Talk WITH your teens, not TO them.

I had to go stock up on pregnancy tests again last night. No, I am not crazy. Yes, I remember that due to the vasectomy/hysterectomy combo (special #2!!) I will never be pregnant again. I also am aware that buying 6 boxes of tests, for a total of twelve pregnancy tests, makes the cashier speechless. But I gave out my last one yesterday (it was positive...) and I need to be prepared for the next girl.
I give the tests to girls who come and quietly request one. Girls who generally are looking a bit green, and scared, and ready to bolt. This is not really part of my job, but when I was told I'm not allowed to have a basket of free condoms in my room, I responded with "I guess I'll be stocking up on pregnancy tests, then!"
It might seem like I am pretty casual about all this, but inside, I am horrified. Kids are getting pregnant. Despite all my lessons, my charts, posters, and long talks, kids are having sex without giving any thought to the consequences. STI's, babies, and broken hearts mean nothing. Sex is a fun party game. It's something to do when you're bored. It is a way to feel loved, even if it only lasts for the evening. I know that all parents say "Not MY child", and I have some big news for you. Yes, your child. YES. YOUR CHILD. Keeping them home at night helps, but guess what? You can do it during the day! You can do it on the bus, you can do it in the bushes, and you can do it when your parents think you are asleep, and your partner has quietly come tiptoeing into your room.
Only marginally more upsetting to me is the fact that for every 5 positive pregnancy tests, I see less than one full term pregnancy. Did you know your child does not need to ask your permission to get an abortion? Well, they don't. And your doctor should not break that confidence by calling to tell you. Again, children are acting with what seems to me to be little serious thought. An abortion is easy, cheap, and makes it all go away. I strongly encourage my girls to talk with their moms before taking that step, and I tell them all the right things about parental love overcoming the horror, but guess what? They aren't telling you. All you know is that they are really down for awhile, maybe you chalk it up to the flu.
I don't have the answers. I have no idea what else I can do to convince my students to save that special part of their hearts for someone special, and stop using sex as a way to end a drunken party. It is starting to make my heart hurt, and I don't know what to do.

He's not quite spy material.

Last week was my birthday. In the car, on the way home, I was teasing the kids about my present. There is a fine line, of course, between "guessing" and totally ruining any surprise. "Is it a puppy?" I asked. "Nooooo". "Is it....a pink fur coat?" "Nooooo." "Hmmm. I guess I'll just have to wait!"
Then, in a quiet voice from Boy Terror we heard "I'll tell you one thing, it's not a kind of book."

I'll give you three guesses what my gift from the kids was. Go on. You'll never figure it out!

Right, Mummy?!!!

I stayed home today with Boy Terror. All weekend he was sick with a fever, headache, sore throat and fatigue. He was extremely pathetic, but oh so cute! I figured a day with a quiet little snuggle butt would be lovely.
I forgot. He's a boy. He woke up this morning and was AWAKE! ALIVE!! ALERT!!! New plans...we need to be busy, apparently.
We decorated a cake. We made a crock pot supper, and biscuits. We hung snowflakes from the ceiling, did laundry, and went for a walk to the mailbox. This is what it all sounded like:

"Hey, Mummy, is it time to decorate the cake? Are you ready for me to do my job? Hmm, Mummy? Ready now? Is it a white cake? A chocolate cake? A brown cake that is not chocolate? Who is it for? Why? Ready? Put the flowers here? I'm a good helper, right Mummy? Are we done already, Mummy?"

"This is fun! Mummy, isn't this fun? I like peeling carrots. Why? Why should I turn it over? I'm doing great, right Mummy? Carrots and yams are the same colour. I wonder if they are related. Maybe they are. Who knows. Do you know Mummy? I'll chop the carrot now, okay? Oh. Okay, I'll wash potatoes. If potatoes grow in the ground, how do they see the sun? What are they made of? Why are they good for me? My sleeves are wet, but that's okay, right Mummy? This smells good! We smell with our noses, right Mummy? It's molecules floating in the air, right Mummy? If molecules are close together they are solid, but if they are all apart they are liquid, or even gas, right Mummy?"
we interrupt this monologue for a song about molecules.

" I love these snowflakes, Mummy. Snow is a solid from water, which is a liquid, right Mummy? Why does hair grow? Where does it start? I can hand you the snowflakes, okay Mummy? I think they all look very nice hanging there. If we had 14, they would go all the way to the wall. We only have 7, though, so only half the ceiling gets snowflakes. I grew again, right Mummy?"

"These clothes are wet, right Mummy? They go in the dryer. Where do the water molecules go from in the dryer? I have 17 socks. If I had 18, I could have 9 pairs. But I don't. Plus, look, Mummy, these socks do not match. But that's okay, right Mummy?"

"IT'S SNOWING OUT HERE!!! MUMMY!!!! IT'S SNOWING OUT HERE!!! Our street is a long street, I think. Mummy? What do you think? Can we see the mailbox from here? Do you think Tiki is playing with my marbles while we are outside? What did we get in the mail? How do you know which is our mailbox? Mummy, look. Dirt in the snow. Now, how do you suppose that happened?"

"Why do you need a nap, Mummy? Aren't you too old for naps? I'm too old for naps, right, Mummy? Right?!"

Aidan Aidan everywhere!

When Girl Terror was born, we gave her a name that we knew might cause problems in the future. Aidan is typically a boy name, but it suits her perfectly. I remember feeling a twinge of concern, though, when the nurse told me that in the room next to us, a little boy had been born the day before. And his name was Aidan.
Flash forward 7 years. Girl Terror is in grade 2. There is a little boy in her class named...Aidan! And he has red hair, just like her! And freckles, just like her! AND his birthday is just one day before hers!
I was worried for nothing. The two little red-haired Aidans think this is the coolest thing ever. I personally want them to grow up and get married, just to see the look on the census taker's face.

Hair. See, Getting on Nerves.

You know what I hate? When I realize "Hey, I need a haircut" but I do not call and make an appointment. Instead, I wait a week or so, look into the mirror, and think "Holy crap, I need a haircut!!!" and I still don't call. I wait until I've reached that point where the cuticle scissors look sharp, and the idea of "free form" bangs is appealing. Then I call. Turns out I also really hate it when my hairdresser has the nerve to have customers other than me, and tells me to wait another 8 days to get this mess off of my head.
This morning my overgrown hair was even worse than usual. I was running late, and since hair was the last thing on the list, it didn't get "done". I went to school with straight, blah hair just....hanging on my head. My students told me it looked great! Better than usual! What have I done differently?!!
It could be worse. My friend Sara dressed as Coraline's Other Mother (from the movie), and her students said she looked fabulous! She should do her hair and make-up like that every day!! Bwah-ha-ha-ha!!! Every time I looked at her I cracked up, but her students thought she was dazzling. In fact, her normal self would just be a let-down now that they know her true potential.
I'm not sure where I was going with this post.
My hair is getting on my nerves.

Quality parenting.

We have started teaching the Terrors to play poker. Might as well make them earn their keep, right?
So far, it's the most entertaining thing Hubby and I have ever seen. We are positive these are both our children, they came from the same genes, but their poker styles could not be different.
Girl Terror has a poker face to make her famous. She gives away nothing. She and Hubby were in a hand together, and after the flop I pointed out to her that her Daddy had raised the bet. If she didn't have a hand to beat a pair of aces (one ace was on the flop) she should consider folding. She scowled at me, scowled at her cards, and bet. The little bugger had the pair of aces!!
Boy Terror has no idea what his cards are. Sometimes they are good. Sometimes not as good. But he bets like he has all the money in the world, and it totally works. The kid has horseshoes out his ass. Mainly he just likes to play with the chips.
Due to my upbringing, I fully expect to go straight to hell, no stopping in purgatory, no collecting $200. Cards are evil, poker is the devil's game, and I am corrupting the youth. I'm trying to see it as a fabulous math lesson, but at the same time I'm watching for the lightening strike.

If I were in charge....

If I were in charge....
coffee would be healthy.
In fact, chocolate, salt, and all those other tasty things would actually burn calories. You'd have to be careful how much you indulged, or you would waste away to nothing.

If I were in charge, the first time a teenager rolled her eyes she would get a stern warning. The second time, her eyeballs would roll right out of her head, serving as a lesson to the other snotty kids in the class.

In my world, where I am the boss, there would be a rule that states: "A nasty bug can only travel through 1 member of each household before becoming benign." That would put an end to the endless cycle we are currently stuck in.

When I control the weather, snow will arrive November 15th, and stay until January 5th. The rest of the year will be summer.

If I were the boss of all, my favourite shows would NOT have reruns. Especially on nights when all I really want is to curl up with Gregory House, or Cal Lightman.

Staff meetings would be put into memo form, and e-mailed to me at home. 'Nuff said.

In my happy world, where I control ALL, the toilet (and the surrounding floor, wall, etc) would be self-cleaning. Or perhaps we could devise a system where boys with bad aim get a teeny zap of a shock every time they steer the stream off course.

Heck, I'm in charge. Let's make the entire house self-cleaning.

If I were in charge, every mother would get an extra 2 hours a day, to fit in wherever she liked. The only rule would be you must use your two hours for yourself. You can't share them with the laundry, whiny kids, or needy husbands.

If I were in charge, my hair would get longer and more lusterous every year, rather than thinner and paler. My body would continually morph into a Victoria Secret model shape, and I would never find those wrinkles and age spots again.

If I were in charge, things would be different. Trust me.