Darth Mother

In trying to find some bright spot, some silver lining to the waaaaaaay long Jersey winter this year, I wracked my brains for some saving grace to all these layers and the fact that on April 1st, I'm still wearing gloves. And then it struck me... the gloves. the leather.

I've seized upon the intimidating yet polished look presented by swaggering winter coat and high black leather boots. This may seem an odd choice, like a bit of a stretch. Perhaps. But it's the effect this ensemble has upon young children with which I am most enamored. You see I am sure that each edict I issue to the adolescent Son1&2 is made all the more resonant by the fact that I resemble Lord Vader in all his boot wearing, cape tossing, asthmatic-sounding (it's allergy season) glory. The message is perfectly clear: Don't mess with me.  I'll kick your ass and squeeze the force right outta ya.

"I SAID: BRUSH ---YOUR----TEETH!" Squeeze leather clad fist around Colgate tube. Cue dramatic, coat swinging turn.  And then this plays in the background. By the 27th "brush your teeth" I probably look more like the Emperor actually.

While I adore a good peep toe as much as the next girl, you don't get this sort of gravitas in a sundress.

Yes, you can look authoritative and grab attention in lighter weight clothes, but the houndstooth, chalk stripe and deep jewel tones of winter-wear really do beg to be taken more seriously than, say, polka dots or lavender. You didn't see Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada oozing ice from her veins while sporting a baby pink cardi. She played the cold weather-wear card for a uniform befitting the tyrant she was. And that's what we all are, frankly, in our kids eyes: tyrants. Our kids are not members of a democracy. While I strive for "benevolent dictator," I know they see our house as a fascist regime escaped only by college, boarding school, or a week alone with Daddy.

This Winter has been exceptionally insane in duration, so I've gotten my fair share of DarthMother moments. I am ready to pack away the long coats and give the boots a rest for the next, say, 4-72 months. Maybe before I do, I'll relish one last menacing directive in "uniform."

The week has come to end, but yet another email has been received by a Son1 teacher. And it's not a love note or request for guest blogging. Mommy's not happy. She is, in fact, on the war path. (So much so she's speaking of "her"self in third person?)

I must go make my entrance, convey the sentencing, and take my dramatic coat/cape swinging leave, leather-clad boots stomping in my retreat. Cue the music, DJSon1, and kiss your PSP goodbye for a few days:

And occassionally, there really is a wolf

We've all heard the story about the boy who cried wolf. Ten bucks says, the people ignoring him the most were his actual parents. I say this because of all in the village, they would have heard his panic-stricken yet fake calls for help from the very start. His poor mother probably threw out her shoulder untying her peasant dress to breastfeed when the little twit wasn't even hungry. But then, one day, burned by all the drama-king moments, everyone tuned him out. And so the final score was Villagers: 0/ Wolf 1.

Having just left the podiatrist and seen xray's of Son1's so-flat-they-may-well-be-convex feet, I am feeling horrible for all the years of telling him to stop stomping around the house, and stop whining after your hideously cruel parents made you walk around Disney World for the day. We knew he needed arch supports. We knew he needed orthotics. However we also knew (still know) that he is the Laurence Olivier of teen drama kings. But to see the xrays of bones that are still growing look as stressed as me smack in the middle of school-morning-mayhem, and then hear things like "surgery" and "arthritis" bantered about for my 13 yr old child who I had not just poo poo'd but told to stop whining? Well, I hit a new low.

And here's the REALLY pathetic part-- the old low was just 3 weeks ago. It was 3 weeks ago I sat in a specialist's office hearing that Son2 may have some measurable deficiencies in rods affecting his vision. I mean, gee, it only took me, mother of the year, like 4 years from the first comment to get him in for a pediatric opthamologist's check which resulted in the knowledge his vision was about 20/100 or worse. He had gone through many optometrist visits, but fidgeted and futzed and ADHD'd his way (yes, I just made a new verb) into inconclusive results. But then, in urgently scheduled and elaborate successive exams of his retinas, we saw he WASN'T crying "wolf" for years. He couldn't focus on the haze the world presented and he was crying "waaaay blurry wolf, mom!"

Ugghhh. I've posted items before about some lovely parent fail moments and you all have been amazingly supportive in sharing your lapses... your moments of being non-psychic humans. That feedback does wonders for my delusion that I can pull off this mom thing after all. I really don't like to second guess God, but I wonder at times if he made a tactical error entrusting the care of the most vunerable mortals into the hands of merely older mortals. With limited patience. (Sigh)

In time, these young ones somehow make it to adulthood, and we will sit back and watch as they, in turn, complain about THEIR kids' whining... and the circle of life and the continuum of ignoring children until faced with concrete evidence they're actually impaired will be complete. Ahhhh... all in good time, the products of all my parenting fails will, in fact, generate their own. Circle of life, indeed.

Will you PLEASE put on some pants?!

Son2 has developed a disquieting habit of late. I don't mean talking with his mouth full or leaving the seat down while peeing. Lord knows he's done those for years. He's always been the more eccentric of the two kids. We've chalked it up to his "artistic nature" and referred to him as quirky. But now, at 11, Son2 is surpassing even, well, Son2, in the weirdness arena. Son2 has decided pants are optional. And with warmer weather here, I'm living in fear he's going to take his show into the great outdoors of the backyard.

Nudity not withstanding, as I mentioned, he's always had some quirks. Wardrobe has been an issue before. There was his love affair through the second grade with pajamas. He had a school uniform, so it's not like we had to worry about him wearing them to school. But first I found flannel pj's tucked into his backpack. Then finally, one day I picked him up at aftercare and was greeted with his flannel-clad gams. Turns out the weasel was slipping into clean pj's THEN his school pants. Not sure what he would have done once warmer weather hit. He may have passed out in library from overheating. Not quite sure if he had a plan once the spring uniform of walking shorts came out of the drawers. He probably did since he planned out sneaking a clean pair into the bathroom to put on under his uniform that very day. "Well, Mommy, I knew you guys would wonder where my pajamas were if you didn't see them in the hamper, so I knew I had to get changed when I got up. So I just had a different pair for school." It was a little diabolical for 2nd grader.

Ahh... the good old days... when he wore not one but two pairs of pants. One would be kind of nice right about now.

I first noticed this new trend a few days ago. Well, "noticed" may not be accurate. "Forced to stop living in denial" is maybe a little more to the point. That was when I went into the kitchen to find Son1 doing nothing. Not getting food (shocking in and of itself), not drinking the 3rd gallon of milk that day. Just standing, inviting the question "why are you in the kitchen, not the rec room?" Answer: "Because my brother's not wearing any pants. AGAIN!" Hhhhhmmm. Again, eh? "He's always taking his pants off, then he sits in the chair like nothing's wrong and I'm sick of it. It's weird. I'm not going back down there until he puts his pants on." A) That's the most logical set of thoughts I've ever heard from you. B) I'd have to agree. C) Can you please back up to the stress on the word "again" for me?

Sure, I'd noticed there were constantly socks strewn around the rec room. A sneaker here, a sneaker there. But ya know you come in and you take your shoes off so I could see that. But it's really not a common reflex to walk in the house, put down your keys, check the mail, and drop your pants (and not replace them with another garment) before sitting at the dinner table. So when I first saw the pants down there, I just figured he raided the clean laundry pile to put on pj's and the dirty clothes never made it to the bin. Or maybe he was getting his snowpants on to go out the backdoor to play and left his other pants there. I mean, I know it hasn't snowed in 4 weeks and it's all melted but it sounded sort of plausible. Or maybe I just needed to face facts that Son2's next "quirk" was surfacing and flying free was the way he wanted to be.

But then the Great Pants Caper became more obvious. Sitting at the table eating, I looked down and saw bare leg. "Aren't you forgetting something, on your legs?" Answer: "Oooh! napkin on my lap, I forgot." FORGOT?! Your NAPKIN? JUST your napkin???? Then tonight, while watching TV with him, I happened to glance away from my super important work (Pathwords) and glance toward the hub's easy chair in which Son2 was perched. And there, on the floor, in a trail like a soap opera bedroom scene was a line of shoe, shoe, sock, sock, and (of course) shorts winding to a cuddled up Son2 in a blanket. "Why are you not wearing pants?" Answer: "Don't you think it's so much more comfortable? Besides, I left my underpants on this time." Oh, ok. Gee, thanks for that, "this time." Excuse me while I go wash the blankets down in the rec room though.

Had this habit developed when he was 3 or 4, it may have been cute. If any of you have ever been faced with a middle schooler who has suddenly decided au natural is the way to be I'd LOVE to hear your parenting advice for getting the pants back on, because in my house I'd prefer children eat with mouths closed, with napkins on laps, OVER fabric. Call me a dreamer. For now I'm going to Google things like "sudden nudity" and "son refusing pants" to see if I can find any advice. I should just ask Son1 to help, since now we're both huddled in the kitchen, one avoiding the playroom until it's gotten Clorox wipe treatment, the other wondering where she went wrong, and praying her younger son would just put on his goddamn pants so our house can get back to the fully clothed 3ring circus it's always been.

Tony Award? Oh Yeah, It's In The Bag!

Last night was Spring Parent-Teacher conference time. I was going to write a list of 5 things you should never do the day of teacher conferences. But yesterday, I opened and read a letter from the IRS telling me my business is being audited and thought, well, my list was simply one entry: “Never open and read any letter from the IRS that same day.” So with the wired call to my CPA a fresh memory, and the realization that I was now fully awake and probably did NOT need the 5Hour Energy sample I’d ingested just minutes before said-letter, I was ready to head to the school. I really couldn’t tell why my heart was racing… the letter or the vita-shot or the fact that I was lined up for 4 teacher meetings in a row. In any event, I tried my best Lamaze breathing, which was tricky since I haven’t been pregnant ever. I adopted, so my whole Lamaze knowledge is from TV, like the way I kind of know the Miranda warning because I have my doctorate in Law &Order.

My teacher meetings last night were pure exercises in acting. In the midst of it all, I took solace that a career change into acting just may work, because I could clearly pull off emotions in front of a live audience that I was in no way feeling. Were I on Candid Camera, I would have been cut as the boring clip in which the woman was presumed comatose and showed no reaction. Don’t get me wrong~ on the inside I was 110% verklempt and ready to string my son up by his Chuck Taylors. But on the outside, I was cool, composed, and well, maybe talking just a wee bit faster that norm which is scary really since I already have the rapid fire Jersey-pace known and loved by Joe Pesci fans everywhere. But enough about Joe. This is about me. Joe can get his own blog. What follows is “Parent-Teacher Time: An Evening in Four Acts.” I’m submitting my performance for consideration next awards season. I’m so nominating myself for a Tony Award. I was that good.

Act One: Son2's Language Arts, Room 115
Have some small chat with teacher, and prepare to be handed “The Green Folder.” The Green Folder was its own artistic triumph, so much more than a mere prop or paper container. You see Son2 is highly artistic, so when faced with a green folder into which he was to place his papers this close to St Patrick’s Day, The Green Folder had to be crafted into a work of art on par with all great Irish creations… like the simplicity of St Brigid’s Cross, the beauty of Waterford, Guinness. And so my eyes were bright as I beheld it’s splendor and was then faced with page after page of jaw dropppingly bad grades hidden in the locker since Christmas. I wanted to drop The Green Folder like toxic waste, but that would tip off the teacher that I had NO clue he had these grades. What kind of parent doesn’t know her 5th grader is harboring these scores in his locker for 6 weeks, sharing only the 90’s. Son2~ your night was now in peril… not for the grades themselves, but rather for sweet talking me through the past few weeks and trying once again, as you did in 2nd grade, to sign the papers “for me.” As we said to you then: A) DON’T forge, and B) Don’t use crayon. It’s a big tip off. And yet I did not scream out “WTF!!!!” I remained calm, to maintain the appearance of a woman better informed, thus better aware. Did you see Helen Mirren in “The Queen”? I was that contained. Maybe just a touch of Pesci.

It was now time for the Son1 Teacher Trifecta…

Act Two: Son1's Social Studies, Room 105
This was the one I had dreaded. Knowing Son1 has been less than successful on his research for a large term paper, I was ready to discuss with/ pepper the teacher with questions about the lack of IEP adherence such as supply of written study guides and other supports leading to his grade unraveling from 95 to 60 in 2 months. Son1 clearly told me over and over again that all work was being done in school, none of this was take home, and he was right on top of things. The Child Study Leader was a little concerned since she had gotten radio silence from the teacher. How could you leave a kid with off the charts ADHD out to dry with nothing supplied in writing? So channeling Helen/Queen Elizabeth, I took my place. But this teacher had an ace up his sleeve for our meeting that threw me the minute I sat. He had Son1’s signature on form after form acknowledging he A) had the assignment instructions and B) hadn’t done the night’s homework. And Son1 really did sign them, not Son2 in crayon for him so I couldn’t even have the evidence thrown out. Right there, in print, proof Son1 was scamming me with every “uh, no Mr. W didn’t say we had any homework.” Or “uh, yeah, I’ve like got everything like in.” Uh~ like hell no! Do you know the dramatic skills required to look like Dame Helen when you really feel like Sigourney Weaver with the alien ripping out of her?!??! Tony, baby. I’m winning that puppy.

With a very hush-toned, “yes, of course, we’ll speak with Son1 regarding his homework,” I took my leave. Poker face in tact, 5Hour Energy in full heart-racing swing, documented proof I had 2 little weasels at home. And yet, we were only ½ way through the teacher meetings.

Act Three: Son1's Language Arts Room 106
The second stop on my Son1 tour brought me to the other teacher involved with the aforementioned way-past-deadline research term paper. To this teacher’s credit he has been very communicative so surprises were few. Not that they weren’t big. They were just smaller in number. I think it was somewhere in Room 106 I first felt my right eye twitching. Again, grace under fire was called for, and I rallied. I am of English-descent after all. We do that very well. Tossing aside my eye twitch to the teacher as “just some contact trouble,” I pushed on. He may have seen right through me, as he stared perplexed at my eyeglasses. I tried to do everything in my power to move calmly through the meeting, knowing the Math teacher was still looming.
I was so embarrassed to admit how much B.S. my sons had been throwing my way, I wanted to screech. How could this be happening? How could both of my kids so blatantly lie about why they were after school like I had done for years until my parents found out I had actually racked up in excess of 60 detentions the first 3 years of high school? (BTW, Mom, if you read that… just a little hyperbole on my part. I assure you, it really was just 10 like I copped to in 1986. Ahem) This is the crux of what was pissing me off: I was being PLAYED! And for the love of God, I of all people should have known the signs!

Act Four: Son1's Math, Room 107
Wishing they at least built 60 seconds between the conferences so I could run outside, scream, and run back in, I went on to my final stop. Another Lamaze breath series (at least the way Rachel did when she had Ross’s baby), and I sat down. I was greeted with, “Yes, Son1 can be a challenge and we do need to talk...” (Dear God, is that my left eye twitching now?) “…but by and large he’s doing well and there are no real surprises.” Au contraire, mon amie, for that alone was a surprise. For the final time that night, I was forced into the acting craft. You see, to indicate relief would have tipped my hand there that I expected anything other good news.
I stood, politely thanked the Math teacher taking the deepest yet most subtle cleansing breathes I could and took my leave. While jonesing to peel back my own face in anger, my icy performance only needed to extend until I was out of ear shot. I held it together until off school grounds to serve as my encore. And then, it was complete. (drop curtain, enjoy applause)

This Pesci-paced, eye twitching, livid mother returned home to the comfort of my home. What was all that noise and shouting you heard coming from my home after I entered, you ask? I assure you, just the cheers and screams of my adoring fans. Really. I promise.

13 Now vs 13 Then

Everyone talks about how different the world is, and it’s true enough. This is really being hit home for me as I think about Son1’s big 1-3 birthday next week. I’ll officially have a teen (insert Vincent Price “Thriller” video laugh), I’ll be exploring all the shades of white (wine) for the next 10 years, and I will now be provided, most assuredly, at least one opportunity a day to be reminded how old I am. How ancient I am. How clueless I am.

Scanning over his wish list, I’m beginning to feel like all of the adjectives he envisions. I started thinking of my 13yr old wish list and it seemed like something dug up by an archeologist compared to the presents & such he’s angling for:

Son1: Xbox 360. Super fancy controller needed for Kinect to supposedly make controllers obsolete. Special board for balance games. Elaborate arsenal for Call of Duty.
Me: Atari. One low-rent joystick style sold. Multi-function use as Frogger steering device, PacMan navigation, Asteroid demolisher

Son1: Droid or Iphone w/4G connectivity, wifi for hi-speed access to Youtube via The Cloud.
Me: A “Bell Telephone” streamline model, or maybe phone in shape of lips with 2 distinct (giant) parts and a (fingers crossed) SUPER long cord so I could take the phone to any part of my room. If truly blessed, this will be my own phone line, as opposed to simply another extension.

As to videos, we got ours the way God and the cable company intended, from MTV, back when they still honored the M in their name. “4G?” Connect Four maybe, but never heard of 4G when I was 13. And what the hell is The Cloud?

Son1: Pocket Flip Video Camera
Me: Kodak Disc Camera. Would never in my wildest dreams ask for video camera, which was big honking VHS thing that looks like current broadcast TV cameras. I will take my phot disc and feel like THE SHIT when I only have to wait 1 hour for processing at the mall. No namby-pamby one week service for me. HA!

Son1: Gift card to Abercrombie & Fitch
Me: Paper gift certificate to Macy’s, though probably not Macy’s at the time. Maybe it was Alexander’s- Let’s see how many Northern NJ readers remember that. Said certificate would represent an accounting nightmare to keep track of store credit until finally the clerks threw in the towel at $5 or below remaining and gave you cash back. Abercrombie was some weird fly fishing outfitter or something. Who the hell would have wanted their stuff as a 13 yr old back then?

Son1: Night at the movies with some friends with drinks and snacks.
Me: Similar, actually. Only I know such a night out did not hit my parents’ bank account to the same level as remodeling the kitchen.

Son1: Cooler, less lame looking bike helmet if I’m going to insist he wears one.
Me: Bike helmet? Huh? We didn’t wear no stinkin’ helmets. By the by… have I ever mentioned I suffered 4 concussions before the age of 18?

The times they are a changing aren’t they? It’s always kind of crazy to think about things that seems so basic- so critical- to our kids’ lives that never even existed 10, 20, 30 years ago. It’s ok, rest assured it’ll happen to them someday. It has for every generation known to man, ever. As to me, by this time next week, I’ll be wondering what happened to the intellect I used to have, back in the day, before my kids made it clear to me I’m an utter jackass. Maybe there is some validity to bike helmets after all.

On Volkswagens, Darth Vader, and true mayhem captured

Every once in a while some viral video hits and you hit play and play and play to the point you may crash YouTube's server. The Susan Boyle video did it for me when I first saw it, as I emphathized with this "past her prime" looking former-lass. Guys skateboarding off cliffs and piano playing dogs... you can watch them and go numb. But my latest love is nothing "accidental" or homemade. In fact it's quite deliberate. It's the Darth Vader Volkswagen SuperBowl commercial. If you've been under a rock and haven't seen it (or are one of the deprived masses who saw only the 30 sec mini version) here ya go.  I love this. I crack up each time. I'm kind of mesmerized by it. I went out and bought a Passat. Really. (Ok, I actually bought it 3 weeks before the ad, so I'm not fully insane.)

What sets this apart for me (beyond Tucker the piano-playing pooch, talented as he may be), is that this spot is SO spot on. Every one I know who has seen this and has sons, brothers, or nephews etc cracks up because we've all seen this in our lives. I can not count the number of times I've walked down to find Son1 sitting in his Darth Vader helmet playing video games, watching TV, or texting people. Yes, I said texting... because though on the edge of 13, he STILL loves to sport the Vader-wear. Son2 is partial to a clone trooper helmet though has been known to work his inner Vader, voice distortion and all.

You have not lived until you've watched (undetected) children totally succumb to their own imaginations. They'll do it in backyards, in playrooms, and in any public place to which you drag them.You smile at the creativity, wince at the hazards, and feel a bit envious that it's no longer socially acceptable for you to waltz around Costco as if the leader of the Dark Side. Or Sabrina Duncan or Kelly Garrett. Who's getting 16 cheescake samples now, Mr. Costco dude? That's what I'm talking 'bout.

Like in the commercial, kids do leverage family pets as props, straight men, and accomplices. Over the years, our family has seen dogs and cats dressed up, coerced, cajoled, sat upon, WWE body-slammed, and even stuffed in a lunch box. Man oh man, of all the times for the lunch box latch to get stuck. Poor Patches, once sprung, wanted no human contact for weeks... but I digress.

As in the commercial, kids will expect you to understand when they have assumed a new identity. You are not to question the moral character of their choice, or how well said character may assimilate into the neighborhood or corps of altar boys.You are not to blink an eye when Lord Vader joins the table, sitting where your 8yr old usually does. You may be puzzled how he will eat with the helmet on. Did Darth actually consume food or drink? This was never addressed in movies. It's been addressed by cases of Clorox wipes in our house.

There's another aspect to the Darth Vader commercial fixation that I'm beginning to see though. While Son1 will still escape into his imagination and drag Son2 with him (without a choice since he'll be in a headlock), it is a fleeting time in their lives. Sitting here trying to remember if the much-beloved-MUST-wear red Aeropostale shirt  is clean for tonight's middle school Valentine's Dance, I can see this phase will be passing soon in our home. I'm becoming more and more aware of this. When fully garbed, my Dark Lords tower over the commercial one by a good foot. They still love the trappings of the costumes but their sense of reality is creeping in to the scene, unlike the little boy awed by his own car starting powers.

I'm probably closer than I realize to owning a home in which the light sabers have all been extinguished. So I guess for this weekend, I'll embrace the imaginary worlds that still swirl in our playroom and try not to let the volume fracture my sanity. And then in a quiet post-bedtime moment, I'll sneak back on YouTube for the Volkswagen deleted-scene clips, then sit back and think about all the treats my poor Ewoks/dogs have earned over the years. It's going to be a big weekend at PetSmart.

A Letter to Our School Superintendent

So one snowpocalypse too may, and I feel like I’m seeing more of my kids around the house than we do during summer vacation. This is a bit of a challenge since A) hubs and I work; B) they can’t really go out to play as much in ice storms; C) my kids are wicked-hyper stir crazy; D) Division of Youth and Family Services I’m sure would frown up me me making some side change televising an epic yet-ill advised Ultimate Fighting Championship Pay Per View event in which light sabers, Wii controllers, and dog treats (don’t ask) are the weapons of choice.

But I figure I’m far from alone in this descent to madness. I see the maps of the country, and it looks like NJ is far from isolated in our iceolation. (See what I did there? Ice – olation.) Clever, eh? Proof I need spring. But as much, if not more, than we need spring, we need our kids IN SCHOOL. All of us. Even with standard school schedules, our country is falling behind Asian and European schools each year in math and science, and I’m whipping through what’s left of savings for on-demand movies and merlot. Hell in a hand basket is just a stone’s throw away. We need these kids in school! For the good of us all, they need to be THERE- weather be damned. Below is a letter which I have prepared for our superintendent. It occurred to me many of you may choose to write to your districts, so I have tried to make it somewhat flexible so you can personalize and use yourselves. I’m a giver, truly. Simply select the parenthesized phrase(s) that best sum up your feelings, and off it goes!

Dear (Mr./Mrs./Dr.) School Superintendent:

I am writing today to (implore you/ scream at you/ pleadingly beseech you) to consider keeping school in session the next time there is a (snow/ ice) event. While we respect your desire to (keep our children safe/ stay snug in your own bed), the disruption to (their education/ my mind) is becoming worrisome. 

I am aware that logistically, opening a school in inclement weather is a strain. Our state requires students attend (180/ your number) days a year. Many states are also stressing the need for physical education, in spite of trimmed budgets. I have a solution to propose which may (address these/ be totally selfish yet effective/ tap dance upon child labor laws). Have you considered having the children dress warmly and shovel the sidewalks and driveway? Snow shoveling is a highly effective aerobic activity as evidenced by (numerous studies/ the spike in cardiac care cases during snow). Under the combined mentorship of the Physical Education staff and town DPW, I’m sure they would do an excellent job. Sure, they may be a little tired when it comes to school work but (they will bounce back/ I could care less because they’ll be out of my now-trashed house and I’ll be at work).

In these days of tight budgets, I think we need to (get these ****ing kids out of my house/ get creative). Imagine the learning opportunities the music teacher would have if given multi-hour access to students to “whistle while they work” or sing chants like (well-trained athletes/ POW’s). Once cleared and cornered, snow mounds can be sculpted into a veritable Mt Rushmore by each class, thus combining History and Art. The lessons of inertia, mass and force, and the biology behind contusions are very easily demonstrated by students in your parking lot everyday. Snow fights may expand this learning. “In school snow days” would be the staycation of field trips. (Think outside the box./ Take my kids.)

While you may be (concerned parents may not want to drive/ appalled how readily we would drive) to the drop off for an in-school snow day, I am confident that as this winter drags on, parental support would be strong. Our country can not continue to slide internationally in educational comparisons to the industrious German and Japanese children. I think it’s time we realize that keeping kids home because of an inch or sixteen of snow is (disruptive to our position as a world leader/ making me want to stab my own eardrum at every robocall of the phone chain.)

Lastly, I was wondering if the school board would consider alternative solutions for our area which is prone to (snow/ ice/ wild boar infestations). While some room would need to be phased into the budget for any capital expenditures, I think public boarding school is perhaps an option that should be put on the table.

Hug and kisses~

A (deeply concerned/ completely fed up) parent