I was putting off washing my hair this morning and succeeded by creating this little ditty from Jib Jab. Watch and learn, people. Watch and learn.

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

It's been so long since I've posted that Blogger actually asked me to sign in. And had it not been for Firefox remembering my varied and whimsical and clever-beyond-belief passwords, I wouldn't be here now. Instead, I'd be digging Delallo's almond olives from the jar I bought on clearance at the Shop N Save.

I reconnected with some friends from my first school, Fallon Park Elementary, today. Hi Delores and Gerri and Bonnie and Wilma and Angel!!! This is the inner city school-home of the "I ain't doin' jack" second grader and the Bomb Threat Boy. I'll have to tell ya the bomb story another day. (Let us just be thankful for caller ID.) At any rate, it's good to find Virginia people on Facebook. Life in the northeast can be mighty unfriendly without some southern hospitality. :)

So, what've I been up to since summer vacation started? Well, Eaglescout and I have been on a mission to fix up the house. You know, basic cleaning of the tooth brush kind and dreams of granite and Molly Maids and such. I'm stuck at the tooth brush stage.

Seeing as how I'm the adult at home this summer sleeping till 9 a.m. every single day and not washing my hair till noon, I feel an obligation to mow the grass. If we had a postage stamp yard, this would be no big thing. But our quarter-acre feels more like ten when I am behind the mower. So, imagine how smart I feel knowing I've knocked out the grass today while retaining my confident charge of The Wild Things. And now here I sit with Eaglescout, comfortably sipping a glass of vino and watching DYI television actually TEACH a young couple how to mow grass. What's that about??? You start the mower. You push it. You follow your tracks. You cut the grass. Yeah, I'm feeling quite smart today. Could be the olives. I hear almonds are good for you. Actually, my daddy taught me how to mow the grass as soon as he knew I was capable of taking this dreaded job away from him!

So, that amazing shot of our back yard at the top of this post is the bulk of my mowing job. You can see just the hint of our redneck pool we have off to the side of our back porch. Our neighbors have a redneck pool, too. They're popular around these parts. The redneck pools.

Other than mowing my real yard, I've been spending some time farming my virtual fields on Farm Town. This is a fun application on Facebook that allows you to plant fields of crops, harvest them, sell, them, and make money. Virtual money is almost as fun as real money. Almost.


I've made a killing on planting pumpkins and harvesting pumpkins from friends and friend's moms. I made enough to buy an actual virtual farm house! Woot! Now I'm living. I don't know how I'll function when school starts and I can't farm till night time.

I leave you with these images of Father's Day. The Wild Things wanted to take Eaglescout to Statler's Fun Center, complete with go-karts, pizza, and putt putt. I was like Mrs. Tiger Woods, let me tell ya. But I was happier to be Mrs. Eaglescout.

My friend Anne went to a wrestling match last night. This shocked me somewhat, as I didn't know she had a penchant for scantily clad men pretending to beat each other up. Heck, she should come watch our taekwondo testings and see Stephanie put Eaglescout on the floor if she wants excitement. 'Course, we are finely dressed at our testings. No nekkidness to titillate the senses.

So, I was reminded by Anne of a second grade boy I taught in the early years. This was in an inner-city school in Virginia. The school had nearly 600 youngins and most of them were living below the poverty level. This kid was bright. I mean smart as a tack. And he had a way with adults. He was funny, cute, conversational, and in the blink of an eye, mean as a striped snake. Oh, I don't think he wanted to be mean. He was groomed for it, I think. A nurture vs. nature thing.

I mean, this kid (I'll call him James, since I've never taught a James who didn't have this proclivity for stubbornness.) would be fine and dandy till you asked him to do something he wasn't in the mood to do.

"James, would you please put your writing folder away and come to the rug with us?"

"I AIN'T DOIN' JACK, MISS RICHERT!"

"James, writing workshop is over. We're having a meeting on the rug. Let's go."

GLARE GLARE GLARE

MEAN TEACHER LOOK
MEAN TEACHER LOOK
MEAN TEACHER LOOK

No use. James wasn't budging. He wasn't doin' jack.

Nevermind the implications there. Nevermind that I wasn't even a miss at the time.

And yet in all these years, James goes down as one of my favorites. In retrospect, I think that James was probably gifted. I mean that in the education sense of the word. He was bright, able to think about things in abstract ways. He could interact with his friends, teachers, and still keep his toes firmly entrenched in his hood. This was ultimately, I am afraid, his downfall.

You see, if you're gifted, and you don't use your "giftedness", you are in danger of losing it.
It's like practicing for anything. If I don't practice my taekwondo form, I forget how to do it. If Camden doesn't practice his soccer moves, he forgets them. If James didn't work out his thinking muscles, he'd forget how to use them. By the time James was in second grade, it just wasn't cool for him to get good grades. I was told that his uncles were all in jail and they had told him that he'd one day wind up there, too. Grades were a waste fo time. And so his grades dropped a bit every quarter. A self-fulfilling prophecy if I ever saw one.

Still, James taught me an important lesson in that year. He taught me that some subjects are OK to write about. I was a new teacher - I think this was my 2nd or 3rd year. I was really into writing workshop where kids write short picture books on subjects of their choosing. I tended to push kids to write about their own experiences because those were the ones they knew best. But James insisted on writing about his hero - Stone Cold Steve Austin.

Here is the hero cracking open a beer.

James was an avid wrastling fan. He knew all the big players. All their girlfriends. All the winning moves guaranteed to award WWF stardom (or WWE or WWWhatever). The only time his writing came alive with voice and excitement was when he wrote about his beloved wrastling hero. And so I gave in and let him at it.

Through the stories James wrote, I acquired a hefty knowledge of wrestling, albeit ONLY through his writings. I could talk trash with the best of them. I could tell you that Stone Cold and The Rock were rivals at least once. Stone Cold liked to finish off opponents with his signature Stone Cold Stunner. In fact, he once almost had the Undertaker under his Stunner control when suddenly the tables turned and Austin was nailed with a Piledrive of some sort. Of course, Austin did the piledrive, too, at times. This just wasn't his turn. Apparently, too, Stone Cold liked to say things like, "And that's the bottom line, cause Stone Cold said so!"

Well then.

I have to tell ya, I felt cool in those days when I could toss out terms like piledrive and stunner and Royal Rumble. Guys dig chicks who can talk wrastling.
Cause Stone Cold says so.

James transferred to another school after his second grade year; we never heard how he was doing. I think about him every year as I get to know a new class and then say goodbye to them in the spring. I wonder if I have any James in my charge. I wonder if I have any kids whose peeps think jail is more suitable than home. And I wonder if James is at home now. Wherever you are, James, thank you for keeping it real. For being true to yourself most of the time. I pray you are the James God meant for you to be.

Princess stopped by tonight to deliver a precious prize.



(Dear State Champ,
I have taken great pains to note any flaws in your in-practically-perfect-condition novel. I hereby solemnly swear to read it without touching it. I'm sure it will work out just fine. And, I promise to use a non-marking bookmark. That should take care of that. See you at karate.
Hugs,
Wendi)

Oh, I cannot wait to curl up with this baby tonight!

While here, Princess and Benjy had a little conversation.
Here's a snippet of it.

Let's face it. Brothers are hard.
It's hard to be one. It's hard to have one.
Brothers are hard.

I finished Twilight in less than 24 hours. Actually, to be precise, which is important for some, but not to me, I started the novel at 8 last night after TKD, went to bed around 2 a.m., and woke up, made sure the boys were alive, fed them breakfast, made a fresh pot of coffee, and resumed reading from 10 a.m. until 1 p.m. I think I peed once. I breathed when I was finished.

Then I called Princess, who loaned me the book from State Champ, who apparently has a thing about how her books are laid down when not being read. Even though she told me herself that she likes to crack spines and dog ear pages herself. I'm just sayin'.

So, I talked to Princess' maid, eh, machine, and told her,

"WOWIE WOW WOW!

IJUSTFINISHEDTWILIGHT
ANDICANNOTBELIEVE
HOWMUCHIWANTEDHIMTO
BITEHER!!!!!!!!!

Or some such blathering.

Princess returned my call today, leaving a cheeky message on my machine. "So, would you be a vampire?" Or some such ramblings.

Ummmmm.

YES!

But, only on the conditions that I am Bella. And Edward Cullen is Edward Cullen. And we live in Forks, Washington, where it rains and rains and rains. Hey, I like rain. I've never been overly fond of the sunshine. Other conditions apply: I will be eternally just exactly like Bella and Edward in Twilight, with no hints of trouble and no age lines or cellulite or high school angst. Hey, if he sat by me in Latin, well, ego amo te.

Now, snapping back to reality. Yes, I know it's a novel. So was The DaVinci Code, but I was awed by that one, too. Nevertheless, novels aren't real. They're called fiction for a reason. Twilight started from a dream on the author's part that she had to write down. And then it took over, practically writing itself as the characters shaped their futures. Daggonit, why don't my dreams ever turn out like that???

But, now that summer vacation is here, I'm all about getting lost in some escapist fiction. Hey, is that blood on my neck?

It's not everyday that I write odes. They're tricky, odes are. They should convey deep thought. And plus also, you need to get a good grade on them because your ode could mean passing 8th grade or staying in 8th grade.

But this ode is special, so I feel the need to try. It's for someone who has touched my life in a most basic of ways.

This ode is to Easy Reader.

For whatever reason, I have been hooked on Easy Reader videos from Youtube. I watched these circa 1970s videos that aired on PBS' The Electric Company when I was a kid. Now, through the wonders of youtube and some youtube poster who calls himself/herself "crotchrot" I can wax nostalgic and get puddly all over the leather sofa reliving the glory days of Easy Reader. Slap a Kleenex on me, will ya?

I had been under the misimpression that Dick and Jane taught me how to read. But I've finally realized that Dick and Jane and Spot and Mother and Father and Teacher had precious little to do with it.

Easy Reader taught me how to read.

Top to bottom.
Left to right.
Reading stuff
is outta sight!

Reading's groovy.
Reading's nice.
And I got a way
to do it twice!

Now that I think about it, I've known since I was knee-high to a grasshopper that TION spells [shun]. Easy Reader taught me.



And what about OA says [oh]? We all know the first letter does the talkin', the second does the walkin'. But Easy Reader taught it to me with words, music, and jive talkin'.



Then there's the more complicated plural form of a noun. This doesn't come naturally to some. Take Benjy, for example. He puts an S on most of his nouns regardless of their plurality. Not that he knows they're nouns yet. I'll show him this video and I bet he'll be slappin' some plurals in all the right places.



Odes aside, did you ever notice how awesome Sylvia dances? I wanted to dance like her on the tall platform at American Bandstand.



And who didn't practice reading the shampoo bottle ingredient list in the bathtub?



Forget the ode. I just wanna go read a book now.

Did I ever tell you that I had this closet obsession with Eminem when I was incubating Benjy? Yeah, I did. I was a bit embarrassed about it, so I kept this close to my chest. Then one day after jiving to school with The Real Slim Shady, I could hide it no more. I came out of the closet in the staff lounge during lunch. I was eating my daily peanut butter and jelly with a V-8 because not only was I with child, but also I was health conscious back in the day. Somebody mentioned John Mayer. Yeah, I like him, I agreed. And somebody mentioned the Rolling Stones. Duh, of course I like them. (Who doesn't?) Then a singer I'd never heard of. And another. And yet another. Not to be outdone, I squirmed in my seat and then let her rip.

"Youwon'tbelievethis,
butIlikeEminem."

I stabbed a grape in my fruit cocktail while the room grew silent. You could hear the 2nd graders in the lunchroom across the hall, but not a teacher spoke in our room.

"Well, I just like the beat. You know, the beat."

I sipped my V-8. Opened my Snack Pack chocolate pudding.

"You know, he does have a good beat. He's a talented musician," the music teacher offered.

Zing!
The music teacher thinks he has a good beat!
She thinks he's got talent!

But I knew better than to elaborate. I had regaled these teachers for months with my obsession with the Sopranos, and they probably feared that I was Tony's consigliere as it was. I didn't really wanna be rogue gangsta of Green Valley Elementary School.

Yeah, I couldn't help it. It must have been the hormones.

Due to the salacious, abhorrent, and indecent lyrics and content of Eminem's performance of Without Me, video is not posted. However, Without Me's beat is still notable.

We had a titillating grammar conversation at taekwondo tonight. Actually, we had our deliberation which was positively enchanting after the TKD class while standing around the parents' lounge all sweaty and breathless-like. On the agenda was the preposition-at-the-end-of-a-sentence dilemma. I've always been of the mind that some English constructions are just plain awkward if you manipulate the preposition from the end of the sentence to someplace else, say, for instance, under the couch, simply to avoid breaking this mother of all rules.

And with these words from Sir Winston Churchill, I am almost ready to rest my case:

“This is the sort of English up with which I will not put.”

A Washington State University professor has a substantial list of common English errors that includes these non-errors. (Those usages people keep telling you are wrong but which are actually standard in English.) This site refers readers to The American Heritage Book of English Usage, which I did not write. From there, I paste these nuggets of English wisdom:

It was John Dryden, the 17th-century poet and dramatist, who first promulgated the doctrine that a preposition may not be used at the end a sentence. Grammarians in the 18th century refined the doctrine, and the rule has since become one of the most venerated maxims of schoolroom grammar. But sentences ending with prepositions can be found in the works of most of the great writers since the Renaissance. In fact, English syntax not only allows but sometimes even requires final placement of the preposition, as in We have much to be thankful for or That depends on what you believe in. Efforts to rewrite such sentences to place the preposition elsewhere can have comical results, as Winston Churchill demonstrated when he objected to the doctrine by saying “This is the sort of English up with which I cannot put.”

Even sticklers for the traditional rule can have no grounds for criticizing sentences such as I don’t know where she will end up or It’s the most curious book I’ve ever run across; in these examples, up and across are adverbs, not prepositions. You can be sure of this because it is impossible to transform these examples into sentences with prepositional phrases. It is simply not grammatical English to say I don’t know up where she will end and It’s the most curious book across which I have ever run.

So, bite me, John Dryden.

Click HERE to see other non-errors so you can impress your friends with your blatant disregard for schoolroom grammar. And click HERE to see the home page of the professor who maintains the site and his other projects. OK, that's where the grammar stuff is at. :)

And now, for your viewing pleasure, I leave you with Morgan Freeman as Easy Reader.

I groove on all the words around.
Ah ah ah.
As long as they are written down.
Ah ah ah.
Easy Reader, that's my name.
Ah ah ah.

How long does it take you to get ready in the morning? Me? Only about 15 minutes if I compact it all down and take out the extraneous moments like stopping to listen to the weather or tell the boys for the 238th time to get up or pick up my coffee mug to take a sip or three. Really, I'm a fast get-ready-er.

Eaglescout rises and shines, yes, shines and sings and sometimes even dances, at 5 a.m. It's strange, but he's at his best at that hour. Too bad I don't care to hear a single word he has to sing. He wakes me at 5:30 with a cup of coffee. He's much better at coffee than dancing. I just lie there in bed counting the minutes on my clock. 5:35. 5:36. 5:37. 5:38. 5:39. 5:40. My clock, you see, is set five minutes fast, so I always think I have an extra five minutes to sleep. It works for me. Really. My feet finally hit the floor at 5:40 and I trudge to the bathroom to begin my get ready ritual.

I'm one of those chicks who has to wash her hair every single morning before facing her people. My shampoo of choice is Prell. It smells clean, fresh, and nothing like the shampoos that sent me hurling when I was pregnant with Benjy. Shampoos, detergents, hand soaps, perfumes. Oh, the scents that put me over the proverbial edge (of the toilet) for 105 days. The doctors finally told me to take vitamin B6 and Unisom for the nausea and, wowie wow wow, I was cured. It was a miracle, I tell you.

So, there's the hair washing, hair moussing, hair drying, hair spraying. That takes around 5 minutes tops. Short hair makes it all work out time-wise. I only lather lotion on my face, followed by blush and a tad bit of eye shadow. Lipstick tops the ensemble and I'm bound to smear a bit on Eaglescout before we bid adieu. Usually he doesn't even know. Clothes are a cinch if only I could decide what to wear.

I swear, it's not the getting ready part that causes me to fret and yell and turn into a raging monster at 6:30 every school morning. It's the boys' get ready ritual that brings out my less flattering side. While I can create a do and find clothes to wear in 20 minutes, again, compressing the unnecessary parts like when Eaglescout wants to dance while the day's forecast is on so I have to dance and then catch the next forecast segment, the boys dilly dally and talk and waste toothpaste for 40 minutes. And they don't even get up till 6:00! By the time they've wolfed down waffles and milk and vitamins and not a little sugary maple syrup and brushed their teeth, it's 6:37 on the clock and I'm in full-out panic mode. Then we have to find our shoes. Great day in the morning, who hid the shoes?!!! We are lucky if we scream out of the garage at 6:48 on my van clock. This clock is set three minutes fast, and so I know it's really only 6:45, but I have to be in Armbrust at 7:00. That's hardly legal. By the way, did you ever notice how folks around these parts don't pronounce it Arm-brust? They say Arm-Burst. As in "my arm burst into a gazillion pieces of flesh and bones." This drives me up a tree, but nobody cares. They continue to butcher the pronunciation, but I refuse to give in. Even if I look weird.

So, what's your morning like? Blog about it, people. You know you need something meaningless to write about. And I need something mindless to read. :)

This is my first-born. He's heavy on personal style and light on patience. He has an opinion on every subject, even the ones he cannot pronounce. He's speaks often and loudly. He's the one Mom wished on me when I was but a wee girl. "I hope you have one just like you when you grow up!" It's a wonder I ever had the second child.

Meet Camden. He's my mini clone. This shot was taken about 5 years ago when he went through his WINTER IN SUMMER phase. He wore turtlenecks, sweatshirts, sweaters, any form of winter-wear during June, July, and August with his yellow rubber "Rescue Hero" boots. He wore this get-up most every single day. Nothing I could say would sway his decision. Sweat would bead up on his brow, belly, and stinky feet, and still, he'd pull on those smelly boots - sans socks - and run outside in all his insane glory.

There's something about a child this stubborn that makes being his mother both a migraine and a pure pleasure. That may explain why I take Lexapro. But I learned a long time ago not to sweat the small stuff. Smelly rubber boots aside, Camden was a joy to watch during this summer. He rejoiced in every single endeavor - finding frogs by the pond, memorizing Golden Books' Beauty and the Beast, teaching Benjy how to play hide and seek, driving his screechy fire engine pedal car down the sidewalk blaring his self-voiced siren. Camden has always been a child who lives his life with zest.

It's taken some time and perhaps a few kicks to the head, but I've grown to embrace this robust side of Camden and appreciate it for all the wonder and life and love he brings to our family. I even miss those yellow boots. Occassionally.

It occurred to me at TKD tonight that I am short. Actually, it's occurred to me on many a night, but tonight it became abundantly clear. Here I was, partnered with Princess, holding a pad for her to roundkick. Only I had to hold the pad at chest-height to accommodate her long legs that she perches her body on. This is particularly uncomfortable for my girls (you know, my "girls") when you're taking hits off the pad and it smashes against you. Short people got no reason. Thanks, Princess, for a bit of clarity on my otherwise beautiful day. :)

Being Forked

I had never been forked until we moved to Ohio in 2003. Benjy was just a few months old when I was forked for the first time. It was election season of 2004. I remember that because I had a Kerry sign in my front yard. To this day we do not know who forked us, but I do recall that Kerry lost the election. Camden was offended, but we just laughed because being forked was, well, so funny. Actually, it was kinda cool to be singled out as worthy of a few hundred forks poked in the yard. If only we knew who liked us so much....


And now we've been forked again. Just when we'd written this town off, Greensburg comes through. And this time we know the guilty parties.

Tami, aka Homeschooling Ninja Turtle Princess

Leslie, aka Lady Leslie

Can you fathom how many forks this must be? If you can guess correctly, you will win an invisible prize. This is the scene we found when we came home from celebrating Benjy Boo's birthday at the hotel with a pool and a party room. (i.e. Room 513)

We had to smile that somebody loved us enough to go to all this work. And we naturally suspected our dog sitter, Leslie. Emma confirmed this for us.


Emma also confirmed how her peculiar bed pals arrived in her bed (i.e. OUR bed) She was sad to see them go back to their own chair, but while she had the bunnies, she was one happy dog.




Thanks, Princess and Lady, for the swell homecoming. It was almost as good as the Clone Cake. :)

Dandelions

Go

fly

a

kite

today.













Admit it, you love flowers. Pretty, full, vibrant flowers.
Dandelions are flowers, too.

Dandelions
Welcome children of the Spring,
In your garbs of green and gold,
Lifting up your sun-crowned heads
On the verdant plain and wold.
As a bright and joyous troop
From the breast of earth ye came
Fair and lovely are your cheeks,
With sun-kisses all aflame.
In the dusty streets and lanes,
Where the lowly children play,
There as gentle friends ye smile,
Making brighter life's highway
Dewdrops and the morning sun,
Weave your garments fair and bright,
And we welcome you to-day
As the children of the light.
Children of the earth and sun.
We are slow to understand
All the richness of the gifts
Flowing from our Father's hand.
Were our vision clearer far,
In this sin-dimmed world of ours,
Would we not more thankful be
For the love that sends us flowers?
Welcome, early visitants,
With your sun-crowned golden hair,
With your message to our hearts
Of our Father's loving care.
Frances Ellen Watkins

Big Huge Labs is my favorite website at this very minute in time. I created this in a millisecond. It took me longer to find the quote to match than to make this motivational poster. That's what they call it, a motivational poster.

You can also make badges. This could come in handy if you ever want to pretend you work for CNN or FOX News and want to duke it out with yourself.


You could put yourself on a billboard. I chose this rural scene. But you might pick Times Square.

You can star in your very own movie.
And you can have it rated whatever is appropriate.
Of course, my movies are G.


You can even be the cover of a magazine. Wowie Wow Wow!

Did I ever say how much I miss the south? The south really is, well, southern. You know, as in Southern Living southern.
Friendly and just plain down-home southern.
Fried ocra and deviled eggs southern.
I bet the Brady Bunch lived in the south. Especially Alice.
Aside from that, it's where I grew up. We went home for Easter and stayed with Mom and Dad for a short weekend.


Emma stayed under this table during her waking hours. She hid from Devil Dog Hokie and Gentle Giant Brandee. Brandee's not so bad. She's a Golden Retriever with a sweet hulking disposition. Hokie is a Yankee. He's a dachshund and not very southern. Except when he's sleeping.

Camden and Benjy played with Nana when they weren't chasing invisible clones in the woods.


These were the same woods Michelle and I played in when we grew up here. Old Mr. Hart had built trails in these woods and we felt like explorers and wild Indians when we played there. I love how they hold the same magic for my boys.


See those guns? They practically slept with them. These are their weapons when they play Clone Wars. I couldn't believe they sat side by side for this shot and smiled simultaneously. They are good clones.


And here's Eaglescout after he sneaked one of Mom's deviled eggs. Shame on him. But Mom, being a woman of good southern stock, didn't mind. She let him eat all he wanted even before we said the blessing.

And here's Emma waiting for us to leave. She was scared to death when we went to church, so afraid we were leaving her there. She was born and raised in the south, but something about these visits to Mom and Dad and their dogs makes me think she prefers the green grass of the north. But she would never in a million years say yins.

Have you filled a bucket today?

I love this book, and I've used it in my classroom at back-to-school time since I discovered it in a Hallmark shop a few years ago. Here's the skinny: We all have this invisible bucket that people can either dip from or fill up. Bucket dippers make you feel lousy, sad, ineffective, or just plain dumb. Bucket fillers make you happy. They support you, bring smiles, cheer you on, encourage you to be all that God wants you to be. Personally, I prefer to hang out with the bucket fillers.

And now, Teaching Heart is sponsoring a give-away right here. I love give-aways as much as I love presents! You could win this bucket to give to your child's favorite teacher. It's filled with a copy of the book, activities to be used with the book, and two of her wonderfully amazing CD-ROMS filled with teacher goodness to be used with an elementary class. That's so bucket-filling amazing! (I've used her stuff and it is beautifully presented and relevant and easy and FUN! My kids love the activities I've used from her site.)


I am blessed to be surrounded by bucket-fillers. But the one who continues to fill my bucket to overflowing is my husband, good old Eaglescout. I cannot imagine life without him. He is a bucket-filler by nature, being an Eaglescout and Order of the Arrow and the publisher of his own invisible newspaper company and all. But seriously, he rocks in the bucket-filling business. He holds me to a higher standard with his outlook on life and people. When I'm down and ready to be in the dumps for a while, he pulls me out and shows me what's to love in life. When my bucket has been drained by petty every-day stupid stuff (for lack of a better term for it), he stops the leak and gently fills it back up. This weekend, home with my mom and dad, he spent so much time filling all our buckets that it's a true wonder he has anything left in his own. And yet he keeps on filling. Amazing is he, no? (Yoda said that.) Thank you, Eaglescout, for making me so happy and keeping me that way.

And now, I'd like to pass along some bucket-filling cheer to a few people who make me happy and fill my bucket.

Leslie. I know you feel like your bucket is drained to the point of being inside out. There are the people who rock and the people who suck rocks who pull at you. I pray the people who rock win the battle. I really feel it's gonna work out just like that for you and your wonderful boys. Here's a drop in your bucket. I hope it feels full soon.

Mom. You've been my hero for the past year with your Wonder Woman strength. How you've nursed Dad through cancer. Twice. And how you've let God hold you up after we lost Shell. How you've felt His blessings even when your bucket was drained. You are my hero. I hope that feels like a drop in your bucket today.

Tami. Your bucket seems to be overflowing with laughter and smiles and cheer. From your ninja skills to your princess tendencies, you make me giggle. Oh, but it's a serious giggle, of course. I do take you seriously. Seriously. :)

Kim. You haven't blogged since Pi day. I guess the holiday extravaganza plumb wore you out. But I thought you should know that you really put a big old drop of goodness in my bucket when you told me I could really and truly spar, at least a little. And, well, the Christmas gift you gave continues to give. hehehehe Here's a drop for your bucket!

OK, y'all. I challenge you to fill a bucket today!

Happy Easter! Allelujah, Allelujah!

Because there's a bit of Wild Thing in all of us.



I'm not sure if I can wait till fall. This has long been one of my favorite children's books of all time. I love it so much I've memorized it.

The night Max wore his wolf suit
and made mischief
of one kind
and another
his mother called him
"Wild Thing!"
And Max said,
"I'LL EAT YOU UP!"
So he was sent to bed
without eating anything.
That very night in Max's room
a forest grew, and grew, and grew
until the ceiling hung with vines
and the walls became the world all around,
and an ocean tumbled by
with a private boat for Max.
And he sailed through night and day
and in and out of weeks
and almost over a year
to the place where the Wild Things are.

This just in ... for everybody who disses my peeps:

Thank you Princess for the helpful image that gave me reason to blog.
And LL, you have my love and prayers, including this one.

I am nearly blind from being on the computer all the live-long day. I've been working on my National Board Certification renewal portfolio. Now I know what Tiger Woods goes through when he practices for the Masters. Only I don't get a green jacket. But I do get a nice little certificate to hang up on the wall of my choice. And if I was teaching in a public school in Virginia, I'd get a handsome $2,500 bonus every year for the next 10 years. If I lived in Mississippi, I'd get an annual $6,000 bonus. It's hot there, though. And humid. Since I teach in Pennsylvania, which sucks, by the way, and teach in a private school, I just get the lovely certificate. But ya know? That's enough for me. I'm easy, what can I say.

Really, that's what I've done today. I've typed my fingers to the nub on how I teach reading comprehension strategies like inferring through the reading workshop model and how I teach writing by focusing on the reading-writing connection. Big stuff, I tell ya.



I had to videotape one component of the portfolio. I recorded 10 minutes of moi leading the class in a minilesson (teacher-speak for a brief lesson) focused on how to infer what the author doesn't explicitly say. It wasn't so much my great teaching as my students' great inferring. They're a smartly bunch.

And now I'm so addicted to the keyboard that I sit here doing the blog. That and, plus, my mom has missed the blog updates. I love you, Mom! Thanks for being my loyal reader!

I finally couldn't take it anymore and quit Microsoft Word for Mac. Literally, quit it. Stopped the application and saved the whole shebang.

And then I thought on it some more. I'm wild that way.


The BOX has to be mailed by April 30. I have completed 2 of the four papers required. I have almost completed the third, but need to add a couple of examples of how I impacted student learning and all that jazz. I have a reflection on my growth as a teacher to go. And then I send my box off to the wild blue yonder in Texas. You can bet I'll pay extra to track that shipment.

Why put myself through this experience, you ask? Well, part of me feels that since I worked so hard to get it, I shouldn't let it go, even if it costs to recertify. Another part of me feels that keeping the certification will certainly help if I move and want to teach in another place. And, well, the biggest part of me (which is my hips) feels that this is the best way to reflect on my growth as a teacher. Truly, going through National Board Certification was by far the best professional development I have ever undertaken. No GIANT NAME IN EDUSPEAK can compare to the process of examining your teaching and reflecting on how you can be even better.

Break to watch the TV...

I see now that Christopher has died on the Sopranos. A rerun is on, and I'm admittedly drawn to it. The Sopranos opening song is the theme song of Camden's arrival into this world. Let me explain. The season premiere was slated to start when our first son was born. We actually have photos of Curt and me in bed awaiting this event, with Camden snuggly wrapped and lying in my arms. And then the theme song came on.



Those were the days.

I'm a blue belt!

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!