On Being Seven

Hi. I’m M. Peevie. I’m seven. What is it like to be seven? Well, when you’re seven, you get a purple I-Pod for your birthday that your dad has loaded with some of your favorite music, like the Beatles, Sheryl Crow, High School Musical, and Hannah Montana. This makes you very happy, and you listen to it the whole time during dinner at the restaurant, and it makes your parents happy, too, because you’re not talking constantly and provoking your brothers.

When you’re seven, you do provoke your brothers a lot, but not because you necessarily want to provoke them, but because they’re so sensitive about having you in their room touching their stuff, and also apparently it embarrasses them when you hug and kiss their friends. But they’re nice friends, and that’s what you do when you’re seven and people are nice to you: you hug and kiss them.

I pretty much hug and kiss everyone I meet. I love my school principal, and my teacher, and my friends, and their moms, and my neighbors, and my mom’s friends. I smile at them, a lot, and I have a dimple, and I think that makes them smile back at me, and when they do, I can’t help myself. I squeeze them so hard that when I let go, they are a little bit concave. That’s a big word, isn’t it? I like big words.

Speaking of big words, I pretty much have never met a word I didn’t like. I like words, and I like to talk. There’s so much to talk about; how can I not talk? At dinner time, we talk about how our day was, and what the highlight of our day was, and I always have a story to tell about my best friend Josie or my best friend Kayla. Sometimes my story ends with me telling my mom and dad that my teacher had to move my seat in first grade again because I was talking too much.

Except for getting my seat moved for talking too much, I really love school. Actually, I don’t even mind getting my seat moved, ‘cause then I get to talk to somebody new. I like school because it’s fun and easy. My mom says my teacher needs to challenge me more, but I told her I like it when it’s easy, because then I can get my work done quick and have more time to play. She says I am a girl after her own heart.

I have a lot of best friends. Best friends are great. Some best friends live in your neighborhood, and sometimes you fight with them about who gets to play with the straight hair Barbie and who gets to play with the curly hair Barbie—but it doesn’t mean you’re not best friends anymore.

One thing that’s not great about being seven is that you get your feelings hurt sometimes. My mom says my feelings get hurt if someone looks at me wrong, but that doesn’t happen a lot. Usually my feelings get hurt because someone looked at me wrong with a mean face or made a mean sound at the same time. And sometimes my feelings get hurt when my brother calls me a nickname that I do not like, which is called Foghorn Voicebox. When he says that my mom says, "Pot? Kettle. Kettle? Pot."

I gave my daddy a nickname which is called Soft Head Warm Head because his head is soft and warm. My daddy likes his nickname, I think. He smiles a warm smile and tilts his head next to mine when I call him that, and we have a huggy moment.

My mom says she can’t believe I’m seven already, which is silly because seven comes after six. Even preschoolers know that. Sometimes she’s sad that I’m getting big so fast, and she says, “Stop growing up so fast!” But I can’t stop growing up so fast, because that’s how God made the world we live in, and it goes around on its axis and floats in space with the other planets, which we learned last year when I was only in kindergarten.

The end.

Fruit Flies: God's Judgment On A Bad Housekeeper?

An infestation of fruit flies has disrupted my normally serene and pristine home environment. At least it’s only fruit flies, I told myself at first. They almost sound good for you. It’s practically a compliment to have fruit flies. Not cringe-worthy cockroaches. Not ant colonies, marching in formation, hoisting crumbs onto their tiny backs and marching back to their tripartite queen. Fruit flies. How bad could they be?

Well. Let me tell you how bad it can be. It's approaching Egyptian plague levels in the Peevie homestead. If I were Pharaoh, I would totally give up and Let His People Go.

It all started with those dang tomatoes. We had so many that I couldn’t make salsa fast enough; so some of them started to over-ripen. We started noticing two or three tiny fruit flies about three weeks ago. We threw away the just-barely-starting-to-rot tomatoes, but kept the others on the counter, plus the usual bowl of fruit and our usual level of kitchen messitude. That was our first mistake.

What we didn’t realize was that fruit flies are teensy-weensy nymphomaniacs. Eight or nine days after a female lays an egg, there’s a mature fruit fly waiting to copulate and lay more eggs. And here’s the really bad news: according to Wikipedia, females can lay more than 800 eggs in a single day.

So now I find myself waving ribbons of sticky fly-paper through the air, trying to speed up the process of annihilation. We have strips of glutinous, honey-colored fly-death hanging in the kitchen doorway in a “Home Alone Kid Meets Greg Brady’s Beaded Curtains” kind of way.

But it’s not just the kitchen. The nasty little buggers have invaded the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the office. They’re annexing the entire house as a sort of Del Webb lifestyle community for fruit flies. We have bowls of cider vinegar sitting around to attract and trap them--but apparently they think it's an upgrade to lakefront property. They don't fall in and die. They just sit around the edge, playing frisbee and watching hot fruit fly chicks stroll by.

Oh, and thanks a lot to those researchers in Connecticut who mutated a fruit fly gene and nearly doubled their life spans. That’s just what I need. Nine generations of tiny insects enjoying the fruits of my labor.

Did you know that fruit flies are the most studied organism in biological research? Apparently they are genetically very similar to humans. Weird. Maybe I’ll pick up an autoclave and a microscope from Ebay, borrow some of A. Peevie’s test tubes—and voila, I’ve got my own genome research lab.

Last week the local ABC affiliate in Los Angeles reported that officials sprinkled a huge batch of sterile male flies over the area in order to protect the crops from infestation. I wonder if it's too much to ask if they could make a sweep over NW Chicago. I’m getting desperate here.

Ho-hos and Broken Crayons

Halloween, like all holidays, is just one more excuse for the universe to point at me and laugh about my inadequacies. This is what I’m up against:

Moms who hand-craft adorable, personalized gift bags of home-made treats and Halloween-themed pencils and toys for each member of the class. I sent M. Peevie to school with a box of Ho-Hos.

Moms who throw turtle-themed birthday parties, complete with home-made turtle invitations, pin-the-tail-on-the-turtle games, turtle-shaped pizza, turtle prizes, turtle goodie bags, and home-made turtle thank-you notes with clever turtle rhymes. I typed a save-the-date notice for M. Peevie’s as-yet-un-themed party, and used a broken crayon to color a balloon on each one.

Moms who get birthday thank-you notes written, addressed, stamped and in the mail the day after the party. We fizzle out after about two thank-you notes, which never make it into an envelope and don’t get mailed.

Moms whose children don’t show up in chapel shirts that were pulled, unwashed, from the dirty laundry an hour ago. Not that I know anyone like that.

Moms who put together care packages for their children to take to school for the class contribution to the homeless shelter. (I bought the washcloths and hand towels. They’re still sitting on my dresser.)

Moms who don’t forget to attend their children’s parent-teacher appointments. Like I just did today.

Sigh.

Warmness, Happiness, and Love

A. Peevie, like Peter Pan, doesn’t want to grow up. He likes the safety and protection and relative ease of being a child, and he is hyper-aware that growing up means that things get harder and scarier.

The middle Peevie has already had to deal with many hard and scary things in his short life: open-heart surgeries, other heart-related surgical procedures, and multiple hospital stays for various problems. The boy has seen more "ologists" in nine years than most people see in their entire lifetime.

As a result of all of these scary things, A.P. has more anxiety than Woody Allen and more phobias than Adrian Monk. He knows better than most nine-year-olds that the world is a scary place. A couple of years ago, he went through a phase when he talked about death and dying all the time. “If I die, will you still think about me?” he’d ask. Or he’d lay awake for hours at night because he was afraid if he went to sleep, he wouldn’t wake up in the morning.

He's doing better now. A. Peevie is comforted by rituals, such as the hug, kiss smile ritual. Every separation—and I mean EVERY separation, whether it’s going to bed at night, getting dropped off at school, or watching me leave for a 20-minute grocery store run—must be preceded by a hug, a kiss, and a smile. I’m not complaining.

Another comfort ritual is the morning cuddle. A. Peevie made me a Mother’s Day card, in which he noted that his mom was good at “cuttling,” he likes it when he and his mom “cuttle,” and his favorite thing to do with his mom is “cuttle.” What more could a mom want in a Mother’s Day card?

Every morning, no matter how late we’re running (and it’s not a question of “if” we’re running late, but only how many stop signs I’ll have to California-stop my way through to make up the minutes to get kids and backpacks and instruments into school before the bell rings) we must have a cuddle. Sometimes it’s only two minutes, but every morning we cuddle under the covers in my bed.

“Why do you like to cuddle?” I asked him this morning. “What do you get out of it?”

He was thoughtful for a moment, and then he snuggled in closer to me. “Warmness, happiness, and love,” he said.

Aaaaaahhhhhhh.

Water, Water, Everywhere

In honor of Blog Action Day, this blog today takes up the lament of the Ancient Mariner: "Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink!"

Water may appear to be abundant and renewable, but the truth is that fresh, potable water is not infinitely renewable. It takes centuries to replenish underground sources of fresh water, and energy to restore and recycle used water.

In the public television series Our Changing Planet, experts warn, "Overuse and degradation of the world's groundwater is among the serious environmental challenges facing human populations in the coming decades."

But what can one person or one family do to make a difference? First, be aware of how much water your household uses. Here’s an easy-to-use tool to calculate your family’s daily water use. When we're not careful, the Peevie family uses about 345+ gallons a day. Yikes!

And second, be careful and intentional about your water usage. Here are eight simple steps you can take to conserve water at home:

1. Take shorter showers. A typical 10-minute shower uses about 50 gallons of water. Take a five-minute shower instead. Bonus Conservation Points: Install a low-flow shower head to save even more water.

2. Don't let the water run while you're brushing your teeth or washing your face. This could save one gallon every time. For my household, that's about 3,000 gallons in a year.

3. Run the dishwasher and washing machine only with full loads.

4. Don't let the water run when you're washing dishes in the sink. Fill two sinks, one for washing and one for rinsing.

5. Water your lawn and flowers in the early morning to minimize evaporation.

6. Don't over-water your lawn. Frequent, shallow watering reduces the ability of grass to survive during dry periods. "The best rule," according to the Environmental Protection Agency, "is to water only when the lawn begins to wilt from dryness - when the color dulls and footprints stay compressed for more than a few seconds."

7. For those of you who love the little fishes: when you drain your fish tank, use the water to nourish your plants. It contains excellent fertilizer!

8. Don't let cold water go to waste while waiting for hot water. Use containers to catch it for another use, such as watering plants or flushing the toilet.

Start taking steps to conserve water today, and set an example for your family and your community. Even small steps end up conserving thousands of gallons of water over time.

Music Man

My little son A. Peevie has taken up the trombone. It's more like the trombone has taken up A. Peevie. It's taller than he is, and weighs more than he does. When A. Peevie picks up the trombone, it wraps itself around him and wrestles him to the ground. The slide is a slippery rogue, frequently escaping from its brass case and clanking on the floor.

By the time A.P. finally gets the instrument situated properly, with the mouthpiece in position, his right hand fingers wrapped correctly around the slide brace, and his lungs fully inflated, he's exhausted and needs to sit down and catch his breath. He's supposed to practice 15-20 minutes per day--but does that include 10 minutes of set-up time?

(By way of background, when Mr. Peevie was a little boy, he wanted to play the trombone, too. His band teacher told him that his arms were too short, and that he'd never be able to reach seventh position. But at least he's in good freakishly-short-arm company.)

Eeeenyway, apparently, it's really and truly difficult, especially for a smallish boy, to master the notes on a trombone. A. Peevie can get two of the five notes he's working on, but the other ones--not so much. I guess he's pursing when he should be buzzing--and he's about ready to quit. (BTW, I learned from Mr. Peevie that the use of facial muscles and the shaping of the lips to the mouthpiece of a wind instrument is called embouchure.)

I'm hoping he'll stick with his trombone, and someday, he'll be joined by 75 others in a big parade. Excellent.

Meanwhile, with his big brother playing trumpet, and his little sister just generally being loud every chance she gets, I'm praying to go deaf.

On Board

I'm stepping out, people. I joined the Barack Obama campaign last night. I even started a blog on the Obama website, called On Board.

I guess I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired*. In party politics, there has not been much to be excited about on either side for a long time.

I have typically been in favor of a smaller federal government with power redistributed to the states. When I vote Republican, this is often a key factor. But President Bush is a big government Republican; and in fact, he has essentially nurtured an "era of new federalism" in which Washington gets to oversee lots of stuff that they should keep their hands out of--like local schools, for example.

Remember "No Child Left Behind"? This under-funded education debacle has resulted in teachers teaching to the test and schools eliminating un-tested subject areas from their curriculum, such as science, foreign language, social studies, and arts. It's not that NCLB is a bad idea--it's just poorly executed.

Mr. Obama has recommended reforming and fully funding NCLB. He supports expanding early childhood education, which is hard to argue against. He has suggested some ideas for improving teacher quality, such as rewarding innovation, paying teachers more, and giving successful teachers more control over what they do in their classrooms. You can read more about Obama's thoughts on improving education here.

Anyway, I'm on board the Obama campaign train. What about you?

*I'm too tired to check this right now, but I think this is a direct quote from an Obama speech.