The Easter Story

Walking to work Friday morning was a joy. The sky was clear and bright and I could just barely even see my breath. The landscape remains just as barren as it has for the past three months but, still, there was definitely the promise of spring in the air. The cardinals have picked up their morning song once again and-- in case you didn't know-- cardinals have a beautiful morning song but, damn, they're loud and persistent singers. The robins are back. And the squirrels, wow, those horny little rodents are chasing each other across lawns and around trees all over the place. Anyway, that beautiful Friday morning, Good Friday in fact, got me to thinking about Easter and what it means.

Growing up Christian I was always taught that Easter is the celebration of Christ's resurrection from the dead, His victory over sin, the final act in securing salvation and eternal life for all believing mankind. I loved that story, how Jesus kicked death to the curb, the tomb was empty, those nasty people that nailed him to the cross were so royally busted! And, extrapolating from that starting point, I think the Easter story of God's salvation has also been the trump card so many people have played, and continue to play, over the years. It's the "get out of jail free card" that let's them be really nasty rotten human beings but rest easy in the fact they have "forgiveness" and are "saved" and it will all play out to advantage come time to depart this weary world. Worse still, the thought of being the subject of such eternal good fortune has also led a great many Christians to think they possess special insight and authority over how others should live and behave, not just themselves.

Anyway, it occurred to me this past Friday morning that what we really are, or should be, celebrating is new beginnings. Not salvation. Not eternal life. Not forgiveness. No, this time of year we should be celebrating new life and, in particular, new beginning. Easter shouldn't be a reminder that we're okay, taken care of, off the hook. Rather, this Easter and this start of spring, should be a reminder that we have the opportunity to wake up, start over, refresh, rebuild, the chance to do it right. We have the opportunity to become responsible and accountable, not mere beneficiaries of some supernatural power wash.

I've gotten to a point in my life where the story doesn't particularly matter to me one way or the other, it's the lessons that count. And really, there are many stories, Passover and Easter being the most common in our time and place. But they are all crafted to relay the same message: Recognize that opportunity is reborn with every new day, recognize that we can choose to start anew--  and that's a story I'm willing to accept lock, stock, and barrel.

Then and Now

Kels and Tam and I were sitting there yelling at the TV last night while Michigan slugged it out with Kansas. We're not big basketball fans but this is the big tournament. The home team in a big game. Gotta watch.  Just like a million years ago.

Back then, I was a kid in L.A., growing up in the shadow of UCLA, where John Wooden ruled the round-ball universe. A gentleman, a teacher, a wizard. Back then, a pint-size basketball fan, I would sit in the den at home with my brother Dan and my Dad. We'd be clutching the cushions on the couch, yelling at the TV, pounding the floor, jumping up, grabbing our heads, raising our arms in victory, spilling our popcorn. I would sit in that den watching UCLA back before I knew there was a sweet sixteen, before I knew there was a place called Michigan, before I knew there was anywhere that mattered outside of Los Angeles.

Back then, if I wasn't in our den watching with Dad, I was at Neal's house. At Neal's we'd sit in his parent's cozy little den doing the same thing: Neal, John, Joel, his Dad, and usually a couple or three others, packed in a room with seats for about 5. And we'd be yelling at the TV, pounding the floor, punching the air, holding our breath, spilling the Wowees.

That was then. Great memories. This is now. Great memories. I don't now how much more of the tournament we'll be watching. Certainly Kels probably won't be home to watch it with me. But it was a fun moment. The memories, however, were even better than the outcome of the game. Back then, and now.

Losing It

I don't know if it's a sign of aging or growing dependence: The other day one of my pairs of glasses came up missing. I searched every coat pocket in three different closets. I checked the laundry. I checked the cars, their cubbies, and under the seats. I checked every room in the house. I checked my locker at work, the lounges. and the OR. I checked damn near every work space at the office. All to no avail. I checked cupboards, counters, and even bags I had thought about using over the weekend. Nothing, nada, zero, zip. I even had Tam call her mom to make sure she hadn't mistakenly taken my glasses case when leaving the other evening. No such luck.

Now I have other pairs of glasses but this one pair has the least number of scratches and is really my go-to pair on a day to day basis. I can't claim I love 'em but I can tell you I was sorely missing them. I had lost a little sleep over the loss the night before but now it was really starting to bug me. And it wasn't just the loss of my glasses that was bugging me. It was my having misplaced an item so necessary and routine that was really getting on my nerves.

And then I saw Tam's purse sitting there on the counter. And then I started to remember how, ever so often when my hands or pockets are full, I'll ask her to be the mom and carry something for me in her purse. And that's when I approached that purse, excited I may find my glasses yet fearing I may indict myself for playing the mom card.

Without going into any more details I'll just say that I don't feel any older. I'm not losing my mind nor am I losing my essentials to forgetfulness. I'll just leave it at this: Thanks Mom Tam I'm happy to have my glasses back.

Now, where'd I put my office keys?

Same Old Sh#t

Here's a link to a story of great relevance. It's a brief interview from 2010 with an academic discussing marriage among American slaves. Marriage among slaves in America had no legal stature. Marriage among slaves offered the partners no legal recognition in terms of benefits. Marriage among slaves was, quite simply, not what some people today choose to label as a legal union. While a slave marriage would meet today's standard of a union of a man and a woman as husband and wife, it fell out because slaves were not recognized as human beings fully endowed with the unrestricted rights of white folks way back then.

Way back then, in that inconceivably narrow-minded and uninformed dark period of U.S. history. Way back then, when citizens of this republic did not believe all people were created equal or had equal stature under the law-- solely based on the color of their skin.

Anyone in this country today-- anyone who doesn't believe our grandchildren will be looking back in disbelief over the outrage, efforts, and expense spent today, in 2013, to keep gay marriage from being legally recognized-- is quite simply wrong. Discrimination aimed at a person's sexual preference or orientation is nothing short of discrimination fueled by irrational fear. In short, it has no credible foundation and no business residing in the laws of this land.

It amazes and saddens me to see the degree of financial, emotional, and psychic investment this issue requires in this modern society. Then again, we still seem to believe rather strongly that the world's problems can be solved with bullets and bombs. Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised.

The Immeasurable Luxury of Choice

So I saw this waitress the other night. She is an attractive woman and looks to be about my age. She didn’t wait on us but she has before. We go to this restaurant a couple times a month.

Last night she came by our booth and stopped as she saw Evan counting change, learning the relationship between quarters, dimes, and nickels; counting by fives and tens. She commented on how she did this, too, evenings with her little grand daughter.

A short while later I saw a young woman come in and take a seat, obviously not a customer. She was an attractive young girl, a tick or two on either side of 20. Draped in $300 worth of clothes rather than $30, she would have probably been media-approved stunning. But, she wasn’t. She was in sweatpants and a nondescript t-shirt-- the pants low enough and the top riding up enough to reveal a soft roll at the waist of this small-framed young girl.

Turned out she was the daughter of that waitress, there to get some money from mom, a mom who obviously cared. She had a problem. She needed money.

What was striking in the exchange were the facial expressions, the eyes, and the interplay between a caring mother and her dependent daughter. The face of a mother that hurt with caring, concern, and down-right worry. The face of a daughter that didn't want to see her mother pained. Eyes of a mother that, when her hands dug out the small stack of tips, showed concern for the significant loss of take-home pay that was about to take place. Eyes of a daughter, looking down, that didn't want to be standing in a restaurant taking her mother's tips. Eyes of a mother that followed a young daughter as she turned, cash in hand, and headed out the door-- likely to an eventual destination the mother knew all too well and couldn't recommend.

I don’t know these people in any capacity beyond that moment, but their exchange, their regard for one another, it was a short story told in 2 minutes and without words. And, perhaps the entire story is nothing like I want to believe and only a fiction in my mind, observed from a disconnected distance. But, whatever it was that I thought I saw, it was a story that made me appreciate, once again, how fortunate I am to have a capable daughter. It reminded me of my great good fortune to be able to provide my daughter with the means to reach far. To have a daughter with the body, mind, and psyche to accommodate learning, exploring, and becoming capable and independent. To have a daughter that will one day, with just the least bit of luck, enjoy the immeasurable luxury of choice. And that, I’d have to say, is the real meaning of success.

Not That I'm Superstitious

Funny how, for a profession which more and more prides itself on a solid foundation in science, outcomes, and evidence based treatments and therapies, medicine still functions in the shadow of superstition. For example, you never comment on how well a surgery is going, only on how well it went. You never tell  a member of a on-call crew, "I hope it's quiet for you tonight." You never ask, "Is the ER quiet?" It's just not done. Full moon, same way.

I do the call schedule for my group and, somehow, it seems I'm always on for the full moon. I've never done the calendar research to confirm this notion, but it just seems I wake up to a big round moon more often than not when I'm on call. Not that I'm superstitious.

Yesterday, however, is a case in point. I have been busy as heck over the past week with several irons in the fire. To top it off, I started call this week. By 12 noon yesterday I actually made the statement to the OR crew, "This must be a full moon today." I had seen enough weird stuff, been called on enough weird stuff, happening to enough weird people that I felt it just couldn't be anything less than a full moon. But, I never checked, I never confirmed the phase of the moon. Not that I'm superstitious.

No that I'm superstitious but, let me just tell you, when I got up this morning and saw that big ol' full moon shining in the window I was not the least bit surprised. It's good to know, though. Not that I'm superstitious, but I know things will be getting better in about three or four days. Just don't ask me how it's going until then.

A Mom's Secret

I just now, after 50 years, figured out why moms so often made cookies while you were either sleeping or away at school for the day. I know moms have always claimed they do it to provide their child with a surprise or a treat. I know some moms might claim it’s just easier to get baking done when the house is quiet. I know some moms may claim it’s just coincidence, that their was no planning to it, that the mood just hit them.

None of that is true. I had a revelation just the other evening while Tam and I were making cookies and Ev was fast asleep. Yes, the house was quiet. Yes, he will be surprised. Yes, it is easier to get the work done and the mess cleaned up without the distraction of a kindergartener. But that’s not it. The aha moment came when Tam and I stood at the sink each licking a beater:

When the kid’s away you don’t have to admonish anyone about eating raw cookie dough. Better still, you don’t have to share the beaters.

What To Do?

I have been reading about the recent case in Steubenville, Ohio. I read about what happened and I feel certain this is just the events of one night in one town. I feel certain this kind if thing goes on every weekend at high school and college parties all over the U.S.

I've read dozens of comments criticizing the perpetrators, the victim, the parents, the town, and the national football psyche that may promote such behaviors. The worst of it is, I can see elements of truth in several of the arguments. The only argument I cannot accept is the one that wants to forward the suggestion that the victim somehow consented to abuse by default, that her presence, her partying, and her drinking, somehow fashioned consent.

There are all kinds of elements that lead to these terrible events. On some level it's biological. To a large degree it's probably learned. No doubt to some degree it's considered by some to be part and parcel of the gladiator sports. Certainly there is no simple solution. But, in the same manner, widely publicizing such cases will probably have a chilling impact on similar behaviors. Or not. People are stupid. Young people are hormonally impaired and stupid. It's not all people. It's not all young people. But it's enough to probably leave several people injured every day owing to bullying and sexual assault-- even the "good natured fun" variety found at drunken parties.

For me and my very young son and young daughter, the only lesson to be taught is prevention. As their parent, it is my responsibility to teach my kids the difference between where they should be and where they should not be. As their parent, it's my responsibility to teach boundaries as to what's acceptable behavior and what is not. As a parent, it's is my responsibility to demonstrate what it means to lead a respectful life, a life of tolerance, a life of caring, a life with meaningful relationships.

There are so many things wrong about the Steubenville case. The perpetrators, the witnesses, and the victim all made truly bad decisions. In the end, however, I have to believe there were parents and other adults with positions of responsibility who made similarly bad decisions years prior to the events of that summer night. For me, I can only look to myself to insure my children are never part to such events.

Eye'm Getting Older

So there I am, riding an elevator in a Chicago hotel on my 56th birthday. Just me and a couple of other passengers who are together and just checking in.

Now I've said it before and I'll say it again, my eyesight has been the biggest source of frustration and disappointment as I've aged. I hit forty and suddenly my house started to sprout reading glasses: Kitchen, den, office, bedroom-- everywhere you went there was a pair of readers. Then there started to be readers that weren't good enough anymore-- I needed greater magnification. So then I had good readers and bad readers. Finally, about 10 years ago, I decided to just take the plunge and get a pair of glasses I could just leave on, readers on the bottom, normal on the top. Turns out, that's code for bi-focals.

So, there I was on that elevator, bundled up from the Chicago cold, getting on an elevator with my glasses deep in my pocket. No problem. I actually considered the consequences but figured what the heck. Rather than just ask the nice lady to push seven for me I'd do it myself. I couldn't really make out the numbers on the polished old brass buttons but I could remember the position of the 7.

And so, when the door opened for the button I had pushed-- on 10-- I calmly exited the elevator, waited for the doors to close, and dug out my glasses. And when the elevator returned I pushed the 7 and was back to my room in no time. Feeling older, not wiser.

Cars and Trucks

I woke up Saturday morning to Evan's greeting: Happy Birthday Dad! You're 56!" Funny, it doesn't seem that old.

Later I watched Ev playing with his little semi-truck, pushing it around the floor, making all the appropriate sound effects, having a conversation with all the make-believe parties involved with the action. At 56 I still have perfect recall of playing like that. I remember that it's not play. It's real. I remember that I was in those cars and trucks. The truck made those sounds, not me. The people I was talking with were real for as long as we played. They didn't follow me around away from that carpeted area, but they were there when I returned to the activity later-- whether it was a few minutes or a few days.

I can't do that anymore. Even if I wanted to my mind is too contaminated with life events, responsibilities, distractions, and the next waiting thing. Like Peter Pan and Santa Claus, when you let yourself get too old certain things slip away. Fortunately, I can still remember and, in my case, enjoy the play vicariously. I still love the sound of a diesel truck pulling a heavy load-- across the carpet in a hotel room.

Creatures of Habit

Our kind of town

So here's a crazy story: We go to Chicago for the weekend. We haven't really been to Chicago for a couple of years since we sold our place and moved on. We've missed it but coming for a weekend and staying in a hotel is just not the same thing as having your own perch.

Among the reasons we decided to get out of the city was the fact that spending a weekend in Chicago had become just way too indulgent. We were spending more on food, drinks, and stuff then we were on our mortgage. And it wasn't even that we were exploring this great city. No, we usually went to the same restaurants and watering holes over and over.

So here's the crazy part: It's been over a year since Tam and I have been here-- but it's been 3 years since Evan toddled around this town. So we walk into the Grill last night, one of the places we used to frequent. The waitress walks over with a smile and says, "Hi Evan. It's Evan isn't it? You must be around 6!" And then the hostess came by to say the same thing.

I'm just sayin': We either spent way too much time at that place or those people have unbelievable memories. Well, or maybe he's just that damn unforgettably cute.

A Lack of Energy

I read reports like this and I think of late 50's and early 60's sci-fi flicks. I think of the movies with resurrected dinosaur-like monsters and 50 foot women-- movies that focus on products of well intended science gone bad.

I tend to think of our planet as an organism. Not in the sense that if you pick a flower somewhere the earth says "ouch!" but in the sense the whole of it is inseparable from the sum of it parts. Fracking, deep ocean drilling, nuclear energy with its virtually eternal toxic waste, digging big holes for coal, and now, extracting natural gas from the ocean floor-- these discussions always leave me a little nervous and disappointed.

I'm nervous because I am inclined to believe that even the most knowledgable and well-intended (read: free of financial incentive) efforts still lack full understanding for the impact of their work. Namely, I don't understand how we can just keep sucking stuff out of this big blue ball before it starts to cause some pretty serious structural problems. Disappointed because I know there is this limitless energy source just over our heads that we are not understanding. As long as we keep pursuing new ways to do the old stuff we are not going to move forward into gaining the ability to harness a truly efficient and bountiful energy source.

The example that comes to mind on the subject of solar energy development is that of the computer. Where we're at with energy right now is all pre-silicon chip technology, if you will. It's like we are building bigger and bigger computers rather than discovering ways to capture and store information on smaller and smaller devices. At this rate, to use the computer analogy, it's as if in order to have a home computer you would need a house with a dedicated room the size of a two-car garage to house the thing. Without the microchip we would have no internet, no digital music, photos, or storage. It required a different way to do the same work in order to move us to where we are today with computers in damn near every room of the house and blanketed all over the globe.

Necessity is the mother of invention. As it relates to the energy problems we face, I fear we are failing to be bold and, instead, pursuing reckless avenues to the same old destination. Worse still, we have no firm idea of just where it is we will end up.

Gimme a Mallet

I've chosen my specialty because of its simplicity. I don't battle windmills trying to get people to eat less, exercise more, stop smoking, or take their medications. I rarely have to struggle with strange complaints, bizarre symptoms, or elusive diagnoses. No one hardly ever shows up in my office dying of anything. In my specialty we take care of people because something's broke. It's either broken or broke in the sense it isn't working the way it should.

Unfortunately, after working this way for the past twenty-some years I have gotten to a point where I frequently take the same simple approach to many things in life: If it's broke, fix it. Give me a mallet, give me a saw, a drill, a screw.

The other day I saw a patient in his mid 40's or so. He was a fit appearing man, well muscled in the manner of a laborer but not bulky in the manner of a body builder. He had a muscle strain that, after a bit of discussion, we could trace back to his tossing firewood using just one hand. His condition is one I see frequently and offers no mystery as to what it is. Getting it to resolve can be more problematic and usually requires a modification in the person's activities. Naturally, I asked him what he did for a living. His answer was enough to make me visibly react: "I don't. I'm on disability for fibromyalgia and some kind of chronic pain."

For all the discussion these days among bureaucrats and citizens around the topic of the unsustainable financial burden of entitlement programs, the raging epidemic of disability claims absolutely kills me. Of all the people I see that are supported by public dollars owing to their being "disabled"-- their income, their healthcare, their children-- I would guess at least 4 out of 5 could be doing some type of useful work for at least some part of the day.  In fact, based on that condition, I would guess it's more like 95% of those I see are able to contribute.

It's not about making someone pay. It's not about disdain for public assistance. It's about fairness. It's also about also ensuring every member of our society remains connected to the whole in a manner that is more than just dependence.

Someone give me a mallet. I gotta fix this.

Tick Tock, Birthday Clock

I'm going to have a birthday in a few days. I am reminded of this today not because of any big plans to celebrate. I'm not reminded because I received the world's sweetest birthday card in the mail--  hand written and hand addressed by my 5 year-old son. Nor am I reminded because my cousin sent me a package containing some of the world's best chocolate turtles this side of the ones her late mother used to make. No, I'm not even thinking of this sitting here at my laptop seeing the birthday cards that have started to arrive. No, I'm thinking of this because it's March and we've already launched into daylight savings time. And I'm thinking of this because February has only 28 days.

You see, (pun intended-- you'll see. [ouch!]) because it's daylight savings, I just noticed I have to reset the watch I put on this morning. And, because February has just 28 days, I thought I had to reset the date. And because my eyes are now just a few days from initiating the journey into their 57th year of existence, I can't read the frickin' little number in the date window to see if I've set the damn thing correctly-- or even needed to in the first place! Well, happy effen' birthday to me already!

If you're still searching for a gift idea I'm thinking a pocket-size magnifying glass might come in handy. That or a watch without a date window.

The Fight For The Right To Supersize

I'm reading this post this morning and I come across this paragraph: "If you look at how menus have changed, whether it be in fast food or family dining, you are seeing more and more healthy options," Cashion said. "Not because of legislative mandates or regulatory mandates, but because of consumer demand. Our industry has always been one to respond to the marketplace." Now, if you don't read the article, what you need to know is that is a statement from Mike Cashion, executive director the Mississippi Hospitality and Restaurant Association. He is commenting in response to proposed legislation in Mississippi that is intended to block the creation of any legislation requiring the posting of calorie content, restricting soft drink size, or excluding toys from kids' meals.

This kind of thing leaves me somewhat conflicted. On the one hand I really don't look forward to a society where the long regulatory hand of government extends to every nook and cranny of my personal life. On the other hand, people have done a pretty miserable job of resisting what can only be termed over indulgence in high fat low fit foods. Obesity is epedemic. Obesity in children is both epidemic and child abuse. And, face it, the fast food industry has not become an empire by peddling healthy choices and encouraging restraint.

Meaningful healthcare reform will require health education starting in pre-school and continuing throughout a child's K-12 education. It will require building a population that learns meaningful lifetime physical education. It will require acquiring a knowledge of food and nutrition that provides balance and diversity. Unfortunately, unless the industry really wants to embrace change, it will require vilification of the fast food industry as we know it.

And, too, for the people of Mississippi, where 1 in 3 residents are reported to be obese, it may just mean their legislative initiatives become nothing more than testament to the long and corrupt reach of an industry that really doesn't give a shit if our kids end up morbidly obese diabetic heart patients sucking on portable oxygen while hunched over a large fries and a 32oz Mountain Dew. Although, by that time, even the adult meals might contain a prize. Perhaps a tablet of Lipitor.

No Time Or Reason

I don't know-- or really care to know-- who came up with the idea that we should revert to Daylight Savings Time during the winter but I can assure you of this: They don't have to be up at an early hour of the day. Just when it was getting to where I could walk the dog without a flashlight they go and push the clock ahead an hour. Just when the winter doldrums were starting to lift by shedding a little light on the morning, they go and shove us all back in the closet of night.

Tomorrow is going to be a busy day with a full schedule-- if I ever get out of bed. At the moment the clock on the screen says 7:02. The clock in my head says, "No way." I guess if there's any really good news it's the slight uptick in the economy: There are going to be a lot more coffee sales in the next week! And, too, I just magically evaporated a hour of my on-call weekend.

Still, I'd rather being struggling with all of this some time in May, not in the dead of winter. I'm still in hibernation mode, for crying out loud!

Eat At Your Own Risk

Here's the kind of story to make you feel better about even the worst dinner you've ever served. Here's a story to make you feel better about even the worst evening's entertainment to which you've ever played host: Noma,"the world's best restaurant" has been cited by authorities in Denmark after 67 of their diners came down with a norovirus after eating there.  And the place has only twelve seats! No way you've ever screwed up that bad. It just goes to show you good hygiene is priceless. And, too, just because it's exclusive doesn't mean it's good.

If I ever have the time, money, energy, and opportunity to open a restaurant it's going to be a personal little space like Noma. But my restaurant will feature mostly breakfast foods-- traditional home cooked comfort food I know how to reliably create like pancakes, waffles, french toast, eggs, with a burger and a few sandwiches thrown in for my daughter who, to this day, doesn't have much of an appetite for traditional breakfast fare. And, for those special occasions, an occasional kugel or Blintz casserole thrown in for good measure, providing I can import my friend Carol for a weekend.

Whatever my restaurant ends up serving, just to be safe, I'm going to call it Noro. That way no one can say I didn't warn 'em.

Coming Home

I expect I'll be happy tomorrow morning. I expect I'll wake up tomorrow and my daughter's bedroom door will be shut. She'll probably sleep until 10 and I sure don't care. I expect all will go as planned and Kels will be back on the mainland, tucked in bed, ready to face the real world once again, safely returned from the land of sunshine, beaches, and rum.

It doesn't matter if they're 11 or twenty-one, when they're away you always have it in your head. There is always that little night light burning in the corner of your mind, a distraction, an alert that something is missing, something's not quite whole, not quite right.

I'm not a worrier by nature. I tend to believe and expect safety and happy endings. Nonetheless, I look forward to that little light being turned off first thing in the morning.

Safe travels, sweetie.

Time For A Study Break

Watch the glare!

It's spring break time down at the University. Timeout in the middle of a really tough term, a really critical term, and just a month or two before a big pre-professional exam. It's time to call "time - out!"

So it's off to Puerto Rico for my daughter and her roommate. No problem. I don't have any problem with my attractive blue-eyed blond-haired fair-skinned daughter hanging out a few hundred miles off-shore in the Caribbean with her roommate. I mean what kind of trouble can a couple of good looking American dolls get into spending a week in the hot sun, at the rum capitol of the world, in a high crime territory, where the drinking age is 18?

Fortunately I don't have to worry: They said they just wanted to go somewhere warm to study for the week.

Hmmm. The books must be just out of view

Bad Genes

To the trash!

“Doctor, what’s wrong with my child?”  I‘m not saying it but I was thinking it as I walked out to the kitchen and saw a beautiful coconut cake sitting forlorn. It sat on the counter only half eaten after three whole days in our home. “Ev. Would you like a piece of cake?” “No thank you.” No cake. No cookies. An occasional piece of candy. He wants grapes. Or Cuties.

It’s almost as if he wants to mock me, my sweet tooth, and mouth full of amalgam that stand as testament to a lifetime committed to eating sweets. He mocks me and leaves me to ingest all those empty calories without the help of my son. My god! How am I ever going to achieve appropriate male bonding with this kid if we can't sit at a counter or table and indulge in desserts??

I do have hope. I’m thinking about letting the university do some gene research on the kid. In light of the growing concern with obesity, perhaps Ev holds the genetic key to not eating sweets. If he does, though, it’s sure as hell recessive in me.

In the meantime, I'm throwing the damn thing out. It's doing nothing but changing my contour and it's no fun getting fat alone.

Silk Purse

Frosty the Yoga Man

Rolling into March it seems it would be nice if we could see a Crocus or Daffodil or two crack the soil around here. No such luck. The soil around here remains frozen. To add insult to injury we got dumped on with 3 or 4 inches of white stuff last week.

At a time when half the state is gone looking for a lounge chair by the pool somewhere warm, and the other half is here wishing they were looking for a lounge chair by the pool somewhere warm, it's hard to get too cheery about snowfall. We're pretty much ready for springtime showers and daffodils.

In spite of the winter blues, my neighbor gets the community morale award. Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there-- and just to prove the point he is, in fact, a State Farm guy. And so, when the snow fell and the schools closed and people stood around their kitchens with coffee cups in hand looking out the windows in quiet resignation to the fact it is still very much winter in these parts-- his family went out and built a snowman. Not your corn-cob pipe, button nose, and two eyes made out of coal variety either. No, the neighbors built a yoga man. I haven't seen it on the news or in the paper but I wouldn't be surprised. Cars are doing u-turns in front of our house as they do a double take, roll down their window, and snap a photo.

It may be small consolation, but we certainly couldn't enjoy such sculptural humor with daffodils poking up all over the place. Maybe next week, er month, for the daffodils.

Kinderwerk

My son came home from Kindergarten early yesterday. Parent - Teacher conferences. So I asked, "what did you get done this morning?" Ev responded, words, numbers, morning meeting, snack… Wait: What?? Morning what??  "Morning meeting."

Turns out morning meeting is that time when you look at the weather for today, review your agenda, do the calendar. "The pledge?" "No. That's before it."

Nice. 5 year olds having morning meeting. My kid is smart. He likes books and reading and it turns out he is reading at a second grade level. But morning meetings? It's like we need to have our kids groomed and ready for employment by the time they hit their double digits.

Three things:

First, I always keep in mind that the most social, economic, and technical growth this country has so far accomplished has come out of the very unsophisticated and politically incorrect era of reading, writing, and arithmetic. School was for kids. Teachers were for teaching. Meetings were for grown-ups.

Second, the schools have their hands full in much the same way store-based retailers face the competition from Amazon and other web-based suppliers: Electronic learning via iPad, iTouch, Leap Frog, and the like, absolutely blasts this generation of kids through the basics at warp speed.

Finally, the most important tool, the one that can either make a teacher appear a smashing success or a noodle-headed disaster does not require batteries or an electrical outlet. It does not need to be used in the classroom, it is fully portable and can be used anywhere, it costs the school district nothing, and it is available nights and weekends. It's the parents.

Looking at page after page of evaluation during parent-teacher conference the other afternoon, I felt sorry for the teacher and unsettled about the schools. The volume of testing and evaluations performed to create a quantitative measure of learning is unreal. And, unfortunately, in this era of cost accounting and outcomes based valuation, the testing is needed to justify maintaining taxpayer support for education. With as many children coming from homes with no functioning give-a-damn apparatus, it seems the evaluations should include a modifier for parental involvement.

Let's have a meeting about that. In the meantime, we'll just have to wait and see what comes of this era in education: Great accomplishments, great test scores, or the great meeting society?