Christmas Wishes

“Mom, it’s ok, Santa knows what I want.” So, you’re totally panicked because your three year-old is positive that Santa knows EXACTLY what to bring and all he can describe is it’s the thing that goes “Aaah” when you hit it. Crap. So, not wanting to break the Christmas tradition you go to the toy store asking the knowledgeable clerk, you know the one that is at least old enough to bear children, which toy goes “Aaah” when you hit it. The look they give you is priceless. As they answer in a serious voice, “Can you be more specific?” your eyes narrow and you try to remain calm. “If I could be more specific I wouldn’t be asking you.” You take a deep breath and try to reason it out, “Which toys require batteries?”

Like THAT aisle isn’t long enough. Ok, so now I’m looking for a noise making toy that involves hitting. Why? Because it’s the ONLY thing on his letter for Santa. Seriously. Damn commercials. I should have never let the kids watch TV in the first place. If they didn’t watch TV, they wouldn’t know what was available. Those stupid, mindless commercials that they watch SO intently and I totally block out. I am amazed, they ignore the show only to stop, drop, and drool at the commercials. If only I had paid more attention I wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Argh. Why couldn’t he have wanted blocks?

It took me over a half hour before I finally realized, he wanted “Silly Golf,” an indoor golfing game that had little gophers that constantly chatted, and yelled when you managed to get the ball in the hole. I was so relieved, it was like finding out that the IRS had made a mistake and you didn’t owe taxes this year.

Christmas day came and he was delighted. You’d have thought Santa just got him a scholarship to Yale, or maybe chocolate. Batteries intact he played for hours. For hours we listened to the stupid little gopher chatter. About three weeks later, we were all thrilled when he was no longer obsessed. It moved to his bedroom, later it was sent to the basement. Finally it made it to the trash, several pieces missing, but still talking. I sneaked it into the garbage and felt slightly guilty as we walked by the garbage can and a little voice peeped, “Hey it’s dark in here, somebody turn on the lights.”

Still, the next Christmas, Michael remembered that Santa would bring him exactly what he wanted. And Santa did. Again.

It's science fair time again....

Those words invoke fear into my heart, not so much because I have to organize the whole thing for school, but rather that I have to listen to the whining of my children as I shoot down one irrational idea after another.  Sure, I do hot lunch, but I also do science.  I can't stand bad science.  So, my daughter is excited to see if the blind spot changes with age and is shot down with the question, "And HOW will this improve the world?"  Hey, we all have blind spot, but our brain fills in the missing data, so really no point in studying it.  Dang.  My mom never was this harsh.  If I said I was building a nuclear warhead, she'd nod patiently and add, "Don't make a mess."  Of course, I never did build the warhead.  Instead I threw something together about candles creating more carbon than flashlights the night before the fair.  And no, I never did with the science fair. 

On the plus side, my kids all understood why Al Gore was an idiot undeserving of any prize, other than "Most Able to Hype."  They at least understand how to set up a controlled experiment, how to read data without putting your own personal spin on it.  I should really write a letter to Al's mom... 

I want good science. So my children (and my students) are stuck with a mom and teacher who refuses to allow them to compare Duracells to Evereadys, see which tastes better, or if blind spots are affected by age.  Let the games begin!