booked

The Ubergoober's school, like most elementary schools, offers a reading incentive program for students. So if you read 25 books, you get a pencil. If you read 50 books, you get a book bag, etc. All you have to do is write the books onto a sheet and have your child turn it in to his teacher and/or school librarian. Advocates of the program rightly say dangling these carrots in front of the kids this helps promote reading.

In kindergarten and first grade, I was diligent about writing down all of the books Goober read and doing it in a timely matter. So far he has amassed a "Book Bug" button that has taken residence in our kitchen junk drawer, a plastic "Book Bug" bag that I believe got thrown away in a pre-guest cleaning spree and an achievement certificate that is somewhere on our fridge.

But this year... not so much.

I sent in two or three sheets and then was a little surprised that Goober got the prizes for reading 25 and then 50 books because the sheets were supposed to transfer schools with him and thus his book count would be cumulative. Goober, however, was not concerned.

And then we got busy. Really busy. Goober was still reading an incredible amount of books, but we failed to find the time to write them down. Not that he was telling us what he read, either. It was more that I would notice that he was reading a different book than he had been reading the day before and I would ask what became of, say, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix."

"I finished it," he would say and then go back to reading.

I would stand there for a moment and try to process everything. I would also wonder what other books he may have read without my noticing. Sometimes I would ask him to write down all the books he'd read and then we both would lose track of the paper and life would get in the way of proper reading documentation.

So he is reading. A lot. He reads every morning for an hour or so before he gets out of bed. He reads before bed. He reads on the school bus. He reads during recess. He reads in the car. He reads at restaurants.

He is not getting any credit for reading so much, however, and I'm wondering if it's really necessary. My mother thinks so, but it's mostly because she is very proud of her grandchild and likes to see that he gets all the credit he is due. She also likes to brag to her friends and it's much easier to do so when you have proper written documentation of your grandchild's brilliance and reading prowess in the school newsletter.

But I'd rather he enjoy reading and maintain a lifelong reading habit. He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that he is not receiving the reading rewards and I have not received any emails or phone calls from his teacher or school librarian about not turning in the reading sheets. I theoretically could construct the last six months of his reading history and get it all turned in before the school year closes in two weeks, but is it necessary? What are your thoughts?

fun

Shortly after my uncle died a couple years ago, I went out to dinner with my aunt. We went to a restaurant near her home. As we sat there, my aunt looked wistfully out of the dining room windows onto the lake that the restaurant was built next to. It's a small lake, but a popular one with the folks in our neck of the woods. Over the course of dinner, she told stories of all the things she and my uncle had done on the lake -- lazy weekends fishing and drinking, snowmobiling during the winter, ice fishing, skinny dipping and drinking beer on the shore.

"We always had fun," she said, a smile sneaking across her face.

It was a refrain I heard often whenever my aunt spoke of my uncle. "We sure had fun," she would say. Or, "Oh, we would laugh!"

It's something my mom always said about my dad, too. We were talking about it the other night, reminiscing about all the weekends we spent going to truck pulls and taking our motor home across the midwest. The vacation when we were driving to Minnesota and the gear-shift busted out of the steering column of my mom's car, so my dad stopped at a gas station and rigged up a vice-grips so he could shift. Or how the only music my dad would listen to in the car was Conway Twitty.

"We really had fun," my mom said.

And then there was my grandparents. These were my role models for marriage and I have to say, I think I'm doing pretty well. Well, we're doing well. There's two of us, after all.

So yesterday, when Nature Boy and Goober informed me that we would be shooting not one but two outdoor archery tournaments today, I wasn't sure. I mean, that's a shitload of shooting, walking, shooting, hiking, checking for ticks and shooting. See, each outdoor tournament takes place on about 80 acres of woods. Heavy northwoods woods. Google "Wisconsin northwoods" sometime and you'll see what I'm talking about. So you shoot at a target, then you hike to the next target -- usually through a lot of brush, trees, mud and general forest crap -- and then you repeat for 28 targets. I've done one tournament in one day, but never two.

But in the spirit of my grandmother, my mother and my aunt, I went. We met up with some of our friends and, holy shit, did we have fun. We laughed when we had bad scores, we teased each other when we did something stupid, we cheered when we scored well, we sang songs and we just had fun.

And then afterwards, we went out and drank some beer (root, in Goober's case) and relived the best parts of the day.

Tonight I'm sore -- my feet hurt and my shoulders hurt and I'm pretty sure I have a wood tick somewhere on my body (despite Nature Boy's very thorough tick check) -- but it's a good kind of sore.

And now, when I look back on my life with Nature Boy, I can say, without a doubt, we had fun.

downward slope

I was talking with one of my coworkers who soon will be turning *gasp* 30 and he is, well, a little discombobulated.

"I just feel like everything big has already happened in my twenties," he said. "It's really just downhill from here."

And I suppose he's right on the big picture of things. I mean, most of the big stuff in my life happened in my twenties.

To wit:
I dropped out of college.
I got married.
I bought a house.
My dad died.
I went back to college and finished my degree.
I got my first real job.
I bought a bigger house.
I got my second real job.
My mom remarried.
I got divorced.
I partied like a rock star.
I had a baby.
I met the love of my life.

And then I turned 30. Since then I've switched jobs a couple times -- hell, I've switched careers -- and Nature Boy and I made it legal -- twice if you're counting adopting the Ubergoober, and those are all pretty big things, but not really in the scope of things because technically, we'd done it all before.

But the big things that happened to me in my thirties were more internal. I learned to accept who I was as a person. I learned how to deal with my insecurities and how to embrace my imperfections. I learned that when shit came down, the people who cared mattered and those who didn't care didn't matter. It's an important distinction that often failed me in my twenties.

I also learned what truly made me happy, and it wasn't at all what I thought it would be. To be honest, I had no idea what would make me happy, but since I was young and I had a fairly decent income, I was free to try all sorts of things to try to be happy. And I did. I will spare you the details, but let's just say I left no hedonistic stone unturned.

In the end it turns out I just needed to be me to be happy. I just needed to get out of my own way and embrace who I am... a slightly off-kilter woman who enjoys classical music more than anyone really should, who reads trashy romance novels, who wants to be a runner but can't seem to find the motivation, who really loves it when her husband says something profane, who enjoys corrupting her son with Star Trek, who would rather stay home and drink a glass of wine than go out and dance at a club.

See, in my thirties, I learned that really, it doesn't matter what other people think of me. I don't believe someone if they tell me I need to listen to Radiohead (barf) or watch "Breaking Bad" to reach some transcendent state of being. I've heard a few songs and I've seen an episode and now I can say, "Yeah, I didn't like it," and not feel guilty. I am who I am and that's okay. You are who you are and that's okay, too. If I can accept who I am, I certainly can accept who you are.

So, yeah... it's all been downhill since I turned 30, but thank God. I don't think I could have kept up the pace of my 20s forever. Also, I can't wait to see what secrets 40 unlocks.

dessert fail

I tried a new recipe for lemon bars tonight and it really wasn't a success. I mean, they weren't bad, but they weren't what I was expecting.

But they weren't... terrible. They looked really pretty. They were a bright yellow color and I sprinkled them with powdered sugar, which always makes desserts look pretty.

Goober gave them a swift thumbs down, but he's really picky about food. So I offered one to Nature Boy, who took it upstairs to eat in bed.

A few minutes he came back downstairs. He did not like the new recipe, I'm guessing, based on his comments.

"Babe, those aren't lemon bars. That was a damp sponge."

I started laughing.

"Seriously. I was expecting lemon bars. You know, really tart, gooey lemon bars. You could use those to wipe down the bathroom sink."

I laughed harder.

"I bit into it and thought, 'what the fuck?' Was that some kind of prank? Are you fucking with me?"

He came over by me and stood there in his underwear, poking at the offending dessert with a fork.

"Lemon bars don't do that," he said. "Sponges do that. Look at this... it bounces."

Tears ran down my cheeks and I couldn't breathe. I suppose I should have been insulted, but it was just so damn funny. A nearly-naked man standing in the living room, examining the viscosity of his dessert, and swearing about it.

"I put powdered sugar on it," I gasped. "I tried to make it more palatable."

"You can put powdered sugar on shit and I still won't eat it. Yeah... you don't have to make these again."

something missing

So it's been like six months since the hearing and, like we suspected, our life hasn't changed a whole lot. The Ubergoober is doing well in school, the archery shop also is doing well and I love my new job.

But things are different. There's a tension missing from our house. It's not something I ever realized was there until it was gone.

See, as much as my ex was never around, there was still a part of him that hung around. A residue. Like that ring in your toilet that you can't ever seem to bleach out. It was the threat that he might come back and disrupt our life. That he might want to take our Ubergoober away. Or that his family might try to take the Ubergoober away.

And there also was the underlying knowledge that Nature Boy wasn't Goober's "real dad." Yes, he was the one who Goober called Daddy and he was the one that changed diapers and cleaned poop out of the bathtub and taught him how to ride a bike and went to all the parent/teacher conferences and cooked dinners and did all those things a dad does. But it was just there, hanging between us, that Nature Boy wasn't the one who was there when I got pregnant and gave birth. That there was someone else who was there.

It wasn't something we really talked about. Every once in a while it would get thrown out in the darkest of our domestic squabbles, but for the most part we just let it hang there... the elephant in the room, so to speak.

But now it's not there. With a court decree, we have banished the elephant. Now there's no threat that the Ubergoober can ever be taken away from us. There is no other "daddy" in the picture. We all know that the Ubergoober will have questions someday, but now the answers will be easier because we've laid the foundation.

My mother even noticed it. How much easier things are at our house. Oh, not the amount of work or anything, but the level of affection. We seem to be hugging more and telling each other that we love each other more. Maybe because we know how much it took to get to that point. Or maybe because we saw, briefly, what it would be like to lose what we have.

Die Zauberflote

In case you haven't noticed, music is a big part of my life. Always has been. I started playing piano when I was 3 years old and when my father was alive, we had a music listening day every Sunday where he would play a record - usually something from the Baroque - and he would lecture my sister and me on the piece of music, the instruments used and the composer. If the performer was E. Power Biggs, you could expect the lecture to last well into Monday.

That's right. I'm a second generation band geek.

But so far, none of my children really showed any musical interest or ability. Ty briefly played the tuba, but that was because band was the lesser of the two evils known as middle school music class requirements. Sam's hearing loss has prevented her from enjoying anything but ear-splittingly loud country music. Goober has shown the most interest, but it was always as an observer and not as a participant. The boy loves Baroque cantatas, "The Well-Tempered Klavier," Prokofiev and Beethoven symphonies. God help you if you turn off the car before the final oboe solo in "Peter and the Wolf."

Until recently.

A few weeks ago I finally got new strings for my harp, so I spent a quiet evening restringing the thing. Goober joined me in the music room. Yes, we have a music room. This is how deep the music geekiness runs in my family. My parents built a room onto the house just for our myriad instruments.

Goober joined me in the music room and was investigating all of the "toys" in the room. He unpacked the violin that's still in pieces (it was a gift from a friend and I always intended to have it rebuilt, but I never have). He plinked around on both pianos (upright and grand varieties) and then found the little case next to the upright piano.

My flute.

Of all the instruments I have and can play, the flute is not one of them. I have a basic understanding of brass instruments, I can play any string instrument except the guitar and I can blunder through a Beethoven piano sonata like nobody's business. But woodwinds? Not a chance. I'm not sure why. It's just something I could never wrap my mind around. I wanted to, though, so I bought a used flute off a friend and took a few lessons and failed miserably at flute playing. And that was the end of it.

So over the years I've tried to entice Goober to learn an instrument by taking him to concerts and recitals, tying him to the piano bench and force-feeding him scales until he passes out and wrapping his chubby hands around my (spare) viola bow and sawing away on the G string. The one on the viola. Not the one that digs into the crack of my...

Anyway... I had pretty much given up on it all because nothing stuck. Not the piano, not the viola, not the harp, nothing. I had resigned myself to the fact that my music geekiness had obviously skipped a generation and I would just have to wait until I had grandchildren I could bore with tales of the awesomeness that is Pinchas Zuckerman.

What I had not taken into consideration was how much children like shiny things that have lots of buttons.

We put the flute together and I managed to eke out a few notes, just enough to whet his appetite. When he came to a ballet rehearsal with me the other day, he spent more time staring at the flutist than the dancers. So I found him a flute teacher and, much to Nature Boy's chagrin, Goober is loving it.

See, Nature Boy was all in favor of Goober learning a musical instrument, he was just hoping for something more "manly," like the piano or guitar or something. I'm not sure. Some of the best flutists I have worked with are male.

But I don't care, really. For me, it's about giving Goober more opportunities to learn, to try new things and see what sticks. After all, if I can shoot bow and play the viola, he can shoot bow and play the flute.

Although I really can't wait until the beginner phase is over. Right now it sounds like the elementary school recorder choir has taken up residence in my living room.

mean

There are a few things you need to know about my friend Teena:



Me, left, and Teena on a grueling snowshoe trek up a mountain.
See her smile? It's because she knows she's going to kill me.

1. She is a gorgeous 6-foot tall Amazon fitness instructor who can rock a workout tank like no one else.

2. She is one of the positive and cheerful people you will ever meet, which means that while she's forcing you to do that 99th push up, she will be smiling and happy and as much as you want to kill her, you can't because she's making you feel good about doing that 100th push up.

3. She has a daughter who started a nonprofit organization in third grade and has made a tremendous difference in our community.

Now, Teena is understandably proud of her daughter. Peyton is now a teenager and works very hard to make sure her organization is well run, well organized and well promoted. Peyton is very passionate about her crusade against hunger and Teena, as most moms would, makes sure that Peyton has everything she needs to succeed.

Except there's one thing that's beyond her control: other kids.

Peyton gets bullied a little bit and I wish I could say I was surprised. I grew up with a sister and when my mom remarried this last time I got two more sisters. I know how girls are. We are mean. One of the dads in Goober's class has three daughters. He grew up only with brothers, so he was used to boys and the senseless violence that testosterone brings. He was not prepared for the mental warfare that girls wage on each other. In his words, "It's downright Machiavellian." Especially when those girls become teenagers and raging hormones take over their brains.

It breaks Teena's heart to see Peyton get teased and I can totally understand that. I remember my stepdaughter getting teased and, worse, I know she's done some teasing herself. As a parent, I was horrified that someone could be so mean to my little girl and even more horrified that she could be that mean to someone else.

But then I think back and I remember the teasing, the power plays, the mind games. I had one "friend" in particular who liked to make others feel like they were dirt. I remember getting invited to a birthday party when I was in seventh grade. It was a huge sleepover party and I was so excited to get invited. See, I wasn't very popular in school. I had bad hair (see also: mullet), I wore a Mickey Mouse jacket, I had photos of Clark Gable in my locker, I was in the "smart" classes and I played the cello in the orchestra. Nothing about me screamed "popular" or even likable. But the girl who was having the party was one of the more popular girls in school and I got to be included.

The day of the party, though, my "friend" had some news for me. At lunch, in front of everyone, she announced that Sara hadn't wanted to invite me to the party, but because I was there in gym class when she was talking about it, she didn't have a choice.

I felt lousy. But I had already RSVP'd to the party and I had already bought a gift. So I went. And even though I had a good time and everyone seemed to enjoy my presence there, the knowledge that I wasn't supposed to be there nagged at me. I tried my best to keep my mouth shut and just go along with whatever everyone else was doing so I wouldn't give Sara any further reason to regret inviting me.

To this day, I don't know if Sara actually said that, but at the time I believed my "friend." Still, 25 years later, I can still remember that feeling, that blow to what minuscule self-esteem I had.

But the good news is I've gone on to become a fairly well-adjusted adult. I'm fairly successful and accomplished, I have a wonderful family and a lot of really wonderful friends. I think about that incident less and less and when I do, it's in an increasingly anthropological way -- it's less about my feelings and more as a study of teenage girl politics.

But here's my question: Do you still remember the teasing? The humiliation? The blows to your self esteem? How have you dealt with them? My inclination is to believe that time heals the wounds and, even though there are mean girls in every walk of life, their opinion becomes less important as we get older and out of the sphere of influence that school provides them. Thoughts?