Snot Science

Hypothesis: Snot can be colored.

Materials: 5 year-old child, water-based (thank goodness) marker

Procedure: 1. Child is too quiet in her room. 2. She colors the insides of both nostrils with a blue marker. 3. Allow time for nose to run.

Observation: Blue mucus ran out her nose for several minutes.

Conclusion: Yes, snot can be colored.

Note to future scientists: This research was only conducted on liquids. Additional experiments need to be conducted to determine if this procedure will work with solids.

Preschool Premeire

Dear Preschool Staff,

Thank you, thank you for filling my daughter's first day of formal schooling with joy. I am forever grateful.

Love,

The Monster Queen's Momma

What was the best part of school today?

“Um, I like drawing . . . I like playing with the girls. We rode the bus. We just had to HOLD ON. I sat with my best friend.”

“Who was your best friend?”

“I don’t know her name yet.”

When you played outside, what did you do?

“I goed down the slide alot.”

What did you think of your teacher?

“I called her Mrs. Christian. She gots other teachers. They ring their bells and they’re the readers.”

What story did you read?

“Chicken one. She didn’t listen; she she thought she was on the farm and not at school. She thought the ball and bat were a nest and egg. She thought the pencils were straw. She was so funny.”

When dad came home . . .

“Dad! DAD! I have to tell you something. I went to school and I rode the bus and I holded on and I was awesome!”

The Gifts of Our Fathers

Sophomore English students are studying copyright laws and their evolution in our country. The conversation has carried into my classroom. We have reflected on the value our founders placed on creativity and the flow of ideas. It was apparent how closely they linked education, information, and liberty. The more we discussed; the more amazing our nation seems. Consider what these colonists were working with:

• Books were an expensive, luxury item. The family Bible was often the only book in the home. Many families were too busy working to focus on reading and education. Yet, those who sculpted our country thought to make provisions for the flow of ideas and information. These provisions still provide the foundation for today’s copyright laws.
• No internet. No phones (of any kind). No radio. No television. No telegraph. No national postal system. The colonists managed to Declare Independence, organize and fight a war, and create a new government. I wouldn’t be able to manage dinner.
• The most advanced transportation also created fertilizer.

Given enough time, it would be easy to fill pages with a list of barriers that the Revolutionists faced; yet, that’s not what we read about. These men and women had a vision, a passion so great; that they made it work. Countless men and women lost their fortunes, their security, their British citizenship, and their lives.

Do we honor their sacrifice? Have we extended their vision? When these men left their homes and families to form our government, did they intend for their descendants to invest these privileges in Cheetos and cable television? Do we have what it takes to maintain our nation’s ideals? Do we understand the meaning of discipline, honor, passion, and commitment? Perhaps this is one of history’s greatest lessons, we come from greatness; it is our responsibility to rise to the occasion.

Kiwi

Good for your skin

Good for your eyes

Good for digestion (yes, fiber helps you POOP)

Good for preventing cancer

Good for respitory health

Good for bones

Good for skin and hair

Good for regulating blood sugar

Good for blood clotting

Great nutrition, great smoothies, great reason to smile!

Brought to you by the Newell-Fonda Kiwi Council

There's Nothing Like the Real Deal

There’s nothing like the real deal. My students have started a business. They are the Sultans of Smoothies (Smoothie Whisperers seemed like a ‘bit much’). Products include strawberry, banana, and yes, strawberry-banana smoothies. The team has passed out samples, perfected a recipe, created flyers, and developed a campaign to promote our product. They have a head of advertising, Blender Man, and a smoothie scrapbook committee. Students are budgeting, creating, adjusting, selling, working with the public, and cleaning up.

Must be worth a lot of points . . . nope . . . they aren’t earning a grade. Must be earning money . . . nope . . . all proceeds will go to buying more ingredients; if we make too much money, we will lower the price. Must need to complete community service . . . ah, good guess, but not this time. The work is being done because it’s authentic, it’s real, it matters, and it’s fun. There’s nothing like the real deal!

Having Someone to Love

"A true friend never gets in your way unless you happen to be going down." ~Arnold H. Glasow

Parenting, my personal children and all those I am allowed to borrow, is the greatest joy of my life. It has also led to the most fearful moments of my life. Several of those moments are the times I have feared loosing a child. Those seconds when a toddler hides in a clothing rack, the times they leave your sight, the unanswered phone calls. This fear cannot be completely understood unless you have been a parent. There is a connection, a bond . . . a need, that is so complete, so intense that even the thought of severing the parent-child tie is unbearable.

A few months ago, my eldest child, Unit One, spent the night with a friend. When planning for this outing, she and I agreed upon a time when I would pick her up the next morning. I spoke to the host parent, and I wrote down her telephone number. The next day, I went to collect Unit One. The address was not correct. I called the phone number; it had been disconnected. I was frantic; no, I was crazed. After dozens of phone calls, we tracked her down. Who found her? Not the police, not the FBI, not another parent . . . it was one of my Academy Kids.

One of my Academy girls and I were discussing a parent’s need to protect a child. I fell into my, now practiced and polished, speech explaining how easy it is for a girl to be pushed into a car only to have whatever done to her wherever and without anyone knowing about it. She called me her Dad Number Two. She had to listen to tell her, once again, that she has no idea how much we lover her and why we are so protective.

Late last night, I received a message from another of my girls. She explained that she had been contacted by the father of one of our group, and he could not locate her (it turned out that she was right where she was supposed to be). As I went through the range of fear and relief (thank you dear one for indulging a wild woman and giving me a call), it occurred to me just how important this little pixie was in my life and how lucky she was to have so many people who adore her.

Thanks to all of the incredible creatures who care and love for one another day after day. You have no idea how wonderful you are.

"If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person."

— Fred Rogers

Ingenuity

The kids and I were sitting around our dining room table having a mundane lunch on a hot July afternoon. Pretty typical fare: ham sandwiches, fruit, and milk. After I finished, I began to clear away the debris left after the meal. As I reached for his plate, my son exclaimed, “Don’t take that apple core, mom!”

“Riley,” I answered, “you don’t want that apple core; it’s trash.”

He went on to explain, “It’s not for me, mom. It’s for my friends.”

“Son, your friends don’t want an apple core.”

“It’s for my friends in my ant farm,” he continued.

“Son, you don’t have an ant farm.”

“Yes I do, mom,” he shared, “I made one. It’s under my bed.”

This caught my full attention because I knew it was . . . (gulp) . . . possible.

After a deep, slow breath, I excused myself and went to Riley’s room. I laid on the floor to look under the bed. Oh, boy. Packing tape secured two large marshmallows to the carpet directly under the center of the bed. This sugary structure was enveloped by a hoard of very large, black ants.

My recollection of what happened next is quite vague; but, my children claimed that I produced a blood-curdling scream. The adrenaline burst, and I somehow cast the double bed and oak frame aside (despite the fact I was seven months pregnant), and relocated the house guests. I can only share what has been reported to me; I have blocked out this part of the memory.

At some point, I returned to the table where Riley was calmly finishing his lunch. This was an opportunity for a teachable moment. “Son, why are there ant-covered marshmallows under your bed.”

“I was afraid that you wouldn’t like them if you saw them, mom.”

Accurate assessment.

“Son, why were the marshmallows taped to the floor?”

“I didn’t want the ants to carry them away.”

Sensible-ish.

“Son, we can’t keep food in our rooms because it brings in bugs, just like this.”

“But mom, the ants didn’t come in the house!”

“Son, I saw them!”

“But mom, I had to BRING them in.”

“What!?!”

“That’s why I needed the marshmallows. I had to leave them on the ants until they crawled on top of them, THEN I brought them in the house.”

Well of course, how silly of me. Now it made perfect sense.

Miracles

The great Kevin Henkes wrote the statement, “Wow . . . that’s all I can say . . . wow.” Boy, doesn’t that say it all. Many miracles have been a part of my life; my children are my favorite four. Today, I celebrate the Monster Queen, the third of these miracles.

It shames me to admit that I was anything but thrilled when I learned I was expecting my third child. A master’s degree in educational administration was finally in sight. I had worked for years. I had earned honors. I had taken extra course work and finished my district certification at the same time. I was Emporia State’s Educational Leadership student of the year. I was ready to leave teaching and become a principal the next fall.

Notice how many sentences in the last paragraph start with “I?” It isn’t only poor writing; it was a poor attitude.

Yes, I was grateful for my family, home, job; but, the “I” took the lead in my life and my decisions. Miss Ana changed that.

On Ana’s first morning, I was told that she had a slight heart murmur. The physician’s assistant assured me that it was a minor problem; in fact, it might not be a problem at all. Just in case, we should check it out. An appointment was made, but I was not worried.

Three weeks later, we arrived at the office of a pediatric cardiologist. Tests were given, and her father and I sat in a room and waited for the results. We visited and admired our little girl until a kind man with a concerned face entered the room and sat down. Heart disease *BAM*; birth defect *BAM*; hospital, surgery, lifelong . . . *BAM*BAM*BAM*. I was hit with brick after brick. My breath was stolen, my nerves were on fire, I felt sick . . . what! I couldn’t think clearly. How could this be?!? Anyone could see she was perfect. There must be a mistake; I must be dreaming . . . MAKE THIS STOP! There was no mistake; and, as with all of the waves in life, there was no stopping. We were to drive to the Children’s Hospital in Omaha immediately. There was no time to go home for clothes. There was no time to make arrangements. Life was never going to be the same starting NOW. Wow . . . that’s about all I can say . . . wow!

A few days later, Ana underwent open-heart surgery. Her aorta and pulminary vein had not seperated at birth. Her own tissue and Gortex were used to correct this defect. This surgery was successful; however, there were problems with the valves on the lower two chambers of the heart. Her heart disease was a life-long condition, and I needed to come to terms with that.

For her first eighteen months, we did our best to minimize contact with the outside world and germs. Common viruses could mean disaster. There were constant check-ups and immunizations, but it was all manageable. I accepted a position as a special education director supervising five school districts. Our family relocated, but we were able to keep the same doctors and hospital. I bought a house, hired a nanny, and life went on.

Less than a month after I started as director, my marriage exploded. Police came, and our world changed. I lost a husband and my children lost a father in a matter of hours. This was only the beginning of a long, wild ride. I couldn’t promise my kids it would be easy, but I did promise that we would take it together.

We survived the next year. My pain and the demands of my career made me an inadequate mother, and I was even worse as a father. Ana was the glue that held us together. She gave us a reason to laugh, love, and care. Putting her first took the focus off of our own grief. She mended our souls.

Ana’s second open-heart surgery was in late June of the next year. Her aortic valve was insufficient. The result was loss of appetite, minimal weight gain, and excessive fatigue. I was nearly sick with dread and worry during the weeks leading up to this second surgery. Plans had to be made for my other two children, arrangements made at work, and I was petrified. The thought of loosing her was more than I could stand.

Ana’s surgery went well. There were tears and stress, but she came through unbelievably well. We were out of the hospital in four days, better than I dared to hope for.

I was flying high. Until I wasn’t. Two weeks later, Ana’s scar was seeping and her temperature soared; she had staff infection. We made a fast trip back to Children’s in Omaha, and Ana endured another surgery. Recovery included three weeks in the hospital, and another three weeks of isolation at home. Medication was given through a line in her side. Work unraveled, my kids acted out, and I fell apart. I was failing on every front; it was time for a change. It was time to set priorities and put what mattered first. I left administration, Kansas, and our home. I remarried and set out on a new adventure.

Two and a half years later, I am writing this from the bench in the ICU. Our Monster Queen just conquered her fourth open-heart surgery. The nurses call her a rock star; I know she is a miracle. Through all that she has endured, Ana continues to give. She changed my focus and my life. She is leading me toward becoming the person I want to be.

“Wow . . . that’s all I can say . . . wow.”

My Parents

I was seven years old. We lived on a farm in southeast Kansas. I had two pairs of jeans, one pair of sneakers, and one pair of church shoes. We had chickens and hogs, so we ate eggs and pork. When the wind blew, the curtains flew in our house. The upstairs was sealed off in the winter; we bathed in sweat in the summer. Tin can lids sealed the holes the mice made by mice. At times, the plumbing broke down and we used the outhouse and outdoor cistern. We were poor, but I was unaware. I was a child, and I was adored.

There was never a girl luckier than I. Both my parents doted on my sister and I. Dinner was served every night at the table after we prayed. Mom and dad read to my sister and I, tucked us in, and said prayers every night. We played cards and games on Friday nights and went to church on Sunday mornings. When I did wrong, I was punished. When I did right, I was celebrated. I was loved.

It was an understatement to say money was tight. Money was nonexistent. At seven, I did not comprehend this. I had stars in my eyes and a burning desire. I wanted to play softball. I asked my parents if I could join the team. Neither of them either told me it was a sacrifice, but I know, now, that it had to be. Mom and dad made it happen. One day, dad came home from his day job (carpentry) to his night job (farming and raising hogs) with a ball glove. Not any glove, this was a beauty. Pure leather, cow smell, and mine . . . all mine. My toys fit in a Guys potato chip box. I could count my books on my fingers. Most of my clothes were made by mom. I can not express the shock and pleasure that came with this present. It wasn’t my birthday or Christmas, but here was a treasure for ME. I still feel a rush as I relish the memory.

This was just the beginning. My parents nurtured my love affair with softball until I was ready to let it go. Both mom and dad played catch with my sister and I evening after evening. Both worked, cared for animals, and farmed. All meals were cooked a home. Convenience foods were not a part of our lives. Clothes were sewn, the house was a constant battle . . . each day was work; but, they made time for us. My parents played with me. Taught me to catch, throw, and bat. Took me to games. Cheered me on.

Of course, they did this because I was talented and destined to receive awards and scholarships . . . WRONG!!!!!! I stunk. Few children had less athletic talent than I. I was disciplined, dedicated,and I loved the game; but, it was hard for me. Softball was a struggle. My time on the bench exceeded my time on the field by far. My parents’ devotion would have been justified if they were sitting in the stands watching a prodigy, but they weren’t. They cheered, supported, and celebrated just because they loved me. I can not express my love and gratitude. Everything good that I am, all I have or will accomplish, and any contribution I will make is a result of my parents.