Creature Bug

I Shopped on Black Friday and All I Ended Up With Was A Piece of Costco Pizza

Jason and I had a mission on Friday: buy a new tv.

Not just any television, mind you.

A tv that will go in the new house. A high def tv. A minimum 3-hdmi plug-in, 1080p, wall-mountable tv. I haven't done any real research on the darn things, and yet when my sister asked me today what the difference is between a plasma and an LCD, I suspiciously sounded like one of those people who rattle on and on about electronics as if it's of great importance and used some kind of snobby phrase like "refresh rate."

Buying a new tv hasn't been at the top of my priority list (because I sometimes wish we didn't even have a tv), but I know that Jason has really wanted a new one for a long time. Our current one has a troubling blue spot that threatens to take over the whole screen. If you don't mind everyone looking a little Smurfy, then it's not a big deal. Otherwise, it's kind of annoying.

So Friday afternoon we dropped the girls off with the grandparents, and away we went to Jantzen Beach where we spent counted hours in Video Only, Best Buy, Circuit City, and Babies-R-Us (that was just to see if they had Wii Fit for my mom). Then we went to Costco where in a dazed and confused state we disobeyed my mother's orders not to buy any food because "there's more turkey than we know what to do with." Then for kicks we went to Best Buy over by the airport.

We finally settled on a tv. Okay, we said. We'll take that one.

The frazzled salesman looked it up for us and gave us the news: they didn't have any more in stock.

Home we went, no tv riding happily in the back of the minivan we borrowed for the occasion. It would have been a total bummer except that my grandma's minivan has seat warmers, and I just can't be too disappointed when my buns are toasty warm. Try it sometime. It's practically impossible.

I admit, it's usually a certain kind of hell for me, shopping for electronics. I'm constantly torn between pretending to know what I'm doing and wishing I was at home folding laundry. As it is, I spent approximately 10 hours looking and learning about TVs, sound systems, receivers, wiring, cabling, Blue-Ray, converters...some of you are nodding, and some of you are already getting that glazed look in your eyes like I do when Jason starts explaining some of it to me.

But after all those hours, I actually am mildly knowledgeable about entertainment systems. I could tell you what a good deal is, and ultimately the money factor is the only reason why I think any of it is important. Well, that and after staring at plasma screens I can tell you that their black isn't as true as an LCD's. And that 1080p is overkill for smaller screens. Somehow that's important.

Yesterday's failure only spurred us on to work harder today, and after another trip to Costco we finally got one. It's bigger than I had said I would allow in the house, but as I was watching those high-def baby penguins waddle across the screen it just seemed like the one to get. Jason said, "Look at that picture," and I said, "I want a penguin," and since the price was within our budget we somehow ended up with a...*gulp*...46" tv in the van.

Oh man.

Drat those baby penguins.

Five Kernels of Corn

"And cultivate thankfulness." (Colossians 3:15, The Message)

One of the first phrases that I teach my girls to say is "Thank you." It starts out forced: "Say 'Thank You.'" It moves to being prompted: "What do you say?" And now quite often--although certainly not always--it's habit. Jules even completes our part by saying, "Thankyouwelcome," one long word of politeness.

No one told me this was a good or bad idea, it was just seemed like the thing to do. Obviously, not everyone agrees with this parenting technique (because what parenting technique is universally agreed upon?). I was in a parenting group one time and some parents chafed at the idea of forcing their kids to say thank you. They modeled it for their kids, definitely. But they wanted the expression of thankfulness to be genuine, not prompted or forced. If they aren't thankful, they said, they shouldn't fake it.

Being genuine is certainly ideal, but not very often is a small child genuinely thankful for the cup of water you give her. My experience tells me that most good habits start out forced.

Brush your teeth.

Don't push. Don't hit. Don't bite others.

Say thank you.

I've heard it argued that Thanksgiving Day is artificially pumped with thankfulness, forcing us to be thankful when we'd rather not. I like it, though. I like that there's a day set aside for thankfulness because it's all too easy to get in a pattern of accepting the blessings without acknowledging them; or worse, forgetting the blessings altogether. I think President Abraham Lincoln knew what he was doing when he set aside a day for Thanksgiving. The nation was at war, his executive cabinet fought with each other all the time, and he was a man prone to deep and dark depression.

And yet.

He knew.

Cultivating thankfulness is important.

Especially when we don't want to. When it's hard. When our nation struggles, when our lives our in turmoil, when the future is uncertain.

Even on those days that I'm more grumpy than genuine, I've made an effort this year to mentally take stock and thank God for all the things that happen each day for which I am thankful. It was one of the habits that got me through the months of September and October when my world was chaotic and stressful.

So this year, as I continue our tradition of the Five Kernels of Corn, my heart is already in the habit, even if forming that habit wasn't always easy or fun. 

• I am thankful for my job, where I get to teach a fun subject, encounter amazing people, and see the power of words constantly played out.
• I am thankful for my husband who has been more patient with me than I deserved.
• I am thankful for my faith in God and the power of prayer that sustained me through my darkest hours and provided for me in times of need.
• I am thankful for Sydney and Julianne, who daily test the limits of my kindness but never the limits of my love.
• I am thankful for the milestone in my education; even if in the grand scheme of things it's not life-changing, I am very thankful to have completed it.

These are the five kernels I'm planting this year, and no doubt next year will bring a new crop of thankfulness, cultivated from another year of sunshine and rain. And you? Any kernels of corn you'd like to cultivate? I never tire of hearing what other people are grateful for.

Happy Thanksgiving!

And I bet cleaning the house doesn't help your memory...

Look at that. Someone did a study that shows taking naps is good for you.

Well, okay. If I must.

The Imaginary Shoe String Budget

We are one of those fortunate folks who aren't worried about losing a job, paying a mortgage, or making ends meet. Not that we haven't been in that position before, mind you. Only that having already managed to sell our house in this dismal market and both possessing jobs that are more recession-proof than most, we are on the lucky side.

The trick--for me, not for Jason--is to stay on the same budget that we started last June even though our expenses are dramatically lower than they've ever been. It's the same budget that didn't include my paycheck and did include a mortgage, property taxes, and an electrical bill for a non-energy efficient house. The same budget that allowed us to eat meat (other than chicken) every other month. It kills me not to splurge on items I've always wanted, like Ben & Jerry's ice cream (never had it, but everybody says it's delicious) or...or diamond earrings. You know. The simple pleasures.

But I keep remembering that we're saving for a house.

Those cute new shoes? REMEMBER THE HOUSE.

Curtains to spruce up the apartment? REMEMBER THE HOUSE.

A trip to Banana Republic? ACK! REMEMBER THE HOUSE! REMEMBER THE HOUSE!

It's a voice that plays in my head when I'm out shopping: We're saving for stuff to go in that house. Like the 42" plasma tv for Jason, or the stainless steel microwave drawer for me (and don't let that price on the website fool you; you can get them for cheaper). There's the new dining room table, and knobs for cabinets, and sheetrock, ductwork, and electrical outlet covers. Sure, those outlet covers aren't going to break the bank, but we have to buy, I don't know, 100 of them? That adds up. I'm guessing it does anyway. I can't quite visualize it in my head the way I can visualize those diamond earrings.

So we've been pretending we have a mortgage, and instead of paying a bank, we're stashing the money away in our money market account. It gives us an idea of what life will be like when we have that mortgage again. Except not quite, because there's no fear or worry or ohmygosh we don't have money to cover new brakes for the truck. It's the habit without the pressure of reality.

I'm not complaining that we're saving money instead of spending it. Seriously. A lot of people would be grateful to be in our position. I'm just reminding myself that even though I really want a Wii, I really, really want windows and carpet more.

I just tell myself every time I want a cranberry bliss bar at Starbucks, "Remember the light fixtures." Light fixtures aren't very tasty, but they are awfully pretty. And calorie-free.

And this time next year I'll be making my own bliss bars in my microwave drawer.

Because after building the house I won't be able to afford to buy them.

Week 231: Running with the Elephants

Thank you all for celebrating with me on my big news. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I celebrated by going out to dinner with friends, going to see Twelfth Night at my school, and going with Sydney to a dance performance at Willamette U. Technically, those were things I would have done even if I wasn't celebrating, but that's neither here nor there.

It's best to keep our celebration out of the house anyways because we have a new neighbor below us who introduced herself by way of saying, "Hi, I'm your new neighbor downstairs. I was wondering what sort of arrangement we could come up with about the noise." I stood there in the doorway awkwardly, assuring her I would do my best. She was sympathetic, "I know you have small children," but evidently their running up and down the hallway and the all-day dance parties in the living room sound like "a herd of elephants."

In case you aren't regularly around young children, I should mention that kids move around. A lot. In fact, Jules doesn't walk anywhere. She runs. She hops. She pounces with enthusiasm and vigor. And Sydney? The poor dear has heard the news, but as she said, "I just can't help it, Momma! I have to dance."

And she does. She has to. It's who she is. Our hour-long dance parties are a scheduled part of our daily activities, and all my instincts to be a kind and courteous neighbor squirm inside me with every thump, and stomp, and twirl, but...well, we can't stop dancing any more than we can't stop breathing.

I feel terrible though because we are not a quiet family. Have you met quiet families, with sweet and gentle mothers, who raise sweet and gentle children? I have, and I find them fascinating in the kind of way I find jellyfish fascinating. I am mesmerized by their slow, magical ways as they float through life. Sometimes I think, I'll just be a little quieter, a little more still, and then that will make all the difference.

Years of teaching has taught me this "change my ways" philosophy doesn't work. Just like I admire gentle parents, I also admired gentle teachers. They were the ones whose classrooms were subdued, their students rarely yelled (because they were bored? I don't know...). There's plenty of research that suggests that students emulate the noise and energy level of their teacher, and I tried to be one of those gentle, soft-spoken teachers. Well, I'd try for about 5 minutes, and then an errant boisterous laugh or a blatant display of crazy enthusiasm for Beowulf would bely my true nature: I am not quiet. I am not soft-spoken. I am not mellow.

To some degree I am quite relieved that my girls aren't either, Jules definitely more so than Sydney. We're a noisy bunch. We sing all the time. We dance at every moment. We wrestle; we bounce balls; we regularly drop to the floor for sit-ups and push-ups (and seeing a 23-month old kid doing sit-ups is totally priceless, I have to tell you). Throw in the daily temper tantrums, meltdowns, and dramatic monologues and you have a household that recognizes quiet like an Oregonian recognizes sunshine in February: with great confusion mixed with delight mixed with distrust.

I briefly thought of tallying how often we make noise that probably disrupts our neighbors, but I lost count after about 3 minutes. The most I can do is step over that squeak in the kitchen floor, disallow Sydney from practicing her tap dancing on non-carpeted areas, and half-heartedly remind the girls in my best lifeguard voice to "walk, don't run" between stations.

Also? I'm going to take some flowers down to our neighbor and beg to arrange some noisy hours and quiet hours because we have seven more months in our apartment and the little elephants can't keep from trumpeting.

And now you must call me Master Stephanie

At exactly 1:27 pm--a full 27 minutes after I could call, but didn't because I was afraid I'd get a busy signal--I called the graduate office. They told me the news: I PASSED MY GRADUATE EXAMS.

WOOOOOHOOOO!

I PASSED!

I very quietly celebrated since Jules is taking a nap, and Sydney gets riled up if I get riled up, so consider these exclamation points my party.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, it's official. I have my Master of Science in Education with a Language Arts Emphasis. I feel like I ought to wax eloquently about it, but I think I've pretty much said all I need to say about it. Just for my own record, and because someday I may consider getting my PhD and I need to remind myself of all this work, here's a few milestones of the journey. (By the way, for the longest time I thought I started classes in 2000, but I hadn't. Hooray for it taking a year less than I thought,)

• Summer 2001: Begin graduate program. Take class in James Joyce, at which point I realize a whole literary world that I had previously been unaware of.
• Summer 2002: Continue classes. Two-thirds of the way finished.
• Summer 2003: Out of money. Take one class.
• Spring 2004: Take a class, and revel in being the only pregnant woman in class.
• Summer 2004: Have a baby. Take no classes.
• January 2005: Back in the saddle again. Take a Modern Irish Literature class and fall in love with the academic world again.
• March 2005: Feel a bit frantic about having to write a term paper as well as parent a 9-month old.
• January 2006: Take an online course: Internet for Educators class. Ho hum.
• Summer 2006: Take a Teaching Writing class, which made me wish for a brief moment I was teaching high school English again.
• Spring 2007: Take a linguistics class that was a wonderful way to end my course-work. The professor was amazing, the subject work fascinating, and though leaving newborn Jules with a friend was hard, it worked out. And when it didn't work, I took Jules to class with me and the professor held her while I worked on the assignments.

And after that class I thought I would be able to take comps, but between them not being offered and not wanting to take them the same term as Jason took his, they were post-poned until this fall.

Seven years and five months later, I finished--with a perfect 4.0--what I started.

Yay me.

Sixteen hours...

...until I find out the results of my exams.

Eek.

Amazing, Baby

In just over a month a certain lovable, mischievous, high-spirited baby is going to turn two years old.

Two.

Once you turn two, I think a little bit of that baby sheen wears off. Fortunately, Jules still has lots to go around, evidenced by how often I smooch those cheeks of hers, or nuzzle my nose into the back of her neck, or nibble on her ears, even though most of those actions elicit a semi-serious "No Mama!" from said Baby.

To some degree, I've taken all of Jules's milestones in stride, without quite as much marveling over the little things she does like we did with Sydney. Jules has been getting her two-year molars, but somehow I haven't felt the urge to write about it. Go figure.

Sure, we're quite smitten and entertained by Jules, but the first word and the first tooth seemed just a little bit less miraculous the second time around. Also, there has been virtually no consulting of parenting books with Jules. I just don't care that much what books have to say. And the pregnancy books that I poured over while I was pregnant with Sydney? Untouched the last time I was pregnant. Partly because I don't find pregnancy fascinating, and partly because I don't like someone trying to give me a complex about the tuna sandwich I'm eating for lunch. It's tuna, for goodness sakes. Not a martini.

But there's a new book in town, and it's not preachy, it's not stress-inducing, and it's even got me--a non-baby person by all accounts--pouring over the pages.

 Amazing Baby is, first of all, a gorgeous book. Seriously. The book has pages and pages of beautiful pictures of babies, and it almost makes me want to have a baby just so I could take some pictures of her. I'm not talking Anne Geddes-style pictures (which I enjoy and have nothing against). I'm talking close-ups, action shots, pensive shots, amazing baby shots. At this particular moment, what I love the most about the book is the photography and the fabulous anatomy page-overlays that are quite informative. I can hardly remember what else I want to say about the book, so distracted am I by these adorable babies.

There's other good stuff too, though. Like the whole premise of the book, which is that it delivers all sorts of amazing facts about the first two years of life. It mostly skips past the gestating stage (not completely, but enough so that I wouldn't call it a pregnancy book) and delivers on what is so amazing about these little babies we have.

For instance:

• Newborns can swim
• There are seven reasons why a baby cries
• Babies are born with several automatic reflex actions
• A baby's brain makes up 10% of her weight; it's only 2% for adults
• Babies best fall asleep hearing the heart beat at 72 times per minute, the rate a relaxed pregnant mother's heart beats 
• A two-year toddler is an amazing word-learning machine

That last one? I knew that. Favorite word around here? Gum. It's the only leverage I have in getting Jules to eat breakfast, take a bath, and get dressed.

More than your standard (or even a-typical) parenting book, author Desmond Morris has written a book that celebrates the achievements of babies and just how remarkable their young lives are. The tone of the book is encouraging, engaging, and educational, filled with helpful suggestions to make a child's early life even more remarkable. My only complaint is that Dr. Morris credits evolution as the reason why babies are so irresistible and amazing. I heartily disagree on that point.

Nevertheless, this beautiful baby development book is one that could just as easily go on the coffee table as it could in a gift bag for a new mom. First-time moms may want to consult those tried-and-true pregnancy books, but this would make a great compliment. Second and third and fourth time moms will appreciate this book for its unique perspective of seeing life from the child's point of view.

I feel like I probably ought to give the book away, since I'm not pregnant (although I do have a child who fits in the category of under two-years-old), but I can't part with it. Plus, someday there may be another baby in my life who reminds me not to take the amazing development of life for granted.

 

But don't worry, Jules. That won't be for a long time. Plus, no baby can replace you because you, my sweet, are amazing. And I know I haven't told you how amazing you are for being able to feed yourself, or put on your own pants, or choose your own shirts, or open the fridge and get your sippy cup and an apple, but you are. Amazing.

*

For more reviews of Amazing Baby check out Parent Bloggers Network.

Carried through the Drops

Earlier this week it was non-stop rain. Drop, drop, drop. Huge drops splattering against our living room window, little drops splashing onto our shoes as we walked to the car. Downpours, showers, sprinkles, mist: we know how to talk about rain here in the Pacific Northwest.

But today? Sunshine. I woke up to bright blue skies, a woodpecker tapping near my bedroom window reminding me not to sleep in too late even though the girls are at their grandparents' house. I shuffled out of bed to the computer--a path already so clearly marked in the carpet I vacuumed yesterday--placed an order for a client (my freelance job, remember?) and opened the window to breathe in the smell of November.

I think I have almost shrugged off all the stress that has been bound up so tightly within me. The selling of the house, the deciding to postpone building until the spring, the moving, the returning to school and coaching, the teaching, the moving again, the studying for graduate exams, the small family crises that seem to pop up now and again--all of it weathered during the last two months, each drop soaking us, pushing us deeper into the storm where we had no choice but to huddle together and remind each other, "We're going to make it. We love each other, and we'll make it."

 

And today the sun is shining, though there still remain a few intermittent drops.

Drop.

Sydney, who has done so well with all the transitions and tolerated the changes, is showing signs of having reached her limit. She didn't complain when she had to start sharing a room with Jules. She didn't complain when she started making her weekly-treks back up to the farm. But this week, when we dropped her off in an unfamiliar classroom at a new church, she looked at us with tears in her eyes. "I don't want to," she whispered, but went anyway. Sure, she's always been my timid one, but it was different this time. It was anxiety; it was going into the unknown. Again.

Drop.

Wednesday, after Jason went back to school after enjoying Tuesday off, she said, "I want Daddy to stay home. I don't like it when everyone leaves." But we colored together, and painted, and played with toys to make up for the time we lost while I was studying for exams. That night she and I slept side-by-side, a tradition we have for the one night we stay up at the farm away from Jason.

Then as I started to drive away yesterday--leaving her with grandpa where their plans for the day involved feeding corn husks to a neighbor's cows--she waved sadly from the garage, tears streaming down her face, crying that I was once again leaving her.

Drop.

One little drop isn't much, but eventually they add up, each one getting us a little wetter until we realize with a start that we are soaked through. I know all the changes have affected the girls. Their sleeping habits were disrupted; Jules developed a terrible nighttime cough; Sydney asks less often to go do things and would rather be home, coloring, painting, reading books. She holds my hand more often, reluctant to let go.

We're doing the best we can by keeping a schedule, keeping Sydney in her dance class, going to the library, and now we have decided to scrap our church-hunting plans until after Christmas and just arrange our weekends so that on Sundays we are in Oregon instead of Washington.

When I was going through the hardest part of the storm earlier last month, I found myself in constant prayer, crying out to God to hold me together. He did, and He carried me through the storm. He soaked me in His love just when I needed it. On this side of the rain I can see that.

This week, and probably for a few more months of changes to come, Sydney will weather her own storm, and I know what she doesn't: it'll be okay. It'll be okay because I'll carry her through it, whispering to her every moment of every day how much I love her, reassuring her that even when she can't see us we still think of her.

There will be drops, but I hope what she remembers more than the drops are the Tuesday nights at the library, the Thursday nights of sleeping next to me, and all the other moments where we splashed in the puddles together.

Week 230: Relaxing

     

I seem to be mostly offline this week. It's nice to look at my to-do list and see "paint with the girls" towards the top of the list.

Rocks and Socks and Talks and Walks

I admit I had a moment of panic yesterday when I opened up the envelope, pulled out the test questions, and saw that one of the test questions was not what I had studied for. "Oh crap," I mumbled to myself. I closed my eyes and prayed I would not throw up.

And then I sat, for a good 15 minutes, willing myself to stay there and work it out anyway. Even though I tend to do well on essay exams, I still lean more towards feelings of flight rather than fight. I remembered having the same feeling ten years ago when I took part of my teaching exam, seeing that question about Emily Dickinson and themes of death in her poetry and thinking, "I can't do it." I cried for the first hour of the two-hour exam.

But not yesterday. I would not cry. I would not run away. I would answer the question, even if it didn't have anything to do with everything I had memorized about Aristotle's rhetorical context. And, I told myself, I was going to totally rock that exam question--even if it was pebble-size rocking, rather than boulder-size. A rock is a rock, right?

Anyway, I typed my little heart out, managing to eek out two 1500-word essays that I wasn't ashamed of. The comic Irish lit question I had expected; the developing a teaching unit based on grammar theories wasn't exactly what I had planned on. Nevertheless, by a stroke of Providence, just that morning I had looked over some grammar theories and decided to randomly memorize a few names. Thank you, Lord.

While it's true that I ended up basing the whole writing unit on one theorist whose name I couldn't remember, I think it'll be okay. It's quite possible what I wrote wasn't what they were looking for, but in the end I was pretty tickled with myself and wished that I could actually implement the writing unit I created because it was so totally creative and cool. See, there's that residual adrenaline talking now.

I didn't run away. I sat there and remembered all the things people have said to encourage me. I thought of my professors, my sweet husband, my parents, and I thought, "I can do it."

And 7 hours and 5000 words later, I did.

Now I wait until November 19th to see if I passed. Deep breaths.

Three hours down, four to go

I finished the education portion of my comps today. Whew! No thanks to the two hours of insomnia I suffered in the middle of the night, I still did fine and dandy, and feel confident I'll receive passing marks without any troubles. I even celebrated with a pumpkin milkshake from Burgerville.

Tomorrow is the literature portion. I am feeling much more unsteady, but optimistic nevertheless.

Fingers crossed.

Election Reflection

Probably the only thing the girls will remember about last night is that they heard fireworks in the street. The rockets went off just as we got out of the car, arriving home from the library. "Fiya-wuks," said Jules as she clutched a new library book in her hand. "Wow," said Sydney.

We tried to keep Sydney awake last night to watch part of Obama's speech, but the lingering effects of daylight savings time wore her down, and she fell fast asleep.

Not that she would have known what it was about anyway. We don't talk politics with her; she doesn't know what or who the President is; she knows about elephants and donkeys, and that's where her knowledge of civics ends.

Someday she'll understand why this election was historically important, but she'll understand it in a completely different way than I do. And quite honestly, as someone who has endured only minor prejudices, and certainly not on any life-changing level, my understanding is limited as well.

What I do understand is that a generation ago, we were a nation even more divided than we are now. A generation ago, what happened last night would have been impossible. I was proud to be an American last night, even though it wasn't one of my votes that propelled Obama to victory. My eyes welled up as I thought how emotionally poignant the moment must be for him, and how his grandmother didn't live to see it. That is a bittersweet ending indeed.

Obama has a tough road ahead of him, as would anyone who steps into the role of President in January. Nevertheless, he got this far, and I'm hopeful for the change he'll bring. I know I won't agree with everything he does, or all the policies he creates, but I'm still thrilled to live in a country that will soon have its very first black President.

That is nothing short of amazing.

Week 229: The Decisions We Make

I've been waiting for this week for a long time.

I've thought long and hard about it, made plans about it, studied the facts and issues for hours upon hours.

My decision for this week's event is based on what happened eight years ago. Eight long years ago.

As a result of that decision, my life has sometimes been turned upside down. It's been an emotional journey, and at times felt hopeless. But I've persevered because I knew that it was the only course. And now the time has come to put it all on the line.

I'm, of course, talking about my comprehensive graduate exams. (What? You thought I was talking about something else that's happening this week? Silly.)

Yes, it was eight years ago that I took my first graduate class at Western Oregon University, somehow turning a 3-summer program into an 8-summer program. I'm an overachiever like that.

No matter that some people *cough* my parents *cough* have worried I wouldn't finish, those same people have supported and loved me through it anyway. In fact, they're taking the girls for the two days that I'm taking the exams. All is forgiven, and no one will be happier or more relieved when that diploma comes in the mail than...my mother. Second place goes to my grandma. I think I'm probably fourth or fifth down the line.

The other good news is that I had an epiphany this weekend about my comps. Considering that "epiphany" is one of James Joyce's trademark themes, it was only fitting that it was while I was reading one of his books that I figured out how to pull everything together to answer one of the questions. I feel so much more relieved knowing that I won't totally embarrass myself on Friday (or Thursday, which is when I'm answering the education questions).

I can do this.

In fact, I'm glad I'm doing it. Not only because I've spent a considering amount of time, money and effort on the dang thing, but because I realized today that not once have I felt any measure of guilt that this has been part of my life as a parent. There may be things that I do give up, things that I sacrifice, many moments when "I" am low on the priority list, but getting this degree? I'm doing this for me.

It never occurred to me that I shouldn't do this. No one had to convince me that it was important. Even though the classwork was definitely harder to do after I became a mom, it was still something that I wanted to do. Always.

A lot of my life is about being a wife and a mom, but as Dr. Seuss said, "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."

Fingers crossed that after Friday I will be Me-er than Me, with a master of science in education.

Saturday's Silly Survey: Scary Movies

When I told my sister of my plans to study my Halloween evening away, she told me that she might carve some pumpkins and watch a scary movie. It's good that she has friends who will watch scary movies with her because there is no way in tarnation that I would ever watch anything remotely frightening with her.

Ever.

Even if she begged me. Even if someone else begged me. Don't ask me to watch a scary movie with you because I'll refuse.

I suspect most American children have a higher tolerance for scary movies than I do. I'm okay with that. Because honestly, being scared is not even remotely entertaining for me. Those people who come out of movie theatres after seeing The Ring, remarking about how scared there were and Oh Boy! Wasn't that Fun? I am not one of those people.

My scary movie repertoire consists of Pet Cemetery and Scream, the latter movie I was tricked into seeing by my brother-in-law who insisted that it wasn't scary, it was funny. Ho haw hee hee. I hated him a little bit after that movie.  Even high-intensity movies like What Lies Beneath are too much for me. We rented that one time, and I sat in the dining room and had Jason narrate the movie for me from the living room. "So what's happening now?" She's chasing him. "What now?" They're in the water. "It's too scary!" Not really. Quite possibly I ruined that movie experience for him.

I watched Pet Cemetery in junior high, and I admit it was my saving grace all through my high school years whenever I was at a party and someone said, "Let's watch a scary movie!" My choices were to go home early (very uncool) or suggest Pet Cemetery (thereby keeping my coolness). I can confirm that after the fourth viewing it's not so scary anymore. Of course, that was years and years ago so probably if I had to see it again it would give me nightmares.

But perhaps you are a fan of the scary movie. Yes? No? Let your silent screams be heard in today's poll.

I will say that I don't count old Alfred Hitchcock films like The Birds or Vertigo as scary films because I don't think those movies are legitimately frightening. But that's probably because black and white movies have no emotional effect on me whatsoever.