Sixth Grade Science Fair

photo here

Are science project assignments fair?  Is life fair?  I don't know.  But here's what I do know.  When a kid, out of necessity, is stuck doing a science project on her own, it's going to be lame.  When there is no abundance of materials at her disposal, only what she can find in her family's small apartment, it is not going to compare to the intricate machines with buttons and switches or the 3-fold presentation boards that outline the details of how things operate.  I'd be willing to bet that any kid who completed their science project completely on their own has never won a science fair.  But as the saying goes, winning isn't everything.

I was in the 6th grade when the assignment was given to me.  I don't remember too many details of what was expected, only that we had a month or so to have it ready. This was in the days before the internet (1983, Baby!) so I headed to one of my favorite places to search for ideas.  I crossed the street, cut through Victor Park and entered the familiar doors of the Henderson Library.  I asked the woman behind the counter if she had any books on science fair projects and she expertly turned to her card catalog system and found what I needed.

 photo here

(As a side note, I was always so fascinated by the library card catalog system.  I love the ease of access we have with the internet, but there's something awesome about pulling open a little drawer filled with index cards and flipping through each one until you've found what you're searching for.)

She directed me to the section of the library where the non-fiction books were housed and showed me which area held the books I could browse through.  Each book brought greater disappointment as I realized I could never make anything I saw in there.  I had no idea that there were stores that sold the kind of materials these projects called for.  But even if I did, it wouldn't have mattered.  We did not have money to spend on such things.

I left the library feeling defeated.  I was a good student who always turned things in on time but this project was impossible.  I had no one to help me and I had no idea where to even begin.  I felt sick each time the teacher mentioned our projects and reminded us that the date they were due was fast approaching. 

The morning our projects were turned in there was a happy, excited buzz about the classroom.  Each student's desk held their completed project - everything from intricate marble tracks to re-creations of the invention of electricity to graphs and charts detailing the dissolving of nails in various types of soda.  I placed my backpack on my desk so it wouldn't look quite so empty.

Our teacher, Mr. Sylvester, gave each student some time to present their project to the rest of the class.  He went down each row and when I saw that my turn would be coming up I asked to use the bathroom.  When I returned the students in the row behind mine were sharing their projects.  I had momentarily escaped the shame that I knew was inevitable.

When class let out at the end of the day, Mr. Sylvester walked to my desk and asked to speak with me for a moment.  I was painfully shy and thought I would burst into tears, fearing that I had disappointed my teacher.  He asked if I was still working on my project.  I told him no.  He asked if I had forgotten to bring it.  I shook my head.  He explained that the Science Fair wasn't for another week so I still had time to get something done and bring it in.  I nodded.

I walked the two miles to the Civic Center Library, hoping I could find something different in their larger selection of books.  I told one of the librarians that I needed ideas for very simple science projects, things I could make without spending any money.  She found me a book with projects that were so simple in comparison to what the other kids had turned in (each one took less than 20 minutes to put together) that I was too embarrassed (or maybe it was proud?) to make any of them.  I also doubted that I had the materials needed for some of these simple machines.  However, I checked the book out, thinking maybe I could combine a couple of the ideas to produce something acceptable.  As much as I tried, nothing worked out.

On Thursday Mr. Sylvester asked me if I was working on my project.  I nodded my head, telling myself it wasn't a lie when I was truly thinking about what I could do.  "Do you think you'll be able to get it in by  tomorrow?" he asked.  I shrugged.  I hadn't found anything.  Mr. Sylvester was a kind man.  One who saw past the shyness and understood some of my life circumstances.  "You just have to bring in something, Gerberta," he told me.  "I can't give you a grade on nothing.  But if I know you've tried your best and brought in something that shows you're trying, you'll pass this assignment.  You're a good student."  I nodded again.    

That afternoon and evening, I scoured the book for something I could create.  There was a system of spool pulleys connected by rubber bands that turned with a popsicle stick crank on a piece of foam board.  We had rubber bands from my brother's paper route and thread in my mom's sewing cabinet but no empty spools and definitely no popsicle sticks or foam board.  I debated carefully unwinding the thread from my mother's spools, hiding the thread, then carefully re-threading the spools later.  I searched outside for a stick that could fit into the end of a spool, with no luck.  I accepted defeat and for the first time in my life I tried to think of a way to avoid going to school the next morning.

Morning came and along with it came dread.  I couldn't stay at home because I would be found out.  I couldn't escape to the library because they would know I should be at school.  I could think of no other place to hide.  I walked into my classroom, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Sylvester.  At lunch time he approached me.  "No project, Gerberta?"  I shook my head, trying to look at the ground to hide my tears.  "The Science Fair isn't until tonight, you know.  You could still bring something after school.  Couldn't you go home and make something before the Fair starts?  You could make something simple - even a spool of thread on a pencil can be a simple machine.  Do you think you could do that?"  I nodded, despite knowing I could not bring in such a mediocre thing which required no effort.

When I got home after school I looked through the book again.  Mr. Sylvester was so good-hearted and kind to me.  The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint him.  I turned each page slowly and would search the apartment for anything that was even close to the needed materials for each design.  Each page brought a fresh wave of discouragement until I found the instructions for a pinhole camera.  It was simple, yes.  But I could bring my lamp and set it on the table, too - that would make it look a bit more exciting.  I started to feel like this could actually work out.  I went to the kitchen and found that we had a cylindrical box of oatmeal that I emptied into a Tupperware container.  I covered the open end of the box with a square of wax paper and held it in place with a rubber band.  I grabbed a ruler, found the center of the bottom panel of the oatmeal container and drilled a hole into it with the end of a sharp pencil.  It was finished.

I ran to my room and pointed the tiny hole towards the light bulb on my lamp as I looked at my wax paper screen.  Sure enough, my light bulb appeared upside down!  It was almost like magic.  And I can't tell you the pride I felt at having created it myself!  On the inside of a cereal box I neatly printed out an explanation of how the camera worked, along with a simple picture that I copied from the book.

The Science Fair had already started so I grabbed my creations and my lamp and hurried toward the school.  When I walked into the crowded gym some of my enthusiasm waned.  There were parents and teachers walking from table to table as each excited student showed how their project worked.  I wasn't sure where to go.  I looked around and spotted my teacher.  He saw me and smiled, showed me to an empty table and helped me get situated.  It wasn't long before the judging was completed, the winners were announced, and we all found our way back home.

I don't think it will come as a surprise that I didn't win any awards that night.  But I can guarantee you that there wasn't any child there who was more bursting with accomplishment than I was with my silly little pinhole camera.

That was the day that I realized that I could do anything.

Nobody Wins

photo from heroworkshop.com

Haddas.

I didn't remember her name until a few days ago when something triggered the memory of a day in the 6th grade that had long been pushed into the farthest recesses of my mind. I went to my old yearbooks and found her there, frozen in time. As the details simmered about in my mind and certain specifics began to rise to the surface, I could vividly recall how each of my senses played a role. I could feel the fear, the uneasy rhythm of my breathing. I could almost even hear the squeak of my blue Kangaroo sneakers on the wet pavement.

I'm not sure who put her up to it. All I remember was that some of the so-called "popular" girls had decided to instigate a fight after school. Someone told Haddas that I had been making fun of her accent or her clothing or some such lie and convinced her that a sound beating in the ball fields after school was the only way to resolve it.

A small group of girls found me in my quiet corner during lunch, my own hidden place behind the Resource Center where I would sit and read by myself. I will never forget the words I heard which caused me to jerk my head up and wonder why these girls would come to find me.

"You better look out after school, Helicopter Head," they taunted me, using the cruel nickname they had gifted me on the first day of school because of the braided ponytails I had been so proud of. I will never forget the exact words which were spoken just then... "Haddas is going to wail on you for bagging on her." Stupid, silly sixth-grade words that have remained etched in my memory. They snickered as they turned and left me there, paralyzed.

I had never been in a fight before. I had often heard the whispers among kids throughout the day of a fight that would take place or the chanting of "fight, fight, fight..." on the playground as one erupted during recess but I had never imagined myself in such a predicament. I lived to be invisible. I kept to myself whenever possible. How had this happened?

By the time the school bell signaled the end of the day, I had formulated a plan. Rather than walking my usual route home through the baseball fields I was going to take a longer route, one which kept me in neighborhoods with plenty of homes, where traffic was busy. I stayed in my classroom as long as possible and then made my way towards the front of the school.

To my dismay, it had started to rain. People would not be out in their yards today.

Still, avoiding the fields seemed to be the best plan. I held on to the hope that the drizzle from the heavens had deterred the crowd from waiting for me to show up as I made my way through the neighborhoods, silently praying that all would be well.

I was rounding the corner just a half block from the middle school campus when I first heard the footsteps from behind me. They were deliberate, coming faster, and I knew almost immediately that I had been followed in my attempted escape.

My tormentors corralled me back around the block, into the waiting crowd. A wide circle was formed around Haddas and myself and I noticed something in her eyes that was familiar... fear. "I don't want to fight you," I told her. Everyone laughed as if I had just made a joke. For a moment I thought that she might agree with me, call the whole thing off and let me leave. But instead, she stepped forward and pushed me to the wet grass.

I started to silently cry, knowing I could not escape my fate. "Get up!" the crowd yelled at me, but I continued to sit as I tried to gain some composure. I was already an outcast in the eyes of those gathered here, I could not bear the thought of being known as a crybaby as well.

"Get up!" the crowd chanted as I looked to Haddas. Her eyes still reflected fear. I decided then that my best option at this point was to run. I grabbed my backpack and quickly turned just as someone shoved her toward me. We both fell, face forward. The crowd cheered, but I jumped to my feet and ran.

My legs carried me past the fields, through the chain link fence that surrounded the school and almost to a safe haven behind a cinder block wall before they gave out on me. I collapsed to the ground beside a parked car as great, heaving sobs escaped me. Why were they doing this? What pleasure was there in forcing two frightened social outcasts to come to blows with each other? I did not understand and was not sure I wanted to. I only knew that it was terribly wrong for anyone to have to endure the anguish and torment brought on by bullies.

When my sobs had ceased, I wiped the tears from my face and stood to make my way home.

I dreaded going to school the next day. I fretted and worried all night about what would happen when I returned to this place I was quickly learning to loathe. I debated faking sick but knew that would only buy me a day, maybe two. I determined that the best thing to do would be to follow my normal routine and do my best to remain invisible.

I tentatively walked towards my middle school that morning, alone as usual, and frightened. I remember how I had dressed myself in neutral colors that day, hoping to blend in with the walls and be unnoticed. At first, I thought it was working. But eventually I realized that the fact of the matter was that no one cared. The excitement was over, the whole thing was forgotten; it was almost as if it had never happened.

But I didn't forget. I will never forget.

I remember how those same girls mocked me years earlier when I had been so excited to wear my brand new, homemade clothes to school and again when I wore my shiny black church shoes because my tennis shoes no longer fit.

I remember every time they threw my lunch onto the roof of the school and laughed as they dared me to tattletale to a teacher about it.

I remember being reluctantly chosen last for every kickball game played during P.E., being banished from four-square and jump rope and a turn on the swings at recess.

I remember being followed and mocked as I walked home from school and every pebble thrown at my backpack.

I remember changing the way I dressed, the route I walked to school, even my posture - all in an attempt to make myself less noticeable to these kids who sought out targets for their cruel words.

I remember how excruciating it was to endure such intimidation and loneliness.

I may have forced the memories of this part of my childhood into places which are far-reaching, but I haven't forgotten.

I remember every name of every bully, every malicious word spoken and cruel action targeted towards me.

I like to think that I am a more kind-hearted, sensitive and loving person because of all I was made to endure. I am doing my best to raise kids who have the self-confidence to avoid being prey for bullies but also the courage to look out for and befriend those who are not so fortunate.

As I come to the part where I attempt to draw a conclusion with this post, I'm not sure what to say or what point I'm trying to make. However, it has been good to work through the memories and release them from the place I've kept them locked up for so long.

In my adult life I am saddened to see that bullying continues. Sometimes it is in the form of power over another, sometimes it is evident in the cliques which, despite my advancing age, still exist and exclude others, but most often I see bullying in the words people choose to use as weapons against another. Words are not as innocent as people may think. They are powerful.

In one final attempt at closure, I would like to add something for all of my childhood bullies who will never read this and never care...

I don't know what you may have endured or why you gained such pleasure from the anguish you put me through. I hope you look back on your childhood with regret towards your actions - but regardless of any of that... I can honestly say that I forgive you.

But I will never, ever forget.

Happy Thanksgiving

Can you spot the girls in this picture?
(The Royce kids, circa 1979)

I will never forget the anticipation of Thanksgiving as a child. For us, it was almost as exciting as Christmas.

We lived much too far from most of our relatives on both sides of the family, but Aunt Jan lived close enough that we would occasionally make the long journey to her house. The six of us would pile into our little Volkswagen Bug with an ice chest full of sandwiches at mom's feet and off we'd go.

My favorite part was always being able to sit, knee-to-knee, with my younger brother in what we called the 'very back' seat. We felt bad for our older siblings who had to share the roomier seat in front of us. Funny thing is, they never seemed to complain.

We would pass the time trying to be the first to spot a certain letter of the alphabet or license plate, guessing how many miles we had remaining before reaching our destination and doing our best to annoy our older siblings in as innocent a fashion as possible. Our arms would be sore from playing Slug-Bug and our throats would be raw from the stifled laughter produced by inside jokes. We'd sing the songs learned from Sesame Street and The Electric Company as well as theme songs and commercial jingles.

For me, getting there was half the fun.

Once we arrived at Aunt Jan's place we'd stretch our cramped legs, run around like wild Indians for a bit and then immediately look for Aunt Jan's dog, Toby. I always got some secret delight from the fact that this little poodle shared a name with my oldest brother. Poor Toby (the dog, not the brother) would usually be cowering in the corner beneath the couch, not looking forward to our visit. Aunt Jan would have him all dressed up in a striped sweater and finally he'd come crawling out, resigning himself to his fate over the next few days.

I don't recall any specific dishes that were prepared but I do remember that mom and Aunt Jan would spend hours in the kitchen preparing our feast while we played outside in her yard. When we were called in to eat the aroma of turkey and stuffing blended with potatoes and hot rolls was intoxicating. I also remember there being such an exorbitant amount of food covering the table that I'd wonder whether we would be able to actually sit around it.

Well, times have certainly changed, but most things remain the same. We now occasionally cram our family of 11 into our suburban with an ice chest full of snacks to enjoy on long trips. Our kids sit in the back and sing songs, play traveling games and try to annoy their siblings in a way that allows them to feign innocence. When we reach our destination we all pile out and enjoy the freedom from the car's confinement. There is still too much food and plenty of visiting... but no Toby in his striped sweater (the dog, not the brother).

Memories, road trips, family, good times, food, laughter...

There is much to be thankful for - and not only at Thanksgiving.

Sibling Revelry

Chip and I, circa 1980.

I have been blessed with many super, great, amazing, wonderful (insert every happy adjective here) friends in my life, but over time I have realized that the best of them all is the one my parents gave me when I was 19 months old... my little brother.

Growing up, people were constantly amazed that we got along so well. Some even asked if we were twins because we shared a special sibling bond. It didn't matter if I had hair like a boy or teeth like Laura Ingalls Wilder, he was always right there by my side, a friend through it all.

When I spend time with Chip, I can totally be myself at a completely different comfort level than I can be at with anyone else. There are no secrets, nothing to hide - because he already knows it all. I can bring up topics from kids to food to education to poverty to shopping and he takes it all in with complete interest. I never have to watch what I say or worry about offending him. If he or I bring up a topic that the other doesn't care to discuss, we can say so and move on with no hurt feelings.

Because we were raised in the same environment, the same culture, we agree on most things. And who doesn't like someone who agrees with them most of the time?

Chip is also one of the only people I am comfortable crying in front of. He's seen my ugly, scrunched up, blotchy red crying face and it doesn't faze him one iota.

We laugh, we cry, we sing, we dance. We get animated and talk with our hands when we're passionate about something. We know the words to every theme song and commercial jingle from the late 70's and early 80's and feel perfectly justified in random acts of performing them for and with each other.

Best of all, I can let out a nice belch after downing a carbonated beverage and he doesn't even blink. I mean, we used to have contests in that regard when growing up, so big whoop if one slips out in the middle of a conversation. If it's a really spectacular one, I may even be complimented with a casual, "Nice one!" before the banter continues.

(Not that I ever burp anymore. But if I did, that's how it would probably be...)

Regardless of any of that, the point of all this was simply to say that I could not ask for a better brother and friend.


And for that, I count myself as lucky.

Happy birthday, little brother. I have always been proud to be known as "Chip's Sister."

Brain Food

Photo from flickr.com

I realized recently that many of the times in my life which I recall with much fondness I also associate with food. Without a doubt, the food I first fell in love with was my mom's pan-popped popcorn.

That heavenly, buttery smell of pan-popped corn brings a wealth of wonderful memories washing over me. Popcorn brings back fond recollections of rainy days. Back in Iowa a good rainstorm could outlast our ability to sit still in the house long enough for it to subside. Mom remedied this with popcorn. She would send us out to our front porch with the largest bowl she could find, filled to the brim with warm, salty popcorn. We would sit there on the porch for hours playing games of make-believe and loving every aspect of the rain, letting it fill our senses as we rationed the popcorn for as long as possible. Often we would take the bowl into our old, rundown garage, filled with forgotten boxes and a musty old couch. There we'd sit and munch and formulate plans of how to get Miss Mary Ann to see us through her Magic Mirror on Romper Room as well as choreographing our own song and dance numbers so that eventually we could become real Mouseketeers.

Popcorn was the only thing I enjoyed about the annual showing of Deafula at the local Deaf Club each October, a horror movie done completely in American Sign Language. My parents brought all of us kids along each year, regardless of the fact that Deafula spooked me to the core. I would sit completely beneath a blanket to escape the scenes on the large screen set up for this event, eating my fill of popcorn while occasionally peeking out as the drama unfolded.

After we moved to California, popcorn was a staple in every apartment we called home. It reminds me of evenings spent in front of the television, the whole family enjoying episodes of everything from The A-Team & MacGyver to The Wonder Years & Highway to Heaven while enjoying bowls full of popcorn. If we were lucky, they were accompanied by plastic Tupperware cups filled with red Kool-aid. As we kids grew older, popcorn was a treat we shared with our friends as we would all gather around the television, watching music videos on MTV with my parents' Closed Captioning box turned on so we could learn the words to all of our favorite songs.

When I left home to be on my own I was not well educated in culinary matters - but I knew how to make popcorn. While my roommates taught me about lipstick and Levis and lunch from La Dolce Vita, I taught them to appreciate the flavorful pan-popped corn rather than the air-popped variety they were accustomed to. And whenever I had a twinge of homesickness I would remedy it by calling my brother, Chip. We would laugh and cry together through the phone as I munched on a bowl of popcorn, speaking of the directions our lives were taking us and the time we would see each other again.

Now that I have a family of my own the popcorn tradition continues. The air-poppers we received as wedding gifts (and I seem to recall a few) slowly made their way to other, more useful places as I refined my family's taste buds with the buttery, pan-popped goodness I have grown up with and perfected. Popcorn still finds itself in the heart of family time as we gather around the table to play games and talk about things we have learned.

So, although I often declare other foods as favorites, I think that popcorn will always be my own personal Pensieve.

Sticks and Stones

Yesterday my two oldest girls were telling me about an incident at their middle school. Apparently a group of kids decided to bully one of the school janitors who has some disabilities. There was a schoolwide announcement made that the bullies could turn themselves in and receive a lesser punishment or wait to be discovered by the school and be dealt with more severely.

I hate hearing stories like this. I much prefer living in my little bubble where I believe that the world is good and people with disabilities are treated with love and respect.

Part of my anger upon hearing of the school incident stems from the fact that I have a tender spot for those with disabilities. You probably don't know that if I had graduated from college my degree would have enabled me to be a teacher in a special needs classroom.

But the deepest, darkest part of that anger is derived from my own days at school where I was the target of bullies. These are times I still prefer not to speak of - the feelings and emotions they dredge up are still tender and difficult. Because of this I do not and will not tolerate bullies.

You know the old saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me"? Rubbish.

I prefer physical pain. Physical pain is tangible. Physical pain can be soothed or fixed. Throw a stone at me. Hit me with a stick. It will hurt for a while but the pain will eventually go away.

Not so with the emotional heartache and pain that come from name-calling and teasing. This is intimidation and endless torment. This is anguish in its purest form. This is the power of words.

Because of what I was forced to endure throughout elementary and middle school I have developed what I call 'super empathy'. I can not see or hear of an injustice such as the incident at my girls' school and not want to do something about it, yet I often feel powerless to do so. Which brings about this question: what can I do, really?

I can persuade. I can educate. As difficult as it may be, I can share my own stories and hope they make a positive impact. I can raise my own children to seek out those who could use a friend- to understand that those who are labeled as 'different' are really very much the same as anyone else and deserve to be treated as such.

As the saying goes, I can be the change I wish to see in the world.

And I can work on that every day... and hope it makes a difference.

Blankets

Curly is quite a little blanket-lover. She carries her blanket(s) with her everywhere she goes if she can get away with it.

I was thinking about that yesterday morning as she crawled into bed with me, blanket in tow, to watch and listen as the rain beat a steady rhythm against our windows.

"Mom has blankets, Curly." I told her. "We can share."

"No, mom, Curly want Curly's blank-let," she responded.

And why not? Honestly, if I could carry around a blanket without being looked upon as some kind of freak I probably would.

Think about it.

Blankets give warmth and security. They are a place to hide. They make a great place to sit at a beach or park. Blankets offer comfort. They make the perfect forts when draped over a table or chair. They can be used to protect items that are fragile. On a rainy day I could wrap myself in a blanket with a good book and a bowl of popcorn and be content for hours. They offer protection from the elements. Besides all of that, how many of us keep a spare blanket in our car?

A blanket's functions are really just as individual as the person who owns it.

Sometimes I think kids have a wisdom beyond their years.

Curly, you keep toting around that blank-let.

What's In A Name?

I have answered to many names in my life.

I was born Gerberta Donna but was referred to as 'Donna' most of my young life because one of my grandmas told my parents that I would hate my given name.

(She was wrong. I love having a unique name.)

As I got older my parents called me Gerby (there are only 3 people on this planet allowed to call me that so don't even try) and my friends called me Gerb.

After my family moved to California from Iowa some kids (jerks) at my elementary school called me HamburGERBerta. My sidekick was another new kid whom they dubbed HotDoug. I find this hilarious and clever now... but didn't so much at the time.

When I entered junior high I earned myself the nickname of Helicopter Head by twisting my head quickly from side to side just to feel the cool WHAP-WHAP-WHAP of my braided side ponytails as they smacked each side of my head. That name stuck like a permanent label on my forehead for years and is BY FAR my least favorite.

As I reached high school my teachers gave me all kinds of interesting pronounciations of my name, including my favorite: Jer-bear-ta. My drama teacher, Mr. Scarlata, came up with this unusual pronounciation and I just answered to it without any second thought. He was a bit mortified my senior year when someone pointed out the mispronunciation over the course of my high school years but it remains a fond memory for me.

When it became difficult for people to reach anyone in our home because I was always tying up the phone line I earned the nickname Gerb-a-phone.

As I went to college and worked as a sign language interpreter many of my clients called me "Little GerMaid" when they discovered my fascination with The Little Mermaid movie.

After moving to Utah my college roommates called me Bert and Gerbina.

I met Allen, stalked him and convinced him to marry me. We had a couple of kids. They call me things like Freak and Weirdo. But, as much as I love those nicknames, my favorite of all is the one I am referred to as most often:

Mom.

We Had It Covered

When we were kids, Sundays were sacred. That is to say, they were the day for our Mom to have some much needed "me" time. This was accomplished by sending the 4 of us off to the local Lutheran church for a sermon and some Sunday school.

I will never forget the week that all 4 of us kids were infected with chickenpox. It was in the middle of a solid Iowa winter when snow sat in a thick blanket on the ground. As Sunday rolled around we assumed we would be staying home, but mom had a plan which enabled us to attend our Sunday services as usual... we would wear our snowsuits.

She bundled us up in our warm winter wear, the type that covers your face completely except for a small, open window where the eyes can peek through. We were then instructed to leave our snowsuits on during church, thus enabling us to participate without anyone knowing of our (contagious) calamity.

All was going well until we started to squirm. And sweat. But the snowsuits remained on, fully zipped and hiding the red, itchy blisters that covered our bodies.

"Do you want to take those off?" we were asked.

"Nope. We like 'em." was our united response. We had orders.

When we got home we peeled off our winter wardrobes and stood there in the living room dripping with sweat like 4 kids who had been caught in a rainstorm, hands immediately reaching to the places that screamed for a good scratching.

We were later rewarded at the kitchen table with pecan-caramel rolls as mom downed a Pepsi (with peanuts).

The next week at church there was a strange shortage of attendees in the children's Sunday school, but you better believe we were there, singing "I'm In The Lord's Army". With gusto.

(And without snowsuits.)

We Meet Again

I had to take Hubba to a pediatric dentist the other day.

I followed standard procedure: signed in, filled out a stack of paperwork and signed my life away while Hubba happily explored the kid-friendly waiting area.

There were Legos. There was a large playhouse. There was a huge fish tank, complete with real-life Nemo. And around the corner... an arcade.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw one of my best-friends from middle school: Ms. Pacman.

Memories of the Steve's Burger joint behind my middle school flooded my mind. My friends and I would all chip in for the largest order of fries we could get, grab a booth, and take turns trying to beat the high score on Ms. Pacman.

I couldn't help myself - I checked the high score: 22,500.

That's it?! I thought to myself. I could beat that in like 6 rounds...

"Hey Hubba!" I called to him, "Look at this fun game!"

He walked over to where I was sitting. "Which one? The guy in the car one?"

"No!" I responded, priming the pump. "I mean this cool chomping all the dots game with ghosts and everything!"

"Them ghosts gots colors and that chomper gots a pink bow. That's a girl game. I'm a he, mom, not a she" Hubba said as he moved towards the Mario Brothers game.

My time was ticking away! I said a silent prayer for a long wait to see the dentist.

"You know what, Hubba? If you beat two levels, then the girl chomper with the bow meets a boy chomper and you get to see a little cartoon! Want to try?"

"OK, mom" he answered with an eye roll, stepping up to the controls.

"You want mom to help you?" I asked, innocently.

"Yeah."

I stood behind him, joystick in hand. The old patterns started to come back to me... right, down, blinking dot, left, up, get the peach....

Before we knew it, I had beat level two. Child's play! I thought to myself as the animation of "They Meet" began.

"That was it?" Hubba asked. "Was that the cartoon?"

"Wasn't that awesome?!" I asked, a little too excited.

I continued to play, eating blinking blue ghosts left and right, foiling their plans for my capture when a little girl said to me, "That game is beautiful."

"Yeah." I responded, not wanting to lose my concentration.

"I am a girl, so I like pink. That is the pink game. It is beautiful. I want to play."

Where is this kid's mom? I thought. "I am a girl, too," I said, "so I like pink and I am playing right now." Go play with the Legos, kid! I thought to myself.

"Excuse me, but these games is for kids to play and I am a girl and I like pink so that is my game."

"Well, my boy likes this game, so he is playing...." I looked around. Where did Hubba go? Dang it! I checked my score: just over 20,000. I would have to stall for time.

"Why do you like the pink game?" I asked, chasing the banana.

"I am a girl, and it is my turn, lady." The kid was getting serious. There was no way I was going to let a 5-year-old take my turn and win my high score!

And then, "Hubba?" the nurse called.

From over by the Legos he yelled to me, "MOM! STOP PLAYING THE CHOMPY GIRL GAME AND COME HERE!"

The receptionists started. The little girl's mom gave me the evil eye. I gave them all my best fake-warm-smile and stepped away from the game.

Defeat. And as I walked toward Hubba to take him back to see the dentist, I heard the unmistakable sound of Ms. Pacman's death. (Wa-wa-wa-whump-whump!) Pretending to check on my car out the window, I quickly glanced at my score. Just 400 points away from victory! With a sigh, I left my middle school memories in the arcade and became a mother again.

But this isn't over.

I'll be back.

Wooba Wooba

I have had so many thoughts racing through my brain today. Most were not blog-worthy. So, despite the fact that I wanted to write a blog post about my goals for the coming year or maybe even a recap of 2008, you get to hear the story of the demon of my childhood - the Wooba Wooba Monster.

The kids and I were talking about things that scare us. For All-a-Boy, it was the Zorgons in the movie Zathura. For Hubba it's flickering lights - he is positive "they are gonna blow!" For Coolister, ElemenoB and Thumbelina it was playing Uncle Chip's version of hide-and-seek called hide-and-scare. And that reminded me of the Wooba Wooba monster.

My oldest brother, Toby, was watching Sesame Street with Chip and I one day. For some reason we noticed a particularly freaky monster at the 'Monster Disco' that day - one with angry black eyebrows and fangs. Toby, being the oldest brother, saw the fear in our eyes and decided to mess with us a bit. Another monster said the words "Wooba, wooba..." at some point, which prompted the name of this furry green demon who would lurk beneath our beds and in our closets for what seemed an eternity.

I must admit, I had it easy. Before we climbed the stairs to bed Toby would simply say, "Gerb- look out for the Wooba Wooba monster. He's under your bed." Or, "Cover your ears tonight - the Wooba Wooba monster might call for you." Poor Chip shared a room with Toby and had to listen to the monster until he was finally able to fall asleep.

The monster knew only one word. Wooba.

Toby would lay in his bed and quietly start with a long, drawn out "Wooooooooba..." and then he would ask Chip, "Did you hear that? He's here!"

Toby is a good guy. (Now.) But I will be honest and say that I am a 36 year old woman who is still afraid of the dark because of that blasted monster. And here's why...

I had finally had enough. I knew the monster wasn't real and I wasn't going to let Toby scare me anymore! I was tired of checking under my bed and in my closet. He was never there! As I confidently walked to my bed, sitting on the edge to remove my socks and crawl in, two hands came from beneath my bed and GRABBED! my ankles, shaking them, crying "WOOBA WOOBA WOOBA!!" I screamed! I probably fainted! Toby crawled out from beneath my bed, laughing.

The Wooba Wooba Monster stopped coming after it scared Chip so badly that he grabbed some scissors and stabbed it through the hand. Funny what a trip to the E.R. can do to a person's desire to scare little kids.

Wait...

Why the heck am I writing this story for my blog?!

I have no idea. But there it is.

So, um... Happy New Year! And may your 2009 be Wooba Wooba free.

Gathering Leaves

To add a little something to our yard for Halloween, we scatter leaves over everything. The problem with this is that we do not have large trees that produce enough leaves for the desired effect, so I have to gather them from elsewhere.

This year I found the perfect spot - the parking lot of the church in front of my kids' elementary school was blanketed with the colors of autumn! I gathered leaves in small increments until Halloween day, when I hauled a small trailer over with me.

After dropping The Princess off at kindergarten I began to rake, creating swishy patterns on the bare pavement and grass as I swept away their leafy covering. The leaves filled the trailer by the armful until the job was complete.

And then I had a fleeting thought - but it wasn't fast enough for me not to catch it and smile.

I looked around and, seeing no one, climbed inside the trailer.

I covered myself completely with the leaves, these colorful gifts from the trees, and lay there in silence. I listened to the rustling of the leaves on the pavement beneath me, blown about by the wind. I breathed in the smell of younger Halloweens and of autumn, then sighed as I realized I could not stay this way for long, buried in my memories.

I held a silent countdown: 3... 2... 1... and then burst from the leaves, throwing them to the skies and watching with pleasure as they rained back down into the trailer and onto the ground.

I made quick work of recapturing the leaves that were lost. As I walked towards the front of the suburban to drive home, I noticed something I hadn't noticed before. A woman, sitting in the driver's seat of a car that had been there all along, eating her lunch, watching me.

I smiled.



I'm pretty sure she was jealous.

Seriously... ROLLERSKATES!

I used to be quite the skater in my day. I would pull on those beauties and skate around my neighborhood, The Shamrock (our local rink back in Cali), and as I got older, The Strand. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Southern California, The Strand is miles and miles of sidewalk that runs along the beaches. It is also the perfect place for people-watching, which is a super fun activity. And so, I could skate myself ragged, checking out all the interesting characters that shared The Strand with me - bikers, skater boys, runners, dog-walkers, and fellow skaters. I can't remember what happened to my prized skates, except that they must have been left behind in my quick move to Utah. I probably assumed people didn't skate up mountains and they wouldn't be needed. Pity.

A few months ago, while I was still pregnant, I had a strong desire to rollerskate. No, not roller blade, roller skate. Rollerblades and my ankles do not get along. Anyway, I dismissed the thought because I did not want to harm my growing bambino, but the idea has continued to grow. So I started to do research - where could I buy skates? Other than the local skating rink there were only skates for kids available. And I was NOT going to pay $300 for a pair of professional rollerskates, as I am not a professional (yet). Apparently the market for 'quad-skates' (as I discovered they are called) is all in kids age 6 and under.

Aren't the 80's back, though? I mean, all the other things I loved as a kid are cool again - Care Bears, My Little Pony, Rainbow Brite, I even saw some Garbage Pail Kids cards the other day. 80's music is all over the radio, girls are even wearing those Madonna-type clothing styles and leg warmers again. And so I ask...where are the rollerskates?!

Online, of course.

I looked on the internet and found an amazing array of skates available, although I did not want to purchase them without trying them on or seeing the real thing. I mean - ROLLERSKATES! This is a serious purchase. I decided to forget about it. And then the longing grew... so I caved.

The skates pictured above are on their way.

So if you see a 30-something lady skating down the river trail (or around my neighborhood, for that matter) like a crazy lunatic with a smile on her face, it's probably me.

Just smile and wave.

My Halloween Evolution

As a child I wore this Witchiepoo costume (from H & R Pufnstuf) for as long as I can remember. Even after the brittle mask cracked and broke, I continued to wear the plastic costume. I loved being Witchiepoo.

Many years later, as a high school student, my friends and I wanted to go get some free candy on Halloween. (Isn't that all that teenagers go trick-or-treating for?) Alas, I did not have a costume, and only about $2.00 to my name. I knew most costumes were clearance priced on Halloween, so I went to the local mall to look for a bargain find.

I didn't find anything that cost even close to $2. But I did find some fart spray at Spencer's Gifts, and that got me thinking...what do people use fart spray for?? Maybe if they were a piece of poop?

My Halloween costume was decided.

I found a black trash bag (brown was not readily available) and cut out 2 leg holes, put on a black shirt, colored my face somewhat black and took a look in the mirror.

Not enough.

I drew a couple of flies, cut them out and taped them to the trash bags.

A little better.

I knew what would complete the outfit. I put my hair in a ponytail on top of my head, with more elastics in succession to achieve a tapered look up top.

Perfect!

I knew this blog would be incomplete without pictures, because who would believe me? I emailed my friend Julie, who pretty much documented my entire teenage life with her camera, and asked if she had any poop pictures.

Julie delivered (as I knew she would), and I present to you my completed look - Gerb the Poop, 1988.




I better not hear anyone saying they couldn't come up with a last-minute costume this year! I'm giving up one of my greatest ideas here.


And that, friends, is how I evolved from Witchiepoo to...well, just Poo.