutely insane because she realizes now she wants that polar bear instead of the penguin she got first.

7:45 a.m.: Aimee is in a time out. She has hit me, kicked me and thrown a massive fit.

7:47 a.m.: Dear Husband calls me to tell me he’s on his way. I can barely hear him over Aimee’s screams.

“Wow,” he says.

“Yeah,” I sigh.

8:00 a.m.: Aimee is calm and sitting on a chair. “Would you like to start over?” I ask. She nods. “Come here,” I say, arms extended. We snuggle for a long time.

Lily says, “Aimee, if you want, when we get the last Pet Shop you can choose which one you want the most. I don’t mind.”

I grab Lily and kiss her deeply. “You are so thoughtful,” I said. “I love that about you.”

9:15 a.m.: Aimee can’t find a bag and throws a fit. She gets so angry she starts stomping and screaming. I tell her she now must go upstairs because we cannot have an entire morning ruined by screaming. She goes upstairs and starts slamming the door so hard it shakes the house (and scares me because our house is old and may crumble).

I have only been up for two hours.

Hope your Sunday is better than mine.

How Do You Really Feel?

One evening a few weeks ago we went to a friend’s house and stayed out late. By the time we put the kids to bed it was almost 10 o’clock, which is several hours past their normal bedtime. Although I’m usually a sleep Nazi and insist on putting the girls to bed at an early hour, there are definitely times when I bend the rules. I mean, it doesn’t feel like cocktail hour if your kids are still playing games around you, but if it gets dark, you’ve shoved them into another room to quietly watch a movie and you and your partner can sip frothy drinks and chat with good friends, it almost feels like you got out for the night. (Almost! As if.)

The next morning (at an ungodly hour, because the later you put kids to bed the earlier they wake up – which is God's very cruel joke) we woke up and found the note above from Lily, telling us how tired she is (she wrote tride). My favorite part is she then took the opportunity to tell us her other woes (apparently she wants a puppy. Badly.)

(Side note: You'll notice the note says “To Mo and Da.” When Aimee was 3 she used to call Lily “L-i-l-y,” and she’d call me, “M-o-m,” and my husband, “D-a-d.” Then, one day, she shortened them all – L-i, M-o, D-a. We often call her A-i. Hence, the note is addressed to our nicknames.)

“Did you see my note?” she asked us.

“Yes,” I said, kissing her. “I’m sorry you’re so tired. I’m exhausted, too.”

“And I want a puppy,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

If you’re wondering why I, too, don’t pine for a puppy, click here, and click here.

“Hmph!” she said, turning on her heel.

I had only one thing on my mind: coffee.

Illustration by Lily, age 7

Six Year Olds Suck

What a difference a year makes. More importantly, what a difference a teacher makes.

The phone rang this morning at 6:15 a.m. It was the school asking if I could be a substitute for one of the kindergarten teachers. I tried to clear my head and ran through the day’s schedule in my mind.

“Sure, I can do it,” I said, hoping I wasn’t forgetting anything important.

“Great. Be there at 8:30,” she said.

Then I remembered: today is Thursday, which means it’s my Pilates day. Dammit! I love Pilates.

“Crap,” I said as I dragged my exhausted body to the shower. “So much for a workout.”

Or so I thought.

Man, kindergarteners are rough. After spending just three hours with them I was beat! I got to the school on time (after shuttling my own kids to their schools) and saw the teacher for whom I would be subbing. She had a meeting that morning and quickly explained that their schedule was going to be off today. “Gym isn’t until 9:45 now,” she said. She eyed the instruction sheet, made a few quick changes and handed it to me. She pointed to a pile on a table near her desk. “Everything you need is right there,” she said. “Too bad you’re not here in the afternoon. That classroom is a dream.”

Then she left. I read over the sheet and realized a lot of what she wrote made absolutely no sense to me. She hadn’t pointed out where some of the materials for the assignments were and she also did not tell me where I would be doing the instruction (would I talk to them while they were at their desks or on the mat? I had no idea.). In comparison to the first grade teacher I subbed for last month (whose notes were meticulous and whose classroom was immaculate), this teacher's room felt like a war zone. Her desk was a mess, she was unorganized and her thoughts were scattered on different papers.

“Ugh,” I thought. “This is going to be tough.”

I glanced at the clock and realized I needed to get the children from the bus line-up. I quickly introduced myself and brought them back to the classroom. After a few moments I realized the full extent of what I would be up against: young, immature minds, some of whom made it their job to test me every minute. As opposed to the warm, empathetic feeling I had from the first graders, instead I felt a strong need to assert myself. Six year olds smell fear and inadequacy. I needed to prove I had neither. (As if! You could practically see "Newbie" tattooed on my forehead.)

Luckily I read an amazing book called Substitute Teaching from A to Z, which prepared me for these situations. I knew the teacher had designated helper children and I asked them to do their jobs. I also enlisted a few kids who were eager to please. The morning ran relatively smoothly but in just an hour I felt as though I had run a half-marathon. Thankfully the kids had gym for half an hour and I was able to take a break. When the helper teacher came in I asked her about a few of the assignments and she was able to show me where several of the pieces were.

My instruction sheet said I would be finished at 11:30 a.m. The teacher showed up at 11:35 a.m. and said nothing to me. She began helping some of the children and finally at 11:40 I said, “Do you need me to stay?”

Stop here for a second. If you were a teacher and someone came in to do your job, what would you say? Would you say thanks? Or, hey, nice meeting you? Anything positive in the least?

Well, then you weren’t this teacher. She looked at me blankly and finally said, “Mrs. B will dismiss the children, so you can go.” That was it.

I said good-bye to the children and went straight to Starbuck’s where I ordered a pampering latte.

Although the experience was taxing I did learn a lot. For one, six year olds kind of suck. They are very young and often cannot sit still enough to hear simple instructions. I also realize that the year between kindergarten and first grade is vast in terms of a child’s development. I need to keep that in mind when dealing with my girls and remember that sometimes maturity comes in waves.