Archive for May, 2010

Cinderella will be homeschooled for sure

So I walked Kate to school this morning.  As usual, the shoes she chose to wear were about as sensible as glass slippers.  This time, bright blue clogs that are a bit too big and keep slipping off her feet.  Not to mention that as they slip around, bits of dirt and gravel get in, irritating her tender princessy feet.

She stopped for the third time, in the two block walk, to clean them out, leaning against the trash can outside the school while wiping off her foot.

A car pulls up to drop a kid off for school.  When the door opens, a little boy leaps out, calling, “I have to help Kate!”  He scurries over to where the poor pitiful little girl is still struggling with her begraveled tootsies, kneels down, shakes out the shoe, and slids  it back onto her foot.

Obviously, his Prince Charming training took.

This is the effect she’s having in kindergarten?  She’ll be homeschooled by middle school just for my sanity’s sake.


Oh my children, if your mother gets up early on Saturday morning the day before Mother’s Day and makes you a special breakfast cake in a kickin’-cool castle-shaped bundt pan, it is not a good idea for three of the four of you to wail, “Eww!  I don’t like it!  Can I have something else?  What IS it?”

For one thing, the more-astute teenager, concerned about his siblings’ continued existence, can only shove in so much.  And he lies badly.

Although to be fair, “Yum!  Mom, this is great!”, probably NEVER sounds persuasive coming out of a teenager’s mouth.

Oh, well, I didn’t want it anyway

Yesterday Mark successfully a) lopped another year off my rapidly-decreasing lifespan and, not coincidentally, b) discovered a security flaw in one of the best daycares in Pittsburgh.

So what happened was this:

When I came to pick him up, he said he needed to use the potty first and headed to the back of the room where the bathroom is.  Five minutes later, I realized he hadn’t come back.  Nor did I hear anything from the bathroom that sounded like either peeing or hand-washing.  Not that he washes his hands unless you’re standing over him with a bullwhip.

His jacket’s on the floor by the fire-escape door.


The door’s not locked, of course, and it’s not alarmed either (that’s the security flaw he found–and exploited.  Assuming he lives to adulthood, I hope he uses his powers for good).

The teacher’s aid went running out the door.  I doubled back into the classroom to make sure he hadn’t snuck back in.

The teacher’s aid found him in the parking lot, waiting beside our car.  Muttering to himself, most likely, about what was taking me so long.

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