Overheard

E goes to ballet classes once a week. This is a nice little ballet studio, run by the woman I took ballet from at the university twenty-some years ago (and she is also E's teacher). I like it because it is low-key, and there is none of the hoochie-koochie dancing that is so popular for young girls in these parts.

There are things, however, that I am not fond of. And I'm not talking just about trying to control the other three kids while E is dancing, although that is a sore trial in my life. I'm talking about Other Mothers.

One mother in particular feels the need to share wildly inappropriate information with me about how her children were planned or not planned and what medications she was taking when they were conceived and on and on and on. I try to smile and nod and mostly plan my next vacation to the Bahamas while she talks to me.

Last week, though, I heard some great stuff from another mother. Her three-year-old daughter was misbehaving, and the mother was trying to get her to stop. This is what she said: "Do you want to lose ten Good-Girl Points? Because if you don't stop, you'll lose ten Good-Girl Points. I'll just take away ten Good-Girl Points."

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE this concept. Except I want to award Bad-Girl Points. To my sister. And when she gets enough, she will have to give me a present. Brilliant.

In other news, the Marmot Babe is the messiest eater we've ever had. EVER. I find food all over the place, on him, his booster seat, the table, the floor, the walls, you name it. On me. Now here's the irony. When he comes in in the morning for breakfast, he looks at his booster seat, which sometimes his overburdened mama has not thoroughly cleaned out the night before. He starts muttering "towel, towel, towel" to himself while he waddles off, looking for all the world like a beaver on its hind legs, to pull a towel out of the drawer, bring it to his seat, and start cleaning it off (in the process getting food all over the floor again, but no matter). Yeah, now he suddenly turns into a neat freak.

In Which I Cease Being a Homeschooler

M is going back to kindergarten! Not at her regular school, though. We came upon an opening at the university lab school where E went. We hope they can keep up with her. She starts Monday, which is about the time my life ends and I have to start hustling across town every day (at least it's a small town).

In the meanwhile, she has been prolific in her literary pursuits. This might be my favorite story yet. May I present

The Dragon With No Wings!

The Dragon With No Wings! A Once Upon a Time Book.

Once upon a time a princess had a dragon for a pet. It had no wings. Have you ever seen a dragon with no wings and no ears? The dragon had spots on him like leopards have spots on them. The dragon's friend had wings but he did not!

The dragon tried to fly but he could not fly.

(picture of dragon falling through clouds--note dotted line indicating falling)

The dragon tried and tried and tried to fly. Again and again and again. But he never could fly. "Oh," he said, "I will never never fly," he said.

(picture of dejected dragon with sad flames)

One day he woke up. He tried to fly again. He could, he could, he could!!! He was so happy he showed all of his friends. "I am so happy I can fly that I came to show you!" said the dragon.

"Oh oh oh I am so happy I can fly now. Oh I can fly fly fly now. Fly fly fly fly fly," he said. "La la la la I can fly now. Fly fly fly. I can fly. I can fly now. Oh oh oh. Hooray hooray hooray!!"

I can fly. Fly fly fly. Now I can fly.

"Yes yes yes I can fly now. Hooray, now I can fly. Hooray hooray hooray. I can fly now. Now now now I can FLY!!!!! Hooray hooray hooray I can fly now!!!" he said.

The End.

Melville, Steinbeck, Hemingway--they got nothin' on this kid. Next, the great American novel by M.

But wait--she does poetry too (she had me and Marmot Dad write some words--I did mine while holding a flailing toddler, which might qualify this as performance art).

There is a place called England where people do their fiction.

Frankly, this is on a par with or superior to most of what passes for poetry in The New Yorker.