Report Cards

Everyone in my family got a report card this week except for me.
The elementary school sent home very formal critiques of my twins' progress along with a letter from the state describing achievements made by the entire student body; my husband participated in one of those scary 360-degree reviews at the corporation where he's employed. Even the baby's pediatrician handed me a checklist of "achievements" at her 16-month visit.
As a stay-at-home mom, I've gotten my fill of lovely Mother's Day cards and pats on the back from various shoppers at malls, grocery stores and gas stations.
But really, I'd like to know how I'm doing. Right now. Before there are any expensive psychologists to pay.
So, I asked my six-year-olds to develop a rubric to assess my work, then grade me on my efforts.
What, I asked my children, are mothers supposed to do?
"Well, they're supposed to take care of the kids," Elizabeth said.
"And the baby," added William.
According to my first graders, mothers should be held accountable for planning great birthday parties, making sure everyone eats vegetables, reading bedtime stories, cleaning up and doing laundry.
(Noone mentioned the development of spiritual, emotional or intellectual selves but that might be added to the list next year. I am further hopeful that my progeny will also think to include the installment of manners and the ability to obliterate lice.)
Next, it came time to do the grading. I took a deep breath.
I got a perfect score on taking care of the baby. (Did anyone notice that I lost her once today?)
I also took the cake when it came to the birthday parties. My Spontaneous Easter Egg Hunt for 50 children last April was mentioned, albeit not technically a birthday celebration.
"Though you should have gotten us skateboard last year for our birthday," Will added.
I also pulled it out in the nourishment category, which was a complete surprise to me given the loud moans displayed at nearly every meal.
"But you should still make Will eat more vegetables," Elizabeth reported.
On the defense, I quickly told her I make an effort to present them every night. I cannot, however, force him to consume them save inserting an IV drip line.
According to the kids, I am furthermore a wonderful story reader. I was given credit for doing interesting charachter voices even when it is late at night and I'm really cranky.
Moreover, both children interpret the house to be clean. This means I will cancel my naptime dusting tomorrow in lieu of browsing the web.
Then they informed me that I am not perfect.
It would seem there is a significant problem with my laundry skills.
"Mom," said Elizabeth, "We need to talk about this sock problem."
Sock problem?
"You only match about 40 percent of the socks," she said.
I cannot deny this fact: Most people in my family wear mismatched socks on most days in my house. In fact, every bedroom in the house includes a display atop dressers of lonely singelton socks waiting for their mates.
Well, I tell them, I will work on that.
Right after I plan the next birthday party, that is.

Listen Up, Mr. President

When you live in Washington D.C. as we did for many years, celebrities are not limited to Snooki, Lindsay and Britney. If you really want to get the interns revved up, spot Nancy (Pelosi), Harry(Reid) and now John (Boehner) dining at one of the venerable steak houses near Capitol Hill.
That's why having Roberto Rodriguez come to dinner at our house last night was a really big deal.
Mr. Rodriguez is Special Counsel to the President on Education, a handsome 35-year-old dynamo who advises Barack Obama on national school policy. He is, by Beltway standards, a minor celebrity.
In our world, he's a major one: Roberto also happens to be my husband's oldest and dearest friend, a fellow zoo school graduate from Grand Rapids, Michigan, who once ran the City High Student Council with Jim. (Three cheers for the City High "Pegasi," which was a somewhat dorky yet understandable mascot for Grand Rapids' gifted and talented youth.)
To know Roberto is to love him and in no time at all, six-year-old Elizabeth was perched on his lap as we grown-ups talked politics.
We explained to the twins that Roberto works for President Obama to make schools better.
"Is there any message you want Roberto to give to Mr. Obama?" I asked the kids. "Is there anything we as a country should be doing to improve your school?"
I, for one, could stand to do away with the TAKS tests but then, that's more of a state issue...
William, meanwhile, monkeyed with a paper plate, thoughtfully chewing his tongue.
"There should be more ice cream," he said, all business. "Every day there should be ice cream."
Roberto, ever the problem solver, asked for clarification.
"And should we have hot fudge available?" he prompted. "How about sprinkles? Do we want just vanilla or choclate, too?"
But Will wanted things simple.
"Vanilla would be good," William said.
"Well, that's important to know," Roberto said. "The House is considering the Child Nutrition Bill this week."
Who says officials don't listen to their constitutents?

Louse in De House

I am a big fan of the story “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” the children’s book in which one action leads to another. I think there should be a version for grown-ups called “If Your Husband Goes Overseas on Business.” Here is my version.

If your husband goes to China on business, your daughter will come home with a head full of lice.
If you go to the drug store to purchase a shampoo to remove the lice, there will be only one kit left. You will need two.
If you carefully apply the pesticide, which is supposed to kill anything alive, then spend three hours combing out your daughter’s thick, long hair with an inch-wide metal nit comb, you will notice at the end of your grooming session one very alive louse. He will have very alive friends.
If you call your pediatrician in a panic, he will put you on hold.
If your doctor suggests your massage mayonnaise into your daughter’s scalp as a homeopathic remedy, you do so only to realize that you have been using Light Mayonnaise instead of Regular Mayonnaise. It is likely lice will enjoy Light Mayonnaise.
If your aunt comes to visit you from New Mexico, you will send her directly to a seedy laundromat with 14 loads of lice-infested bedroom textiles.
If your aunt is at a coin-operated laundromat, she will not have enough quarters to get the job done.
If she cashes in her remaining bills for coins, she will run out of detergent.
If you are simultaneously doing laundry at home, your washing machine will break.
If your washing machine breaks, the toilet in your master bedroom will sympathize and begin spraying dirty water soaking your carpet.
If you need to soak up funky toilet water, you will realize your aunt has every towel in the house in the back of her car.
If you get the toilet water cleaned up, you will still need to vacuum up the lice.
If you try to vacuum up the lice, you will realize your vacuum is on its last legs and that you are out of clean vacuum bags.
If you spend a whole entire week raking through your child’s hair with a painful comb, you will feel guilty and let her play with a chemistry set.
If you let her play with a chemistry set, she will spill every single chemical on the kitchen floor where your baby is crawling.
If you spend an hour cleaning the brick surface on your hands and knees, your mother will helpfully dump your dirty mop water into the downstairs toilet.
If she pours the sludge down the toilet, several rags will go down with it and clog the pipes causing the potty to overflow onto your clean floors.
If you find yourself covered in toilet water, lice shampoo, mayonnaise and dead bugs, your husband will call from China and tell you he’s having a wonderful time at the World’s Fair.
If, after a week, you finally get your child cleaned up and the house deloused, you will get an e-mail from a first grade teacher informing you that Friday is Hat Day.
If it’s Hat Day in First Grade, your child will provide a habitat for a new crop of lice.

The Mystery Reader

Being a Mystery Reader in first grade is a little like volunteering to step on the circus stage--you know darn well something funny will happen with the clowns and that it will likely involve water.
Yet, it is nice to raise your hand and be chosen.
Thus, I marched off to the elementary school last week with my two reads tucked under my arm and a theme: It's good to be quirky.
Mrs. E. turned off the lights as I entered and did a drum roll...surprise...it's Will's mom!
I parked myself in the rocker.
"Our two stories today are about being quirky and how that's a good thing," I told the kids clustered on the Crayola-colored rug. "Who knows what quirky means?"
Noone knew.
"Well, it means being unique in a special way," I said. "Our baby Charlotte is quirky because she likes to do chores. When she crawls, she pulls herself around on her tummy, dusting the floor."
I added that I'm quirky--I drink Diet Coke with my breakfast!
I offered other examples: Our grandma screams really loud when she rides kiddie amusements even though she's in her seventh decade of life, Will's sister separates all her food into categories before she eats them, our daddy can snore so loud you can hear him one floor down.
I then proceeded to read "Imogene's Antlers," the story of a British girl who, wouldn't you know it, grows antlers! I follow up with Dav Pilkey's "Dog Breath," about a canine who saves the day despite needing to brush and floss.
Then it was time to see how well we did with retention.
"Okay, so we know being quirky is a good thing," I said. "Who here is quirky?"
One little boy offered that he's quirky because he wears his hair in a braid on top of his head; another girl lives on a farm with a horse.
Will's friend Sandy has a dog who has really, really short legs but runs surprisingly fast.
They were getting into the swing of things now.
"Ohh, ohh, I have one," yelled a kid in a Cub Scout uniform hopping up and down. "I have a dog who wears a diaper and pees blood!"
Next time I think I will go to the circus.
At least that's a more predictable afternoon.