Allergy-Free Post

My father, Peter, likes to complain that I don't post enough but considering that 1) I don't see him offering to come up and relieve me of some of my responsibilities (babysitters are always welcome!) and 2) where are his blog posts? I say to him a big fat thpppppp.

Today was one of those days when my greatest achievement was not killing my children. I have officially turned them over to Adam and I'm sitting her drinking my chardonnay, too lazy to get up and turn off the Miley Cyrus, which means tomorrow "Party in the U.S.A." will torture me on my morning run.

Not related to my children's monster meltdowns: After school today, I was sitting outside with my neighbor Beetle while Tab and Doodles played in their "clubhouse," aka the bushes outside Tab's house.

"So," Beetle said. "Doodles has to wear all green tomorrow to school?"

"What?"

"He has to wear all green tomorrow for school."

"For his play?"

"I don't know."

I yell to Doodles, "Hey, Doodles! Get out here!"

He lumbers out. I ask, "Why does Beetle know you have to wear green tomorrow, but I don't?"

I get the mother of all "duh" looks. "Because I told her!"

Of course. Tomorrow all the first graders in the school are celebrating an African festival. There will be a play. My son will be playing the Boa Constrictor. There will be music on drums they made themselves. There will be a feast. Provided by the parents.

Another parent and I were assigned to make Benne Cakes. Of course, allergy-free Benne Cakes with Ener-G Egg Replacer, which I've never had much luck with. She starts first. I get a call. "These things are absolutely flat. Completely unusable." In my cocky Martha-Stewart way, I assured her that I'd make mine and let her know how they were, fully confident that they'd be great. I made them. They're flat. Completely unusable. And dark. And weird looking.

So I do a little Web research on Benne Cakes. Only to discover that benne means... sesame seed. Which we aren't using. Because of allergies. So these things I'm making? My African Benne Cakes aren't African and aren't cakes. Yum!

Now I get to stay up late making more non-African, non-Benne, non-cakes. Lucky me!

So, Peter. You were saying?

From the Mouths of Babes

Today in the car:

Doodles: Mom, I think the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus are related.
Me: Well, yeah. They're both Christian.
D: Yeah, I know.
Me: You don't tell people that they're not real, do you?
D: No.
Me: Good.
D: Although...
Me: Yes?
D: I think the Easter Bunny is real.
Me: Really?
D: Yeah.
Me: Well, why didn't the Easter Bunny bring you anything?
D: Because we're not Christian.
Me: But you still think it's real?
D: Yeah.
Me: Um. Okay. What about Santa?
D: He's not real.
Me: All right.
D: You know, I think that maybe the Easter Bunny is Santa's pet bunny.
Me: Wait.
D: Yeah?
Me: If Santa isn't real, how can he have a pet bunny?
D: Well, maybe Santa is a spirit and the spirit of Santa has a bunny.
Me: Oh. Hey!
D: What?
Me: How is it that you can believe in the spirit of Santa but you can't believe in God?
D: I'm just weird like that.

State of the Union

Dear Readers. Having fun. Wish you were here. Love, Jenny

No seriously, I know I haven't been posting as much lately. It's just with the beautiful weather and the holiday and all the other good stuff, I've been out doing instead of home computering. I need to do some construction on this site (and by "me," I mean "Adam" and by "construction" I mean, "I have no idea what I mean"). For the past 8 1/2 years (gasp!) that I've kept this blog, I've FTP'd it to Blogger. No biggie. Although they're now doing away with FTP support, which means... well, something. Apparently my main choice is to go to Wordpress, if I want to keep my own domain, and it's these gorgeous, beautiful weeks that make me wonder if I really will. Maybe it's time to let the blog die a natural death before my son, who can now read everything I write figures out what I'm up to and starts to protest his innermost quirks being broadcast to the world at large. Something to think about...

Anywhos... What have I been busy with? Well, there's Pesach (and I love how every time Pie says, "Pesach," to my father, she quickly adds, "That's Passover," as if my father has no idea what Pesach is. Which he does. And he doesn't. So she's not completely off). We hosted a seder for 18, which was lovely, but a little busy. As she's at a Jewish preschool, Pie had off last Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday for the holiday. And then Doodles had off Friday for Good Friday (and I tried explaining Good Friday and Easter to him, but boy did I mangle it. I tried to end on a joke--"Do you know, Doodles, how we'll know who's right?" "How?" "Well, when the Messiah comes, if he says, 'Nice to meet you,' we'll know that we [the Jews] were right. If he says, 'Hi. Good to see you again,' we'll know the Christians had it right."--but somehow that only made it more confusing). And then Pie had off again this past Monday and Tuesday for the end of Passover. And yet I survived. Did I mention that Adam's in London? Still surviving. And having fun.

So first night seder was at our house. We did seder bingo. Kids did the four questions beautifully. Ate too many desserts. Done by about 8. The second night we had seder at our rabbi's house. Now that's a seder. The kids loved it, although Pie petered out at 8:30. Doodles and I made it till the midnight end and he was enthralled by it. So the next day I let him play hooky, and Doodles, Pie, and I went to see the Egypt Tomb 10A exhibit at the MFA. (Get it? It was Passover? So we went to see about Egypt? Clever, no?)

I had to fit all of my week into Thursday and then on Friday, Doodles and I rode bikes, went to see How to Train Your Dragon, and then hung out outside. It was truly a perfect day.

The beginning of this week, Pie wanted playdates so I used the time to clean. I mean really clean. I finally got my office organized, and over the weekend, Adam had built these lovely shelves in our closet's closet (yes, you read that right: our closet has a closet), so I moved all our CDs in there and then repurposed the original shelves in my office and the house is so lovely and beautiful! The house was fully cleaned today and I feel this urge to put police tape all over the door and make a huge sign that reads, "No Medroses Allowed" because the instant one of them comes in this house, there goes all my beautiful clean house. Sigh.

There's more I've done. And more going on. But I don't feel like writing about it. Children want to be let in. So I need to go guard my beautiful house. Because I can see the gleam in their eyes. The gleam of destruction. Sigh.

The Fashionista

Today is Red Sox day in the boy's classroom. Yet he said to me, "I have nothing to wear."

I pointed out the spread of shirts from which he had to choose. An Ortiz. A Pedroia. A Matsuzaka. Even a Garciaparra . Plus two with no names on them at all.

"I only want to wear Varitek."

To which Adam cringes. Because apparently Varitek sucks. And is on his way out. (As I would not know or care about these things.)

The boy is locked in his room at the moment. We all wait with baited breath, to see what he's going to wear today....

Dear Diary

Report cards came out last Friday and my son is brilliant. Brilliant, of course being a subjective mom's interpretation of grades that run all over the place. Our town has this incomprehensible grading system of B, P, M, and E. B=beginning a skill, P=progressing on a skill, M=meeting expectations, E=exceeding expectations. Doodles had a healthy mix of Ps, Ms, and Es. Brilliant, right?

Anyway, I didn't need a report card to tell me that the area Doodles needs to work the most in is his writing. But of course writing is the subject he likes least and the one he is most reluctant to practice.

Except on Friday, I had a brainstorm. A genius idea! I dug into the attic and found, from 1976 to 1978, my diary. With Strawberry Shortcake on the cover and a lock on the outside. And I read Doodles a few pages. The one that made him the happiest was this one:


(And I cringe reading this. How, at the ripe old age of 9 1/2, did I not know the difference between "loose" and "lose"? I blame my parents.)

Doodles needed a diary. Can I tell you how hard it is to find a locking diary that isn't adorned in Hello Kitty or flowers or fairies? I thought I found a really cool one, but the price was, um, off putting. But I did find one that wasn't great, but wasn't "girly."

The boy is addicted. Every few hours he jumps up and yells, "I need to go write something in my diary!" I'm dying to peer into his journal, but I respect his privacy. And, the fact is, I really don't care what he writes. I just care how he writes. I want to know he's spelling because and not becos, that he's using capitals at the beginning of the sentence and punctuation at the end. I do, at least, know he's writing neatly. As he sat down, I reminded him, "Now, you need to write well enough that your grown-up self will be able to read your handwriting," and as I saw him go, he was making beautiful well-formed letters. So that's half the battle. I plan on going at some point today to buy him a copy of Harriet the Spy. I think that will help to fan the flames.

And who knows? In thirty-five years, perhaps in his blog, he'll scan in a page from his diary to show what he was up to as a kid. I just hope he spells "lose," right.

Workin' for the Man

Doodles and Tab have started their own business. I've insisted they wait till April vacation to really get going, but in the meantime, if you need anything done, they're in service.

You Just Can't Win

For the summer of 2011, we're talking with two other families about spending the summer in Israel. The trip we took in February of last year was so amazing, that I'd love to spend more time there, get to know the country better. Husbands would only be able to spend a couple of weeks, but moms and kids could be there for four to eight weeks. Send the kids to camp there, learn the language, really immerse ourselves.

I told the kids about the idea. Pie said, "Yea!! Israel! It was so much fun! I can't wait!"

Doodles threw his head back dramatically and complained, "Israel! Again!"

Watching the opening ceremonies (finally!) we watched the dance of the First Nations. Doodles had lots of questions about them, which I try to answer. Then I say...

Me: Maybe we'll go there this summer. What would you think?
Doodles: Go where?
Me: To the Northwest. We could go to Seattle and then to Vancouver.
Doodles: Awwww! [Throws his head down in disgust.]
Me, surprised: That doesn't interest you?
Doodles: No!
Me: If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would you go?
Doodles: Egypt!
Me: Well that's not going to happen now. Where else would you want to go?
Doodles, with a big sigh: Nowhere.

Six years old. And already jaded. Wait till he realizes it's all downhill from here.

Olympic-Tired Kids

I've been suckered. It's 7:59 p.m. and I've got two incredibly sleepy children next to me. But I made the mistake earlier of saying, "Hey, the Olympic opening ceremonies are on at 7:30. If you guys want to stay up late, you can watch it." They, of course, took me up on the offer, and we started watching.

Before we began, I said to Adam, "Did you hear about the luger?" "No," he said. "Look it up. But don't say anything. I don't want it a topic of discussion." What was I thinking? Doodles and I had a huge battle when I turned off the TV when Tom Brokaw said, "The footage you are about to see about the death of Georgian luge slider Nodar Kumaritashvili is graphic." We had no choice but to explain to them about the accident. Pie keeps asking over and over, "So he went off the quarters?" "The course." "So he died?" "Yes, he died." "How did he die?"

Let me move on by saying the (male) sportscaster is interviewing snowboarder Shaun White. Me: "Man, I wish I had a head of hair like him."
Pie: "Him? That's a guy?"
Me: "Yeah."
Pie: "How do you know?"
Me: "I just know."
Pie: "Are those two people [Sean and the sportscaster] married?"
Me: "No."

So all this is happening, and I finally say to Adam, "What time, exactly, do these opening ceremonies start? I thought it was 7:30."

He does a little zing zing on his computer and then laughs at me. "Coverage of the opening ceremonies start at 7:30. But the opening ceremonies don't start till 9."

Try telling my kids, "Nevermind! I was wrong!" So instead I have two already tired kids trying their best to make it up till 9. It's not going to happen. But they're giving it their all, although I predict Pie will be out in about 2.73 minutes.

5. 4. 3. 2. 1. No, the ceremonies haven't started. But Pie wins the gold medal in sleep. One down, one to go!

Tick Tock

Lots of times when I run, my mind is focused on something specific: a problem I'm trying to work out in my novel, working out a school situation for Doodles, thinking about ways to get Pie over her tantrum stage. I frequently make and go over my to-do lists when I'm out there. Running is the best method I have for de-stressing and working things out. But occasionally, I'll just crank up the iPod and my mind will float where it may. This past Monday, as I kept up a nice tempo and ABC (the band, not the kid song) was playing, my mind wandered and I started thinking about the kids. But oddly, I realized, that when I think about the kids, I think about them about two years behind. When I picture the kids, I think of Pie as a toddler, speaking in halting sentences, and Doodles, as this little kid bopping around and tripping on himself with his uncoordinated walk. When I see them in real life, it's almost shocking.

Who are these big kids? I sign Pie up for kindergarten today and, oh, the things she can do! She can go to the computer, turn it on, load up her phonics game, and play. She can add and subtract and write the names of everyone in the family. She's the best Go Fish player I've met. She's adept at using my iPhone and knows the words to Selena Gomez's and Hannah Montana's most popular songs. She oozes attitude like a teenager.

My boy is not just reading, he's reading. We've moved way beyond Minnie and Moo and Biscuit and his new "just right books" include my childhood favorites, like Judy Blume. We're reading Freckle Juice together and last night, as we went to bed, he said, "Yea! Another chapter of Freckle Juice!" He absorbs information and can spew out things he gleaned from books or school or by looking it up on the computer. Adam and I are no longer the ultimate sources of knowledge--he can find things out himself.

I've noticed of late that my kids simply take up more space. Pie's outgrown her car seat and we're going to be a booster-only family. Doodles laughs every time I mock-cry, "My baby boy! Stop getting so big!" and he tells me, "Mom, I can't help it! It's what I'm supposed to do!"

What's a mama to do?

If They're Like This Now...

Six. That's right, six. The magic age when a child becomes embarrassed by his mother. My son has suddenly blossomed into tweendom. Walking home from school, I was chatting up a neighbor girl. A second grader. Who lives on our block. Walking home with her father and her younger sister. The humiliating conversation?

Me, first to Tab and then to Doodles: So, anything exciting happen today?
Tab: No.
Doodles: Mmmph.
Me to neighbor girl: How about you? Anything exciting happen today?
Neighbor: Well...
Doodles, hitting me with his jacket: Mom! Cut it out!
Neighbor: We watched a movie at school today.
Me: That does sound exciting. What movie?
Doodles: MOM! CUT IT OUT!
Me: Sweetie, I'm allowed to talk to our neighbor if I choose to.
Doodles: No!
Neighbor: It was a Magic Schoolbus movie.
Me: What was it about?
Doodles, still hitting me: CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT CUT IT OUT!
Neighbor: It was about gravity. Because we're learning about the moon!
Doodles: Cut it out!
Me: Doodles you're being rude.
[pause a few seconds]
Doodles: Mom, can I have computer time when we get home?
Timing isn't his forte. And for the record, the answer was no.

Pie, four-year-old little Pie, isn't immune to tweendom, either. Her birthday is six months, four weeks and one day away. Pie is suddenly into the rock stars and she's planning a rock star birthday. ("Can I have a swimming rock star birthday?" "That might be a bit much." "Okay, then this birthday will be a rock star birthday and my six birthday will be a swimming party.") She's obsessed with being a rock star. Which has led to some interesting outfits. Pie has a number of dresses that she loves, but which she's clearly grown out of. A few weeks ago, we agreed that she could keep wearing the too-small dresses but with a pair of leggings underneath.

A couple of days ago she put on one of those dresses, which barely grazes her tush.
Me: You've definitely grown out of that dress!
Pie: Oh?
Me: It's too short on you. Why don't you put some leggings?
Pie: Oh, I don't need to!
Me: I thought we said when dresses are too short, you'd wear them with leggings. Lots of rock stars wear leggings. It's very popular for rock stars.
Pie: But, Mom, I saw Hannah Montana! And she had on a really short skirt with no leggings! So I'll just wear tights with the dress.

Just shoot me now.

Snow Birds and Snow Babes

My kids have personalities as different as can be. But nowhere does it show itself as clearly as it does in their reaction to the weather. Doodles, who claimed that his favorite thing about the trip to Miami Beach was "the hotness," constantly bemoans the fact that we live in New England instead of Florida. The minute the temperature drops, the boy becomes a couch potato, piling up a stack of books, planting himself in front of the fireplace, and settling in for the day.

The girl has the opposite reaction. She wakes up. "Snow? Can I shovel!" She's the first one in her snow pants and ready to play outside. This morning as I attempted to shovel us out--attempted because it was one of those wet, heavy snows that doesn't want to cooperate with the shovel--she proclaimed, "Do you know what my favorite season is? It's winter!" And then she attempted to make a snow slide out of the mounds being shoveled.

I want to buy all of us snow shoes. Pie says, "Can we go today?" I tell her, "I haven't bought them yet!" Doodles protests, "I don't want snow shoes. It's just walking in the snow with tennis rackets on your feet. And I hate walking."

My sun worshiper and my snow baby. And never the 'twain shall meet.

Survival Mode

Both Pie and Rebecca Rubin are doing well right now, thank you. It was really touch and go for both of them for a bit. Pie had such a fit this morning that I had a choice to make: Do something that would rightfully have DSS after me or take it out on Rebecca Rubin. I'm sorry Rebecca Rubin. But those moments you spent in the trash can were well worth it, in my book.

Adam's still in London and the kids have morphed into devil children. Pie refused to walk Doodles to school, which meant that either 1) she'd be home alone or 2) Doodles would miss school (which given what comes next, I don't think he would have minded). Out and out tantrum about getting on her boots to walk the boy. That's when Rebecca Rubin made a visit to the trash can (and no, I did not put a $100 doll in the trash can, but she took a little rest on top of the trash can). And then finally--screaming the entire three blocks--we get to Doodles's school where Doodles--Doodles!!!--had a horrendous drop off. He cried and cried and refused to go into school and his (yes, 1st grade!) teacher had to peel him off of me.

After school, Pie was whiny and insisted on a playdate. It was really against my better judgment, but I agreed. The girl who came over is a charming girl, who I actually really like a lot. (Does this mean there are kids I don't like? Let's not go there, shall we?) Let's just say the playdate did not go well. On either side. Pie didn't share. The other girl decided we were all mean (I was mean--I insisted she hold my hand when we crossed the street to pick up Doodles. Can you believe what a be-yatch I am?). No one could get along. The playdate ended very early.

I managed to keep both kids alive and occupied the rest of the afternoon without resorting to too much bribery (okay, there may have been a few extra marshmallows in the hot chocolate, but this is survival mode!).

And now? Now the kids are fed, in pajamas, teeth brushed, and parked in front of Phineas and Ferb. If I play my cards right, they'll both be in bed by 7 and I'll have my glass of wine at 7:01.

We're almost at the finish line. Almost....

He's Got a Point

Me: Did you do anything for Hanukkah at Hebrew school?
Doodles: Yeah. We played Hanukkah bingo.
Me: That sounds fun!
D: No, it wasn't it was really boring.
Me: Doodles, you are so negative all the time! You're the biggest Negative Nelly I've ever met!
D: Mom, you're going to live with me a long time. You gotta get used to it.

"I Ain't People!"

I'm watching Singing in the Rain with my kids. We checked it out of the library, "we" being me and Pie, as Doodles swore he had no interest and all he wanted to do was listen to the Harry Potter book on CD he checked out. But about ten minutes in, Doodles wandered into the room and became hooked.

"You know," I told Pie. "Gene Kelly is a very famous dancer."

"Really?" she asked. "Was he in Mamma Mia?"

Of course, it didn't start out well. The MGM Lion? Well, apparently it's terrifying. It took a lot of convincing to get Pie turned around to watch the film. You know what else is terrifying? When Lena gets a Pie in the face. Yikes! Head buried! And if you're outside in the rain alone? Sc-ar-y!

But nothing, no nothing, is as terrifying to anyone as the romantic scenes are to Doodles. He literally cowers under the covers (he's watching in his underwear, beneath our couch blanket) anytime anyone embraces and makes whimpering noises if he accidentally sees kissing.

And did you know the movie is confusing. "Why did his face go all squishy? Who talks yucky? Why is that a yucky voice? Why is he going through that wall? Why is she wearing that?" And on. And on. And on.

Till she passed out. Leaving only Doodles glued to the screen. As long as no one is smooching, that is.

FIFO

First in...


First out...

From the Mouths of Babes

Conversation with the Tweedle Twirp and her pregnant friend, kids playing nearby.
Me: And so then I got dressed for the party [my grandfather's 90th birthday party in Miami in July]. I was eight months pregnant and something just didn't look right. I called the Tweedle Twirp in and said, "What is wrong with this outfit? The shoes look all wrong. I've been wearing them for a year now and they looked fine. Why do they look so weird now?" Tweedles evaluated me for a good long while before she finally said, "Well, they looked better when you still had ankles." "Ankles!" I said. "That's it!"
The next night, I overheard Doodles talking to his friend J.
Doodles: Did you know that when women get pregnant, they lose their ankles?

*****

Pie: Mommy, how does Chrysanthemum know who's Christian and who's not?
Me: Chrysanthemum?
Pie: Yeah. How does Chrysanthemum know who to bring presents to?
Me: Like in the book?
Pie: Yeah.
Me: The mouse? Who doesn't like her name?
Pie: Um, I guess.
Me: Do you mean Santa Claus?
Pie: Yes! How does Santathemum Claus know who's Christian and who's not?
Me: Remember I told you, Santa Claus isn't real. Mommies and Daddies buy presents for the kids. Santa is made up, but it's not something we talk about with our non-Jewish friends. Santa isn't real.
Pie: I know!
Me: Okay.
Pie: So how does he know? Who's Christian and who's not?

From the Mouths of Babes

After dance class last Thursday:
Me: Doodles, as soon as we get home, you need to do your homework.
Doodles: Mom, do you know what I hear you say? [Puts up one hand and makes a quacking motion]. "Doodles. Blah, blah, blah, homework. Blah, blah, blah, homework. Blah, blah, blah, homework." [Puts up other hand and makes same talking motion] "Mom, can we stop talking about homework?" [Back to other hand] "Blah blah blah homework."

In the car, the kids were comparing notes:
Doodles: Do you know what Dad says all the time?
Me: No, what?
Doodles: Cheeses crises! [Say it outloud and you'll understand it]
Me, laughing: Yes, he does.
Pie: And dammit!

Why (I Wish) Johnny Can't Read

We subscribe to The Week magazine, and this week's came today, with a picture of Obama and Karzai on the cover, emblazoned with the headline "Shotgun wedding."

With nary a stumble, the boy took a look at it. "What's a shotgun wedding?"

I started up with a brilliant move. "Um.... Um.... Um.... What?"

Doodles: "What's a shotgun wedding?"

Me: "Um. It's... Well... Um..."

Doodles: "Yes?"

Me: "You know how today all sorts of people have babies? Women by themselves, two women, two men?"

Doodles: "Yeah."

Me: "Well, it was different in the old days. In the old days, there was this idea that if a woman got pregnant without being married, that it was a bad thing. So if a woman got pregnant and she wasn't married, the idea goes, the woman's dad would make the man who got the woman pregnant marry her. It was like he took a shotgun and pointed it to the guy and said, 'Marry my daughter or I'll shoot you.' That's a shotgun wedding."

Doodles: "Well, what if there wasn't a guy? What if she had just gone to the sperm bank?"

Me: "Um, that's a good point."

Doodles: "And I don't understand what that has to do with Obama! Why is Obama going to have a shotgun wedding to that guy?"

Me: "Well, it means that he's being forced into a relationship he may not want with that guy, Karzai, the president of Afghanistan."

Doodles, thinks a moment. "So why is Obama having a wedding?"

To which I give the age-old response: "Who wants dinner?" And I hid the magazine.

Kosher Is As Kosher Does

When we were in Israel, we had an amazing youth counselor, Miriam. Miriam is a warm American-born, Israeli-raised Orthodox young woman. She's visiting the Boston area, staying with her grandparents and I invited her over for lunch. I went to the Stop and Shop in the next town over, where there's a kosher bakery. I picked up fruit and paper plates and plastic cutlery because, as any reader of this blog knows, we don't keep a kosher home. If anything, we keep treif. Not that we eat it that often--for health reasons I actually like to serve as little meat as possible. I can't remember the last time we had pork. Actually I do. It was Adam's birthday. Last December.

Because Miriam is studying Jewish education in America, I invited her to observe one of the Hebrew school classes at our conservative synagogue. So after, she said hi to the kids and followed us in her own car back to our house. In our car, Doodles asked me, "Is Miriam kosher?"

"Yes," I replied.

"So does that mean we'll be having a kosher lunch?"

Between our synagogue, our trip to Israel, dinners at our rabbis' houses, and hosting a synagogue event at our house, the boy is well aware of the basic tenants of kashrut. "Yes," I said, and he asked no more.

Back at the house, Miriam and I sit down and start to catch up while we wait for Adam to return with Starbucks (which is kosher). Doodles walks into the family room where we're chatting. Sweet as can be, he gives us a big smile. "Mom?" he asks nicely.

"Yes, Sweetie?"

With a big grin, he asks me, "Where's the bacon?"

That kid. That's all I can really say. That kid.

Thriller

Today I made it into Doodles's classroom to help with pumpkin carving. Luckily most of the class was back--for the past week most kids have been out sick. Well, maybe not most, but half. Literally (and we know I don't mess around with the word "literally"). Out of 18 kids and 2 teachers, yesterday 9 kids and 1 teacher were out sick. Can anyone say "Treyf flu"?

But going into the class was really fun, even if Doodles does act up specially for me. The kids drew their own designs and I carved them onto the pumpkin for them. While we were working (other parents were there too to help), the teacher put on some Halloween music. Irresistible Halloween music. There was no stopping anyone from getting up and shaking a tush, to the point that by the end, the teachers were teaching the kids how to do the dance to "Thriller."

The song stuck in my head, and when we got home, against my own better judgment, I decided to show the "Thriller" video to the kids. I know it's scary, but, hey! The kids are in our bed anyway. Might as well have some fun with it.

Tab is over and so I gathered them around the computer and YouTubed it for them. Big mistake. Not because it was scary. But because the questions came fast and furious. "Why is his arm falling off? How was he a person and then he was a dead and then he was a person again? Why are they chasing her? I don't understand--is he a person or is he dead?"

And the questions haven't stopped. So, yes, "Thriller" was scary. But only for me.