Math strategy RDW II ~ ridiculous drawings work

Just when I begin to think that I'm a somewhat competent educator, I am immediately humbled. My 4th graders were engaged in a competitive math quiz where they were suppose to implement the RDW strategy of read, draw, write. While not exactly full-board cheating, I did encourage my students to draw something. "Worse case scenario," I said, glancing at the door to make sure my math specialist wasn't lurking nearby, "slap in a place value chart." Satisfied that I had done all I could to ensure their success, I set the two-minute timer and watched as they fought their way through a multi-step word problem to determine the total number of burgers cooked during an event. With twenty seconds left on the clock, my heart sank as I watched one of my little darlings put the finishing touches on her illuminating math picture...penciling in the sesame seeds across the top of her hamburger bun. Well, I reasoned, it is a picture and who knows, maybe this academic competition includes a "Most Artistic Rendering of a Math Word Problem" category. As for me and my supposed teaching skills...you know what they say...back to the drawing board.

My Birthday Adventure

My 44th birthday is fast approaching. I'm not overly fond of even-numbered birthdays but am a big fan of double-digits (I unsuccessfully lobbied to get married on November 11th so that my wedding anniversary would read out: 11/11/88 but I was vetoed because it fell on a Friday) so I am cautiously excited about what this year will bring. To avoid the inevitable school-day lag that accompanies a week-day birthday, my family jumped the gun a bit and planned a surprise "Birthday Adventure" for me this past Saturday. I was coaxed, cajoled and finally threatened from beneath my Saturday morning blankets with promises of fun and excitement.

First we buzzed off to Buffalo for my favorite of all breakfast meals: crepes! There's a wonderfully hip, artsy little place right across from the zoo that makes me feel like an utter poser every time I walk in but I can't resist. Despite my inhibitions, ("Maybe if you took off your doofus hat, muck boots and Dachshund scarf, you wouldn't feel so inhibited," observed Savannah, obviously feeling a tad bit inhibited herself. "Yeah, I feel inhibited because you look ridiculous.") I ordered crepes with berries and creme, Irish crepes, and crepes smothered in Nutella. For beverages, I ordered Savannah a hot apple cider (so I could have a taste) and a sipping chocolate for Sydney (so I could have a taste). Brad had specifically requested a black coffee because we've been married for twenty-five years and he knows how to successfully fend me off. I'd had a recent hankering for a Mimosa ever since my friend Geri broke out the brie recently for a euchre lunch so I almost ordered that but switched to the-more-exotic Bellini. A half-hour later, I was being half-carried out to the van as the combined effects of my drink along with a rapid sugar acceleration affected my already precarious equilibrium.

Naturally, the next leg of the adventure was Niagara Falls where the physically imbalanced are vigorously encouraged NOT to visit. Fortunately for my family, I was so caught up with the plight of a poor little black squirrel foraging for his frozen meal out of a trash can that I never actually got dangerously close to a railing over-looking the majestic frozen falls. "We have to help him," I sobbed, as my family pulled me away from the confused animal. "Mom," Sydney shouted comfortingly over my wailing, "There's a frozen yogurt stand at our next stop." I perked up, glad for the distraction as my Birthday Adventure continued.

Our next stop was a big mall so that I would have a choice of a zillion movies. I have a serious problem when presented with multiple choices hence I order everyone's drinks according to what I want. I agonized. I debated. I deliberated. I weighed my options. I eenie meenie minee moed. Then a little bird fluttered down from the second story ceiling. "How fortunate for him," I said, thinking of my poor squirrel as I watched my feathered friend peck at some crumbs nearby, "he stays nice and warm in here."

"Actually," Brad remarked, "most birds who get trapped in retail establishments end up dying of dehydration." Savannah sighed in resignation as I stared at Brad, horror-struck (or is it, horror-stricken?).

"But there are decorative water fountains throughout the mall," I argued, "with little bridges where people can throw pennies."

"Uh-huh," Brad noncommittally agreed, fearing that we'd never get to see a movie to eventually get the heck out of there. We spent the next hour combing the mall for a non-existent decorative water source.

"Look at all the puddles from people's boots," Brad pointed out.

"People toss out half-filled beverage containers in the trash all the time," Sydney assured me.

"Can we please just go to the movies now," Savannah asked.

Sydney and I ended up seeing Meryl Streep in "August: Osage County" which I keep accidentally calling "Osage Orange." It was an excellent movie to help me feel better about my own dysfunctional family. "The only dysfunctional one in our family is you," Savannah unnecessarily clarified. My Birthday Adventure was suppose to conclude with a Mexican restaurant but my emotional upheaval over the uncertain futures of the Niagara Falls squirrel and the mall bird had upset my appetite.  "I don't suppose your wolfing down a box of Raisinettes during the previews helped either," Sydney added. Instead, I spent another hour scouring the aisles of Wegman's in search of a delectable Birthday Adventure treat for later. Savannah, who quickly and efficiently selected her meal, spent her time harassing me to the point of my just giving up until I spotted a beacon of hope as my husband headed to the olive bar and there, tucked among the exotic Mediterranean delicacies, was my favorite meal:  grape tomatoes gathered companionably alongside small balls of mozzarella, wearing little capes of basil  against the luscious drizzle of olive oil...a caprese salad. My Birthday Adventure was complete. Even though there were a couple of odd parts, my double-digits birthday is off to a great start!

Getting poked in The London Eye

An optional event was recently added to our upcoming trip across the pond. I was thrilled about this amazing opportunity to experience the biggest Ferris wheel on the European continent. For days, I bounced about, sharing my good new with my friends to the point of obnoxiousness. "I'm going to ride the biggest Ferris wheel in Paris," I (sort of) boasted, again and again. "It was featured in Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix," I explained, providing a reference point for those lacking cultural sophistication.

As luck would have it, I encountered the trip advisor, Lauren, in the copy room one week-day morning so that I could confirm my participation regarding this new activity. "Oh yes," I said enthusiastically, "I've already told all my friends that I'll be riding the biggest Ferris wheel in Paris."  Mindful of the half dozen people crowding the tiny room, Lauren edged closer to me and said in a lowered tone, "Amy, you are aware that the name of the ride is The London Eye?" "Oh yes," I replied, still ecstatically happy and blissfully unaware that everyone else had stopped talking while Lauren carefully addressed the idiot in the room. Conscious of the potential of implosion, she took a deep breath and moved closer, her voice steady, patient but firm.  "Amy...The London Eye." Oh.

I spent the remainder of the day straightening out my geographical blunder, explaining that The London Eye wasn't actually located in Paris. Attempting to console me, my friend Geri pointed out that London Bridge was in Arizona. When Sydney showed up in my room later, she immediately burst into laughter, admitting that her French teacher (Lauren) had privately shared my faux pas, apparently calling it "adorable." Uh...no. Not adorable...idiotic. The extent of my ignorance is enough to leave your head spinning.

The Mosiman Mouse Motel: They check in and then we check them out, asking first, "Did you enjoy your stay?"

As I desperately tried to divert my friend Pat's attention from my rather sloppy front wind-shield during our winter drive to Buffalo, some skeletons inadvertently slipped out of the closet. Not everyone is sympathetically understanding regarding my hyper-sensitivity to animals so I am selective with whom I share some of my stories. When I casually mentioned the Mosiman catch-and-release mouse program, Pat was quick to offer up some rodent rescue situations of her own so I felt that I was traveling with a kindred spirit.

The Mosimans learned a long time ago that the best mouse-trap in the world is a tall kitchen garbage container with the bag removed. It took us awhile to understand that a trapped mouse develops super-powers that transform its little legs into pogo-sticks but eventually we learned to anticipate the popcorn effect. Practically every morning for small stretches of time, the girls and I would habitually drop off a relocated rodent into a small grove of pine trees on our way to school until Sydney began noticing the regular appearance of a hawk on the telephone wires nearby. So much for our rescue attempt...instead, we'd inadvertently trained a predatory raptor to associate breakfast with a blue truck.

The conversation naturally shifted from mice to rats. Also unreasonably soft-hearted, Pat told a story of an unfortunate rescue attempt of her own as she tried to implement a sticky trap to rid her house of unwelcomed rodents. The trap apparently worked like a charm and Pat solemnly encountered her furry friend. Now what? The implicit understanding of what was suppose to follow after the successful capture was lost on Pat up to this point but as the realization sunk in, Pat scrambled to un-do what had been done. So it was, that Pat and her (apparently ridiculously understanding) husband could be found huddled over their kitchen sink, bathing the feet of a very confused rat in vegetable oil in a desperate attempt to free him.

My own rat story wasn't quite as compassionate. Several years ago, rats invaded our basement in hordes. Prior to going downstairs, my family would don miner's helmets and bang on the walls, bellowing, "We're coming down," to give the rats plenty of time to hide. Brad, the only brave one among us, would venture down to sit in solitary (and terrifying) darkness with the b-b gun while the girls and I would wait, breathless on the second floor, certain that the rats would overcome him. After announcing my intent to descend into the madness that was my basement, I crept around the corner to come face-to-face with a rat. We both froze. Spotting a hammer on a nearby shelf, I, in a moment of courageous idiocy, grabbed it. The rat responded by rearing up on its hind legs like a mighty stallion, bearing vicious teeth and, I swear, raising its clenched little fists in a striking pose. Naturally, I dropped the hammer and ran screaming up the stairs to never visit the basement again.

Unfortunately, we have barely scratched the surface of this particular conversation topic. Sadly, I could set up an entire blog-site devoted to the theme of rodents but it's time to push these tiny-sized skeletons back in the closet. I want to be the person who can set that trap, catch that mouse, and dispose of it without remorse. My life would be so much easier. Now please, don't even get me started about spiders...sigh.

Going to "Wicked" doesn't mean you should act wicked

When I was a child, I believed that you were an adult when a) you liked coffee and b) always had money on you. My mother had a faux leather blue wallet (the kind where the bills lay flat) which was never empty. I'm almost 44 years old and only pretend-like coffee to impress others and rarely have cash of any kind. I have paid for fast-food french fries with the spare change scrounged from the floor of my truck. Today, though, I hit a new low, thus establishing another rule for establishing adulthood status: an adult never runs out of toilet paper.

Also befitting my developmental age of approximately seven-years-old, I lack any applicable knowledge of the word "moderation" as I headed out today to see my 5th production of "Wicked" (Read about production number 4 here: http://amyafterthefact.blogspot.com/2013/04/a-wicked-evening.html). Despite my atrocious driving record, my abysmal sense of direction, and my van that smells like feet, I graciously volunteered to drive. In my most adult-like manner, I conducted a pre-inventory check before Savannah and I left the house.

"Savannah, do we have money for lunch," I asked.

"Mom, I always have money," Savannah said, having developed this habit at a young age as a defense mechanism after the zillionth time witnessing me beg the shopper in line behind me to cover our bill.

"Do you have the directions?"

"No."

"Do you have the GPS?"

"No."

"Savannah! I cannot mother you the rest of your life! You have to learn to be more responsible," I shouted as I stormed out the door.

"Mom, do you have the tickets," Savannah asked, plucking them off the calendar where I'd responsibly pinned them so I wouldn't lose or forget them, before following me out the door.

We picked up my friend Pat, who works as a library associate, and her artistic daughter Claire who came out dressed like a Russian princess so I charmingly called her "Anastasia" all day. Pat is a wonderful person with only one fatal flaw: she believes that she should be able to see through the front window-shield as we're driving. Let me be clear (even though the window-shield was not), we were never in danger. I could always see...it just created an atmosphere of mystery and suspense.

We engaged in mature and not-inappropriate-or-disturbing-at-all discussions for the ride up, arriving in plenty of time for a leisurely pre-show lunch. I had worn my dressy brown clogs to impress my fellow theater-goers but did not count on four inches of snow coating Buffalo City sidewalks as we trekked to the restaurant. I went into survival mode and shuffled along in the footsteps of Anastasia until a street-car clanged in the distance. "Look!" I cried, delighted, "Can we watch it?" We stood enchanted, as the snow slowly fell and the street car slowly approached, as though from another time, another era. Suddenly it stopped and we regarded one another, entranced until the streetcar driver impatiently waved us across the street so that the passengers could sit enchanted to watch us scurry across the way.

After I had enjoyed 1/2 of the delicious meal that I had ordered and 1/2 of the meal that I had forced Savannah to order, I excused myself  to inspect the bathroom facilities (for blog purposes, of course). Now, as the actions that I am about to describe were not premeditated, I feel that I shouldn't be judged too harshly and, please remember that I had hit rock-bottom just that morning. After I finished my inspection, I noticed that, besides an ample roll of plush potty paper peering predominantly from the dispenser, there were, on the back of the potty, an additional set of three rolls. Like Goldilocks (who, by the way, committed a level four felony of her own), I considered my options. There was Papa Bear for ample coverage, Mama Bear had sacrificed much during her time of service while Baby Bear was small but still squeezable. I dismissed Papa Bear...it just seemed too greedy. Baby Bear was out as I didn't think he'd hold out past sunset. So it was that Mama Bear awkwardly accompanied me to, ironically enough, "Wicked."

Savannah, accustomed to my psychotic predilection for swiping spoons was mortified but not surprised by the sudden appearance of a roll of toilet paper in my lap during intermission. I'm afraid that my fellow commuters may have viewed me in a slightly different light after I confessed my larceny of latrine paper.

From my vantage point situated in the second-to-last row of the theater, I squinted at the stage, trying to make the fuzzy faces focus. Turns out the potty paper was a real blessing where we were in the nose-bleed section. I thought about it on the ride home, as Pat and I peered hopefully through the somewhat translucent windshield. Unless the ratio is equal parts milk, sugar and coffee, I don't like the beverage preferred by most mature adults. I rarely have money (I borrowed a dollar from Claire to cover my lunch bill). And to solve the problem of running out of toilet paper, I went out and stole some. It was a wickedly immature thing to do. When am I going to grow up?

Trying to "dig" into the Common Core

Thursdays and Fridays are my late nights to work as I plan out the next week's lesson plans. Thursdays are more of a strategic pre-planning brain-storming session where I usually end up agonizing over the current placement of my magnetic spare pencil cup. To get started, I ate half of a 4.4 oz bar of a Hershey's Special Dark bar and then moved my magnetic spare pencil cup two feet to the right of my dry erase board. Exhausted, I investigated my almost-empty package of Oreos and realized that it had been cross-contaminated by the addition of three Nutter Butter cookies. Unable to deal with this disaster, I sought solace by watching twenty minutes of "Big Bang Theory" bloopers.

Mostly recovered, I re-focused on my work. I opened my math module on metric conversions and considered this word problem:

            Enya walked 2 km 309 m from school to the store. Then she walked from the store to her home. If she walked a total of 5 km, how far was it from the store to her home?

The key to solving a mathematical word problem is to completely understand what its asking. Enya? What sort of name is Enya? My subsequent research revealed that, translated, Enya means "kernel of a nut."  Figures. Now I was back to being depressed about the Nutter Butter tragedy. Only one thing would overcome my despair. I immediately Googled "unusual animal friendships" with the dual intent of both a) cheering myself up and b) finding attention-getting pictures to decorate my daily agenda board. Polar bear "hugging" a Siberian Husky: check. Horse kissing a kitten: check. I was on fire! And just as I was about to make a return-visit to our little metric-loving friend, Enya...I saw it. Bonedigger the lion and the dachshund. Aww...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NlLj5eaPOuk

Without hesitation, I placed the picture into my slideshow and revived, returned to Enya. I bet she walked to the store to buy peanut-butter. I thought about subtracting 2 km 309 meters from 5 km  (no, really, I did think about that) but couldn't get that picture of the large lion and the little dog out of my mind.

Two hours later, I had developed a cross-curricular reading/science lesson about Bonedigger and Milo. My class will have the opportunity to review inherited traits as we discuss Bonedigger's genetic bone disease. We'll explore the nature of relationships as we talk about the importance of acceptance and overcoming difficulties. We'll introduce the term "symbiosis" and debate whether Bonedigger and Milo's friendship is more mutualistic or commensalistic.  

At 8 o'clock, I finally threw in the towel and left, a Common Core failure. I grabbed up the remaining 2.2 oz of my Hershey's Special Dark bar and went home, feeling sorry for myself and feeling sorry for little Enya. Isn't there a transit system in her town? Poor little peanut.

Common household mishaps: The adventures of a bathroom blowfish

What goes around, comes around. Karma. Treat others the way that they want to be treated. You'd think I'd learn but I don't. Shoveling Post Honey Smacks cereal  into my mouth, I stared, transfixed, at "The Today Show" when suddenly I heard, as though from a great distant, a yelp of pain.My reaction time was rather sluggish as my dogs were helping me with breakfast so, with them accounted for, the wounded wail must have originated from my daughter, Sydney. "Waz-a matter," I yelled from the living room. "I burned my ear on the hair straightener," she replied. "Poor honey," I commiserated, wondering if I had time for another bowl of cereal. "Mom, don't you care," Sydney asked accusingly, showing me the slightly red mark. I could work on my demonstrations of compassion, I thought to myself as I shoved my daughter out the door to potty the dogs and start our truck to warm before we left for school. I resolved to brainstorm ways to show more compassion as I watched Sydney drive the truck around to pick me up.

Later, as the day drew to a close, I had forgotten all about my earlier promise until that hazy memory came sharply into focus as a result of an unfortunate bathroom accident. I'm sure this has happened to everyone, at one time or another, but the shared experience doesn't diminish the trauma as I staggered, off-balance, into the wall, upsetting a shelf upon which our skeleton of a puffer fish has rested for years, causing it to roll, lopsidedly, off. I lunged to catch it, simultaneously emitting a yelp of pain as a spine punctured my finger. "Waz-a matter," Sydney yelled from the living room. Holding my finger tightly, I walked in to show her the blood oozing from my puncture wound. "Poor honey," she commiserated, craning her neck a bit to see the blocked television. I returned to the bathroom and carefully picked up the skeleton to return it to its location on the shelf. Karma blows.

Savannah really gets a charge out of buying a new battery

The extreme-for-Western-New-York weather (to keep things in proper perspective, my friend, Lisa once gave me a t-shirt from Embarrass, Minnesota which boasts a record-breaking low temperature of -60 degrees F) recently took a toll on Savannah's battery. My husband Brad seems to think, because he's the one summoned either out of bed or from greatly inconvenient distances to constantly save us from the brink of vehicular destruction or disrepair, that I should cheerfully be his "parts" person. Through no fault of my own, this scenario never turns out well.

So with (very heavy) car battery in hand, Savannah and I headed into our local automobile supply store. "Wouldn't this be cheaper at Stuff-Mart," Savannah asked, worried about her wallet. "Well, since we need to turn in some recycled oil anyway, we might as well pick up the battery here," I told her, knowing full well that, although the price might be slightly more expensive, the sales staff would look up the appropriate battery and put it right on the counter for me! We (Savannah) paid the five dollar fee for New York State to safely dispose of our old battery and then headed to Stuff-Mart to continue our errands with Savannah fretting terribly about her over-hundred-dollar purchase the entire time.

I could tell Savannah's heart really wasn't into the careful selection of Daddy's deodorant. Knowing that I still had about thirty more varieties to test-sniff, Savannah dashed off to the automobile section. I had just narrowed my decision to either Arctic Fresh or Dynamic Sport when she returned, a look of devastation plastered to her face. "I'll make up the difference," I said, annoyed by her Scrooge-like dramatics, "just don't tell Daddy." "You're going to make up the over-twenty-dollars difference," she snarled. I sighed, settling on Arctic Fresh, "Let's go buy the Stuff-Mart battery."

I lugged our just-recently-purchased battery back in the auto parts store while Savannah cowered in the van. Slightly embarrassed but determined, I asked first for a refund and then begged for my dirty, old battery back. I learned all about the store's price-matching guarantee which did me little good since, at the moment, I was the proud owner of TWO car batteries and finally, money-in-hand and shuffling like a penguin, I was able to make the long, walk-of-shame through the door.

But we weren't done yet. Oh no. Back to Stuff-Mart we trekked, hefting that corroded monkey-on-our-back into a cart and wheeled it all the way to the rear of the store. "Why don't we just take it to Customer Service," Savannah asked as we passed it immediately upon entering the store. I rolled my eyes in exasperation as we rolled our way up and down a dozen aisles in search of a sales associate. "Savannah, you clearly have no idea how the real world operates," I lectured as I caught sight of a salesperson racing away from us. Savannah and I broke into a jog, zig-zagging after the fleeing employee, "The battery must be exchanged in the auto parts section," I shouted at my daughter, as we split up to cut off his escape. Once we had all caught our breath, the nice sales clerk pointed us to the Customer Service desk. "Well, that was certainly helpful," I said, as we waited in line for twenty minutes, watching a toddler wrestle her way out of the shopping cart safety belt and then use the harness to Tarzan-swing her way to the ground to avoid the evil clutches of a mother who was, at that moment, simultaneously returning the tiny gymnast's toys. Savannah was surprisingly quiet as we retrieved the five dollar deposit money that we hadn't even realized we'd paid on our second battery-of-the-day so we could get rid of the old one (again).

Victorious, we returned to the van. "Victorious?" Savannah shrieked, breaking her reflective reverie. "You consider this shopping fiasco  a victory?" I stared at her, confused. Why was she so upset? Savannah's tirade wasn't over, "I said right from the beginning that we should have gone to Stuff-Mart but no-oo-oo...we did things your way and ended up quadrupling this shopping nightmare." "But you have your battery AND at the better price," I said soothingly, "Everything worked out just fine now, didn't it?" It was Savannah's turn to stare at me. She let out an exasperated "huff" and then stared out the van window for the remainder of the drive home. I decided that "right now" wasn't the proper time to expect gratitude for all of my help in helping Savannah procure her new battery. I'm sure she'll remember to thank me soon.

Saying "so long" to the New Year at The Valley Inn

Brad and I typically dine out on New Year's Eve and, in an attempt to add some class and culture to our lives, pick the fanciest place in town. The Valley Inn of Warsaw is set in a Civil War era home in the village and serves up the best She-crab soup I've ever tasted despite visits to Charleston and Savannah. One does not wear sweatpants to The Valley Inn. Believe me, I've tried and my husband always makes me change. Shouldn't he love me just the way I am? Maybe he hasn't heard that Bruno Mars song..."if perfect's what you're searching for then just stay the same." So I slapped on my most sophisticated piece of jewelry (my sparkly dachshund necklace), switched out my thermal socks for (say the following with a snooty accent, please:) trouser socks..."Thank goodness," Brad sighed with relief, "Did your four readers hear about your Christmas Eve wardrobe malfunction?" (http://amyafterthefact.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-christmas-eve-fashion-trend-merry.html)   "I have five followers," I snapped, "and I'm sure they've all committed that particular blog to memory."...and wore an attractive but slightly over-sized blouse to prevent any inadvertent back-fat sightings as the chairs tend to feature somewhat revealing support slats.

Our brief wait in the Inn's foyer gives us a chance to review all of the owner's/head chef's impressive culinary awards but not enough time to sneak up the staircase to check out the second floor. Every year, the waitress arrives just as I've worked up the courage to tip-toe my way past the first landing. We were escorted to an intimate little alcove where, it was believed, that I would cause the least amount of embarrassment and/or damage. The alcove is always an interesting scenario in a restaurant. Either everyone works hard to pretend that the other diners don't exist, causing an uncomfortable and self-conscious eating environment OR the patrons bond, forming culinary alliances that bridge politics and religion ("And, apparently, the good manners that normally prevent people from sampling food from a patron's plate," Brad remarked, frowning at the memory. "She offered!" I protested, defending my actions for the zillionth time since that evening.

To bid adieu to the old year and hello to the new, I fearlessly ordered the coconut-crusted duck for an appetizer. I bravely ate one bite before switching with Brad to consume his She-crab soup. "Yeah, that was a courageous move," my husband recalled. The salads were exquisite...I heart pine nuts and who can resist a warm vinaigrette? "I've served warm vinaigrette," I told Brad. "Luke-warm," he corrected, "and forgetting to refrigerate salad dressing doesn't count except that we're lucky to not require hospitalization." My humming attracted the attention of the diner behind me. "What is that song," he asked, obviously entranced by both my extraordinary humming skills as well as my shapely, appropriately-covered back as viewed through the chair slats. "It's Bruno Mars," I told him, glancing meaningfully at my husband, "Just the way you are."

Our entrees arrived. Shouldn't twin lobster tails be accompanied by twin vats of melted butter? I rectified the situation by sneaking Brad's butter off his plate as he eyed up the Mahi Mahi at the next table.

 "Interesting technique you have there, for eating lobster," my husband commented, easily cutting his tender prime rib, "It's not corn-on-the-cob, you know."

I frowned. "This isn't Flashdance, you know."

"She was eating crab legs," Brad pointed out as he handed me his napkin to sop some of the dripping butter off my face, "Is this your version of a seduction scene?"

 "Not anymore," I snapped, peevishly refusing to order dessert to punish him.

As our romantic evening drew to a close, a Willy Wonka chocolate cake arrived at my neighbor's (the song-lover) table. Having observed my husband's insensitive behavior, the wife kindly offered me a sample. "She didn't think you'd actually do it," Brad snarled, as we walked out to our vehicle. "I don't know why you wouldn't have warmed up the van," I complained as he opened my door for me. I heard him humming as he scraped the ice from the windshield. "What is that," I asked, after he'd removed all the snow from the roof and windows. "It's Bruno Mars's Grenade," Brad shared, singing the beginning for me, "Take, take, take it all, but you never give..." I sighed. He just doesn't get me. Oh well...maybe next year.

Sydney ended 2013 with a BANG (and a crash)!

SPOILER ALERT:  Sydney's fine but poor Ranger suffered some bumps and bruises.

I blame myself. At the beginning of December, I magnanimously lifted Sydney's radio restrictions during driving. We smiled happily at this overture of trust and pretended that we both were unaware that Sydney

had actually been listening to the radio all along. Just like our family pretends that Sydney's driving continues to improve with practice. Our prayer life has never been so heartfelt and consistent. Each day, as Sydney departs for work, we hunker down in prayerful meditation until we receive news of her miraculously safe arrival. We sit in breathless vigil, staring intermittently between the window and the clock, timing her progress home. But apparently, as time went by, we became lulled into a sense of complacency, not even jumping when the phone rang last night.

My heart skipped a beat as I caught part of my husband's concerned conversation: "ditch...alright...well, just come home, then..."  I was able to breathe again when Sydney walked solemnly through the door. Reassured that his daughter was fine, Brad headed out to check out the damage to Ranger. Ranger! My brave, sturdy little truck. My little engine that could. Could it still? Horrified, I stared at Sydney who shook her head sadly, "I'm not going out there," she said.

FLASHBACK:  "Sydney, don't balance your snowboard against the wall," her father cautioned, irritated as she walked away from his warning. BOOM! The snowboard, responded to Brad's advice even if Sydney wouldn't, scratching its wallpapered way down to clatter onto the ceramic tiled floor. You couldn't actually hear the clatter over Brad's reaction to Sydney's lack of compliance.

Remembering her father's reaction from just that morning (see FLASHBACK), Sydney decided that standing next to the giant crunch in our truck during Brad's inspection would not be in her best interests. She braced herself as he returned. "I've seen worse," he shrugged, "we'll see what we can do about it in the morning." She was visibly shocked, not understanding the difference between a snowboard and a dented up old truck. Not understanding why it's easier to yell at a child's disrespectful disobedience and not so easy to yell when that child was in peril.  

The following morning, I stared in shocked silence at my faithful little truck. "You've seen worse," I hissed at my husband. He sighed before crawling underneath the vehicle. "What are you going to do later," Brad asked Sydney, who shrugged. "Going to do the laundry?" he persisted, "clean your room, crash the truck again?" Determining that the truck was still safely drive-able (in other words, it wasn't going to blow up upon ignition), Sydney was off to work. 

Sydney has a rough road ahead of her. This incident will stay with her for some time. Her father will make sure of it. Noting that Savannah was giving her father the cold shoulder, Sydney asked Brad what he did. "Nothing compared to smashing up a truck," he responded, successfully shutting her up. She will have to tread carefully for awhile.