Category Archives: Articles Archive

My daughter, Clementine, got her driver’s license late last year, which means that she has been driving on her own for about four months now. Which also means that it was about time to teach her how to drive to Phoenix.

Although this is something I certainly wasn’t looking forward to, it was also something that was very necessary: it is impossible to live in Flagstaff without ever needing or wanting to drive down to Phoenix. Whether to pick someone up at the airport, worship at the pale blonde wooden alter of Ikea, or just experience what it’s like to live with the absolute certainty that you will not need your coat for a few hours, Phoenix trips are inevitable. And because they are so inevitable, and because kids who grow up in Flagstaff make the trip so frequently that they start to recognize the very trees (who among you does not have a family “pee bush”?), there tends to be a blurring of the fact that the road to Phoenix is really, actually, pretty scary.

Many of us who have made this drive for years have had that reinforced for us the hard way, whether through personal experience or through the experiences of someone close to us. Luckily for me, the closest I have ever come to personal tragedy on that road was following along behind someone who had a tire blow out on a curve, and watching in disbelief as their truck rolled over and over dozens of times before impacting a rock wall so hard a washing machine-sized boulder was knocked loose. So even though I know that the need to learn to drive that road correctly is very real, I also knew that it was something I was dreading teaching. Which is why I made my husband do it.

To be fair, he was the one that wanted to do it anyway. But as I crouched down in the backseat, closing my eyes as we passed big trucks at highway speed, I wondered yet again how people do it who don’t have anyone to pass off the more unpleasant bits to. And there are always unpleasant bits. (I’m sure my husband felt the same way later, when after our safe arrival in Phoenix Clementine wanted to celebrate by going to a cosmetics boutique that was larger than most auto parts stores. I bit the bullet on that one, and got to be the one who watched her spend what seemed like two hours debating over the perfect mascara. (“Um—the black one?” I said, unhelpfully, when she asked for my help. “They’re both black,” she said. “Sorry,” I replied. “That’s the limit of my mascara expertise.”) Of course, when we checked out, my expertise at paying the bill came in much handier.

We all have our little skills, I guess. Like my husband’s skill at being the front seat passenger in a car that, to me, seemed to be hurtling us toward our doom for the entire two and a half hour trip.

“You might want to back off a little bit,” he would say, remarkably calmly, I thought, as we attempted to drive up into the bed of the truck in front of us. And, later, “You might want to get back on the road for a while. That rumbling sound means that your tires are off the road.” (Only later would I notice the indentations of his fingernails in the seat.)

Because he managed to stay calm though, Clementine also managed to stay calm while he was giving her these little nudges, which was good—calm is always good at 75 miles an hour. If only I could have managed the same. Still, I don’t think my little whimpers were too noticeable from the back seat. And besides—isn’t that what the radio is for?

I’ve often thought that one of the most frightening things about getting older is the slow decline of your mental facilities. Especially for someone who has always been on top of things, it must be frustrating beyond belief to feel the organized life you have carefully constructed slowly slipping away. In fact, when I was younger (and considered myself one of the organized ones), I used to fear this process quite a bit.

And then I had my son, Clyde, and I stopped worrying about it so much.

No, Clyde isn’t some kind of miracle memory cure. In fact, the preceding sentence is probably the first time in Clyde’s (admittedly short) history that the words “Clyde,” “miracle,” and “memory” have all been used together. But while Clyde might not be a cure for memory loss, he certainly is a cure for the fear of memory loss, and surely that’s the next best thing.

How does he do it? The same way you cure any phobia: desensitization. Think of it this way: if I was afraid of spiders it would probably be recommended that I try to desensitize myself to this fear in small increments. First I would be instructed to think about spiders for as long as I was could, and only when I could do that without breaking into a cold sweat would I then be shown a picture of a spider. After I was okay with that I would be put in the same house as a spider, and then the same room, and so on and so on, until finally I would be able to hold a spider in my hand, at which point I would either die of fright or be cured. (Actually, I think I would be cured either way—dead people aren’t afraid of spiders.) The point is, though, is that I would be cured. Just like I am now “cured” of my previous fear of memory loss—all thanks to my wonderful son, Clyde, and his amazing memory loss desensitization program.

Of course, with Clyde’s program you do miss out on some of the beginning stages of desensitization. And by “some” I mean “all.” In other words, Clyde’s program is basically the equivalent of dropping an arachnophobe into a swimming pool of tarantulas. Or at least that’s what it felt like to me.

Here’s a typical day living with Clyde. Wake up. Have Clyde tell you that today is the day of the “big” field trip, and that he needs to be at school in fifteen minutes with six frozen squid (or something equally hard to obtain at seven in the morning.) Panic. Get Clyde to school on time, squid in hand, only to be told by another parent that the field trip is actually the NEXT day. Relax. Have the other parent add that they don’t need frozen squid, they need a yard of cow’s tongue. Panic. Spend all day searching for cow’s tongue. Pick Clyde up from school. Have Clyde say, as he gets in the car, “By the way, I have to be back here in half an hour for my concert.” Concert? “Yeah, the concert. It’s fifty percent of my grade.”

I’m not sure which is worse: having Clyde tells me something at the last minute, so that there is that element of doubt mixed in with my panic (Really? You have to be there at five in the morning? With squid?), or when another parent casually drops the bomb, so that instead of doubt I feel that stomach-clenching sense of shame. (“You didn’t know? I wondered why you weren’t at any of the mandatory parent meetings.”)

Luckily, as time goes by those feelings of shame have become less and less intense. I guess Clyde is helping desensitize me to that, too.

The recent announcement by the FAA that they were in the process of deciding the necessary rules for introducing drone technology to the civilian world was met with the usual reaction of apprehension and fear. Some people immediately worried about the lack of privacy this could engender, with drones spying (and reporting) on their every move, while others were just afraid of a chaotic airspace above their heads, with large, potentially dangerous machinery being operated by untrained and unlicensed pilots. And, of course, there were those people who worried that the drones are out to kill them (or, even worse, that the drones are out to kill their next door neighbors, but are using an outdated version of Google maps.)

As a mother, I didn’t worry about any of those things—not because I don’t think that they aren’t very real possibilities, but rather because they are already the reality I live with everyday. Lack of privacy? Being spied and reported on? If there are any parents out there who think that this isn’t already their daily fate, then tell them to try having a real heart to heart conversation with their child’s kindergarten teacher. Or, worse yet, tell them to wait until their children are in high school and then talk to that child’s entire peer group, a group whose main topics of conversation seem to be “God, I hate this place,” and “Ten more reasons why my parents are the worst people ever.”

And as for living under dangerous airspace where large flying object are being operated by ill-trained operators? Try living in a house with a boy who has decided that the best way to give someone the object they have requested is to throw it to them, no matter what the object may be, and no matter how ill-prepared their recipient is to receive it. There’s nothing like getting a math book right upside your head to make you realize that there really are such things as irrational numbers. Or at least there are in my house.

And don’t even try and talk to me about my chances of dying at the hands of an evil, maniacal despot. I live with teenagers, remember.

Yes, being a mother is why, when I heard the announcement about drones, I didn’t start worrying about any of these things. It’s also why I immediately began to worry about something else.

Delivery services.

Okay, I’ll admit it: the first thing I thought when I heard about civilian drones was not their potential to search for lost hikers in remote forests, or even to more accurately report on traffic and weather conditions, but rather how they will invariably end up being used as a sort of delivery service for forgetful children. I can already hear the phone calls now.

“Mom, I forgot my lunch/science fair project/dance shoes/plate of cookies I made you stay up all night to bake for my class.”

“Sorry honey, I guess you’ll just have to do without; I’m busy today.”

“Aw, c’mon Mom—just send it on a drone.”

“Again? This is the third time this week.”

I pity the poor drone who has to try and make its way in American airspace on some sort of nefarious government mission: it will be knocked out the sky by drones carrying math homework and permission slips every time. Who knows? Maybe it will turn out to be something we’ll be grateful for, rather than something else to complain about. I can just see the headline: Our Children—Keeping the Skies Safe With Their Forgetfulness. Yeah, I’m not buying it, either.

I hardly ever watch congressional hearings on TV anymore, and not for the reason you might think. (It’s not because they are really, really boring, and I have more interesting things to do, like watching paint dry.) No, the reason I don’t watch them is that, invariably, there comes a point during someone’s testimony when I am so reminded of watching my children trying to tell a convincing lie that I just turn off the TV in disgust. The way I see it is, if I wanted to watch someone stumble over their own tongues I would just ask my children who left the milk in the bathtub. As pathetic as that can be, it’s not, unfortunately, as pathetic as watching some of the people who testify before congress. Case in point: a witness who recently testified about how the women of America really, really need semi-automatic rifles for home protection.

To illustrate her point she told the story of a a brave young mother fending off a home invader armed only with her wits and her trusty gun. She seemed to know every shocking detail of this young woman’s harrowing story—right up until the moment when the congressman asked her if she knew if the mother in question had been armed with the assault rifle she was there to support. That’s when she grew fuzzy.

“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly shifty-eyed.

And that’s when I turned off the TV in disgust. I’d already seen that drama several times that day—I didn’t need to relive it on TV.

Why is it that children (and lobbyists, apparently) seem to think that “I don’t know” (or its cousin, “I don’t remember”) is any better than a straight up lie? If the woman testifying before congress had just said, “Yes, she was; and she was also carrying a phased plasma rifle in the 40 watt range,” it would still have been a lie, but at least it would have been a funny one. (I can just imagine the CNN fact checkers realizing they were looking up the gun from “The Terminator.”)

By the same token, when I ask my children a question that they clearly don’t want to answer, I think I would appreciate a creative lie much more than a bland “I don’t know.” When I ask “Why didn’t you finish your homework last night?” I would much prefer to hear a breathless, “Because the President called and I had to go out and save the world!” to a monotone “I don’t know.” I mean, they’re both lies, (we both know that the real answer is, “Because I wanted to get to the next level in Skyrim,”) but at least the creative lie gives me something to work with.

“Well, next time tell the President to call and check with me first.”

Part of the reason I hate the evasive answer so much is that it’s just plain insulting; it’s as if I were someone so unimportant that it’s not even worth their time bothering to come up with a decent lie. A good lie at least makes its victim feel worthy of the extra effort—makes them feel like they are considered a worthy adversary. A bad lie, or worse, a pathetic one, just makes you feel like you’re not even worth the time. It’s a double insult. (I once knew a woman who turned down a date with the words, “No thanks: I’m going to stay home and rinse out my comb tonight.” After all these years I finally understand how that guy felt.)

Still, I suppose that it’s some comfort knowing that they will always have plenty of job opportunities when they get older. Even if all those jobs do happen to be in and around congress.

Whenever I take my son, Clyde, to buy new shoes, I am always reminded of the Cinderella story. Not because he wants the most impractical shoes in the store. (Glass slippers? I seriously doubt that OSHA is cool with that.) And not because he needs to have the shoes (and his feet) home by midnight, or else. (Although, actually, he does.) And not even, surprisingly, because the reason he needs new shoes is that he has left one of them—just one—behind somewhere. (Although, yeah, he does do that quite often.) And no, not even because shopping with a pre-teen makes me long for my own fairy godmother. No, the reason that I am always irresistibly reminded of the Cinderella story is that watching him try to put his old shoes on is like watching the ugly stepsisters trying to fit their feet into Cinderella’s shoes.

It’s ridiculous. The last time I bought him a pair of new shoes they were three sizes larger than the ones he was wearing. Three sizes. It took him nearly five minutes just to get the old shoes off; I don’t even want to think about how long it must have taken him to put them on that morning.

“Oh my God,” I said as I glanced around the store, half expecting to see someone run up to me holding a “Worst Mother in History” banner, “why didn’t you tell me you needed new shoes?”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “They’re fine.”

Fine? Women in Imperial China had more room in their footwear. So did the aforementioned stepsisters. But as far as Clyde was concerned, they were “fine.”

I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised at this. After all, this was the boy who showed up to first grade wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt he had outgrown at age two. At the time I thought that it might mean that he had a future ahead of him as a Southern California roller dancing champion (or maybe one of Gladys Knight’s back up dancers), but now I realize that the only reason he wore them was because they were in his drawer. And if they were in his drawer, they must have been his, right?

At least, that’s how Clyde saw it. And still does. I don’t know why I even bother having a light in his bedroom at all: his preferred method of dressing is to reach into a drawer (or down to the floor), grab an article of clothing, and put it on. Not clean? Not a problem. Not the right size? Not a problem. Actually belongs to his older sister? Still not a problem.

I suppose that this is so odd to me because his sister could not be more different. She is so picky about her clothes that I whenever I take her shopping I make sure to bring along a book; it takes less time for the President and Congress to come to an agreement on the national debt than it does for Clementine to find a new pair of jeans. (And, like the President and Congress, Clementine uses the sheer torture of the process to wear me down, so that in the end I accept a deal I never would have considered in the beginning. Ninety-five bucks for a pair of jeans? Sure: can we leave now?)

In a perfect world, I would have a child that was somewhere in between the two of them—somewhere in between the “why don’t you just give me your credit card and wait in the car” and “why don’t you just take your credit card and let me wait in the car.”

Maybe that’s exactly what I’ll ask for—the next time my fairy godmother shows up to help with the shopping.

The argument about whether the toilet seat should be left up or down has probably been around ever since the invention of the toilet. (Or, more accurately, since about twelve hours after the invention of the toilet, since I’m guessing that the first toilet was probably installed in the daytime, and that the first conflict probably occurred when most toilet seat conflicts seem to occur—in the dark). Anyway, regardless of exactly when the first toilet seat argument happened, I have finally, after years of dedicating myself to the problem, come up with a solution. Are you ready? Here goes.

The toilet seat should be left… whichever way the person who last cleaned the toilet likes it.

There. That’s it. The toilet seat solution, in its entirety. It doesn’t matter what the ratio of males to females in the house is, nor does it matter who is most “deserving” of special privileges. The bathroom is neither a democracy nor a meritocracy: it is a monarchy, and as such, he (or she) who last cleans it is the King (or Queen) of the bathroom. Long Live the King (or Queen).

Such are the perks of monarchy that the Ruler of the Loo also gets to decide on other contentious subjects as well, subjects such as whether fuzzy toilet seat covers are to be allowed, whether the extra rolls of toilet paper should be visible (as opposed to hidden underneath the skirts of some cutesy fake Colonial doll), and even whether or not bright pink toilet paper (the kind that gives most people an embarrassing rash) should ever be allowed to replace the normal, “boring” TP. The Ruler of the Loo is also the final authority on if, when, and how much “floral scented” spray should be dispensed. In fact, the person who last cleans the toilet gets to decide everything about the bathroom, with the exception of whether the toilet paper should come from over the top or underneath the bottom of the toilet paper roll. That decision gets to be made by the last person who actually replaced the toilet paper on the spindle, hereafter known as the Paper Prince/cess.

Brilliant, eh? Just think: no more arguing about having the toilet seat up or down. If you feel that strongly about the subject, then you get down on your hands and knees and scrub your way to bathroom domination. And I’m not just talking about giving the inside of the bowl a little swish with the brush—no, I mean all of the toilet, including that spot right in front that’s always a little bit sticky and oh my god I just felt it with my bare foot what is it what is it what is it don’t think about it. Yeah: that spot.

Actually, I think that this method could be applied to lots of different household disputes, especially those involving children. Don’t like your sheets being tucked in too tight? Then you make the bed. Unhappy that your ipod went through the washer? Do the laundry yourself. Don’t like 2% milk? Get a job, hippie, and buy your own damn milk. Okay, maybe that last one was a little off topic, but it is, after all, the natural progression of things.

The right to complain is a perk. And it is a perk that should only be enjoyed by the people who actually do the work. It’s okay if that’s the only reason you’re doing the work in the first place—in fact, that’s understandable. After all, that’s the only reason some people vote.
Of course, there’s always the danger that once we start showing them the benefit of doing some things for themselves they might eventually just decide they’re better off getting their own place and start doing everything on their own.

Oh wait: that’s not a danger. That’s a benefit, too.

Sometimes it seems that no matter where you go in the world you’ll find the tradition of offering up libations: giving a portion of food or drink (usually liquor) to those who are with us only in spirit. It is a custom that is as old as Greeks pouring out a bit of wine “for Zeus,” and as new as rappers tipping a sip of malt liquor onto the ground “for the Homies.” It is also quite varied: in South America they spill out a drink called chicha before making an offering to Pachamama, in Cuba they pour out a bit of rum por los Santos (for the Saints), while in the Philippines they still use rum, but say para sa yawa (for the devil). In Russia, of course, they use vodka.

In other words, this is a custom that has seemed to have evolved organically in almost all cultures around the world. So I guess I can’t really complain about the fact that along with Papua New Guinea, Moldavia and Uruguay, it has also arisen in the culture of my house. Or about the fact that, in my house, the libation always seems to be noodles.

I suppose that if I were to really think about it I shouldn’t find that to to be too surprising; after all, a libation is supposed be about offering the best of what you have. And, in my house, as far as Clementine is concerned, there is nothing better than a nice undercooked bowl of noodles. Her preferred method of offering this libation is to put the noodles in a bowl that is way too small and then add way too much parmesan, so that when the dish is eaten both noodles and parmesan end up littering the floor all around her, creating a sort of food outline on the ground. In fact, there is usually so much food on the floor that it is as if Clementine were not simply making an offering to the memory of those who have gone before her, but rather as if she were a chief priestess in the cult of Chef Boyardee. (I wouldn’t be surprised to catch her actually tipping the bowl at the beginning of the meal and murmuring “to Chef Boy” as the parmesan spilled.)

Which would be fine, except for the fact that her “altar” is located suspiciously close to my kitchen floor. Actually, most people would probably say that her altar is my kitchen floor. Personally, I would like to think that Chef Boy, like so many deities before him, would prefer his services to be held outside, where he can gaze down (or, in the Filipino tradition, gaze up) and see his loot. But then again, what do I really know about the cult of noodle worship?

Sure, I know that they prefer to be called Pastafarians. I know that they precede every meal with a devout “ra-men.” And I know that their deity is technically known as the Flying Spaghetti Monster. But as far as the offering up of pasta libations? On this, I must admit, I am completely in the dark.

But then again, maybe we all are; maybe Clementine is spearheading a new era in Pastafarianism. Maybe, like Martin Luther nailing his manifesto to the church door, Clementine is tipping her over-filled bowl out onto the kitchen floor in defiance of the current Pastafarian doctrine of “every noodle is sacred.” Yeah, and when she “accidentally” drops her bowl (again), maybe this is her Moses-like moment of destruction through righteous anger. Or something like that.

Who can say? I probably should just be grateful that it is still food that she uses in her sacrificial offerings, and not the more traditional liquor. Of course, at least with vodka, there’s some sort of cleaning involved.

I recently saw a post on Facebook that went something like this: “I just blew my nose, and it felt great!” Now, some people might have read that post and immediately thought, “Thanks for (over)sharing,” some people might have thought, “Ew, gross,” and some people might have even thought, “Ten thousand years of technological advancement so we could have this?”

But not me. No, I took one look at that post and thought, “Preach it, brother. Preach it.” And then I went away, happier because I knew that there was at least one other person out there who had made the same discovery I had.

You see, I’m a member of the Pro-Nose-Blowing Society, a small but dedicated group of parents, teachers and doctors whose primary goal is to get children to join us in discovering just how wonderful it is to simply blow your nose. And not just children, either, but young adults: people with driver’s licenses, jobs and girlfriends. It is frightening beyond belief to think about the fact that people who are mere months away from being able to vote have not yet figured out one of the most basic rules of human physiology: if your nose runs, blow it.

This, it would seem to me, is something on the order of, “If it itches, scratch it,” but apparently not. Apparently an action that is so basic that amoebas would perform it (if amoebas had hands, noses and tissues) is still too advanced for the majority of the children and young adults I know. Apparently walking around snuffling, coughing, dripping and gasping for weeks on end is preferable to simply blowing your nose once in a while.

A friend of mine had a teacher in grade school who tried to convey the beauty of nose-blowing to her students by telling them the story of how when she was a little girl she had wondered what caveman had done when they had a runny nose—because obviously Kleenex were thousands of years away from being invented—and so, as an experiment, hadn’t blown her nose at all this one time when she had a cold. Eventually, that cold turned into pneumonia. The moral of her story (I think) was that her students should count themselves lucky to have born into a world that has discovered Kleenex, and celebrate their good fortune by blowing their noses every chance they got.

I’m not sure about her logic (I’m pretty sure people were blowing their noses before the invention of Kleenex), but I can’t help but agree with her conclusion. “If your nose runs, blow it.”

This has been a point I have been trying to make to my children since they were infants, back when they couldn’t blow their noses, and had to have it done for them with the “snot sucker.” (I think the medical term for this device is actually “bulb aspirator,” but I’m pretty sure that everyone—doctors included—secretly refers to it as the “snot sucker.”)

Man, I loved that little blue thing; I practically carried one in a holster on my hip. One baby sniffle and I was on it, sucking the mucus out of their noses before it even had a chance to crust over. Which is how I know, without a doubt, that they really should be blowing their noses now: these people can produce a lot of mucus.

Sometimes I’m tempted to unearth my trusty blue friend and sneak into their rooms at night and treat them like I did when they were babies, but the truth is I’m afraid of what I might find; from the amount of sniffling going on, there might be a Lost River of Snot up in there. And I really don’t think I’m ready to take credit for that discovery. Not quite yet.

When my daughter, Clementine, was younger, my husband and I had a nickname for her: “The Defiant One.” I remember watching her sit through a three hour “time out,” (in two minute increments), all because she refused to apologize to someone. (The person we wanted her to apologize to wasn’t even there—it wasn’t the apology we wanted as much as the promise to apologize sometime in the future.) A less honest person (such as myself) would have simply agreed to apologize, and then, when the time came, denied they had ever made any such agreement. Not Clementine, though; she had made up her mind, and little things like time outs and loss of privileges weren’t going to sway her in the least.

While we were still standing in front of Clementine my husband and I had to pretend to be strongly disapproving of her choice not to apologize; in private, however, we marveled at it. “She is so delightfully disobedient,” my husband said to me, using his best Gomez Addams voice, and I had to agree. Her powers of resistance were impressive, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she really had done something for which she needed to apologize I probably would have been thrilled at her principled stance.

In the end, the only way we got her to apologize was to explain, patiently and slowly, how she did, in fact, have something to apologize for—once she understood that she was completely biddable; in other words, reason succeeded where threats had failed, and when the time came to deliver she was as sincere and untroubled by the apology as she had been resistant to it earlier, and for the rest of her life we never had the slightest bit of trouble with her again.

Okay, I made that last part up: yes, she did apologize freely, but no, that wasn’t our last incident with “The Defiant One.” And to tell you the truth, I hope that I never do see the last one.

That’s a funny thing for a parent to wish for, I know: rebellion. But I believe that the ability to stand up for your beliefs, even when they are challenged—especially when they are challenged—is a far more valuable personality trait than agreeableness. It is a trait that will see you through the darkest times, and one that, in the end, will serve you when all others have failed. And so it is the one that I want most to foster in my children.

This might explain a little bit why I had such a nerdgasm when I heard that former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor was coming to town. Sandra Day O’Connor! From the moment she graduated at the top of her class from Stanford Law school (only to be offered a job as a lowly legal secretary) to when she resigned from the Supreme Court so that she could spend time with her ailing husband, she has been a shining example of someone who has remained true to her principles, even as social mores have changed around her.

Have I always agreed with her politics? Hell, no: she was a Reagan appointee. But I have always respected and admired her ability to unswervingly stay true to her own visions. Even when that meant disappointing the women who saw her appointment as a chance to move the Court to the left. And even when that meant disappointing the Republicans who saw her appointment as a chance to move it to the right. (Okay, especially when it meant disappointing the Republicans.)

Somehow, I have a feeling that she didn’t suddenly come by those traits as an adult: I think that they were probably fostered in her right from the start. Who knows? Maybe, in her family, she, too, was known as “The Defiant One.”

I’ve heard a lot of reasons from my children about why they should not go to school on a particular morning. First off, of course, is illness: it is remarkable how two otherwise healthy people, living in an otherwise healthy town, in a country that has eliminated many of the diseases that have ravaged the world for centuries, still manage to contract serious, debilitating illnesses on a regular basis. (And when I say “regular,” I mean like clockwork: almost every Monday morning, without fail.)

Fortunately—for me—that problem pretty much resolved itself once I got rid of our thermometer. One day it just occurred to me: every time I have been suckered into letting a “sick” child stay home it was because I had been encouraged to do so by that little skinny plastic instigator. “Look, look,” my kids would exclaim, waving their little friend in the air, “99.2! I have a fever! I’m sick! I have to stay home!” And they were right: I couldn’t in good conscience send them off to school when I knew for sure that they had a fever. Which meant, to me, that that little tattle tale had to go. Don’t get me wrong: they still get to stay home when they have a legitimate fever, but since this is now determined by the old “hand on the forehead method” (a method that is remarkably hard to fool with either a light bulb or being held under hot water), those occasions have become practically non-existent.

After the sick excuse was negated, the next one up to bat was the “waste of time” argument. As in, “We’re not doing anything today. All we’re going to do is work on x, and since I already finished x, I won’t have anything to do. I won’t learn anything. ” This argument might have been more successful if it wasn’t for the fact that I have made peace with knowing that when I send my children off to school every morning I consider any education they receive that day to be a bonus: the real reason I am sending them is to get them out of my sight for six hours. If they come home knowing the capitol of Libya, that is just the icing on the cake.

Besides, there’s plenty of important things to learn in school other than academic subjects. Things like “how to stop being so annoying.” True, this lesson can also be taught at home, by siblings, but only if there are a LOT of them—one or two siblings simply will not be enough to do the trick, and will actually tend to exacerbate any annoying tendencies which are already present. In the case of a family like mine, where there are only two children, I can’t think of any other way for my children to learn this particular lesson other than by spending time in the classroom and playground: sometimes, peer pressure can be a good thing, too.

In fact, this lesson is probably where the next argument for staying home comes from: the “I just don’t wanna go today, okay?” argument. (My son Clyde expresses this as “I’ve got a bad feeling about school today.” The Force is strong in this one.) This is actually the argument I am the most sympathetic to: I understand completely feeling like the last thing in the world you want to do that day is be surrounded by a bunch of obnoxious troublemakers; that’s why I send my obnoxious troublemakers off to school, so that the other children can convince them, by any means necessary, that antisocial behavior only brings antisocial behavior back in return.

That, and the fact that sometimes I just really, really need the house to myself. Hey, I never claimed that my excuses were any better than theirs.