A Life in Piles

I like to think of the piles of paper that seem to plague the majority of my counter space as the physical manifestation of a life richly blessed with many opportunities and experiences.  Each paper representing something of importance or urgency.

I would like to think of them that way. But the reality is more that they’re a physical manifestation of my brain at any given moment: scattered, overloaded, and accompanied by circus music. 

I have an amazing system of organization, just like I have an amazing Dyson vacuum.  The only drawback to both is user absence.  Just as the dog hair and dust will not find their way into the vacuum on their own, apparently papers will not file themselves.

I have a big three-ring notebook in which each member of the family has their own tab.  On a good day, anything that comes into the house is three-hole-punched and put into the appropriate section in the notebook.   Invitations, permission slips, class lists, upcoming events - all filed in one easy location. 

In theory, there should be no reason for any type of pile. But let us take a moment to understand how a pile is born and how piles breed.

On a typical day, after school, people hand me all sorts of papers.  It is there that the crucial fatal flaw - denial - comes into play.

My mind lets me believe that I can set the Jog-A-Thon flier on the counter because when the kids go to bed, I will write it on my calendar and write a check, taking care of it immediately so I can throw the paper away. 

I also can set the letter from XM radio begging my husband to come back for $20 for four months on the counter because then I will remember to tell him about it when he gets home.  Again, he will make an immediate decision and then throw the letter away. 

Soon the piles begin to multiply – a new pile is born because the school directory, address book and sheets of stamps are neatly put down on another area of the counter because  I am in the middle of addressing invitations, so that isn’t technically a pile, it is work in progress.

The newspaper article, the new house present, and the birthday card didn’t qualify as a pile in the beginning, either, because I am “going to the post office today.”  Except I don’t make it to the post office for two weeks and other people, not respecting my post office errand, put their spelling test or book order form on top of my about-to-be-mailed-today items.

And so it goes.

Until I can’t find something. Like my car keys just as I am supposed to be leaving.  That’s when I know I’ve lost control again.

As I began making my way through the nearest one, it came to me that each of my many piles is similar to Dickens’ “Christmas Carol.”  There are papers from my past, papers for things yet to be, and papers about what’s happening now. 

The anatomy of just one pile proves my point:

- A permission slip to the 7^th grade trip to the Getty Villa, (due yesterday). 

- The rehearsal schedule for “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” which our daughter began rehearsing for a month ago.

- From the same theater - a fundraising envelope from See’s Candy – the deadline yet to be.

- An orthodontist appointment reminder card from Feb. 17.

- A rough draft of our fourth grader’s Gold Rush newspaper homework assignment – a work in progress

- A school Jog-a-thon announcement for our kindergartener sometime this spring

- The invitation to the school benefit fundraiser this Saturday.

- And the directions that came with Wyatt’s two-way spy pen that already broke.

My keys were in my sweatshirt pocket. 

And my three-hole-punch is on the desk, ready for whatever comes my way today. 

The View from Kindergarten

Kindergarten is the golden age of childhood.

It is the brief and wonderful time in a child’s life when he or she has been around long enough to acquire a bit of logic. But with a worldview that can fit through the eye of a needle, and no social filter; coupled with the ability to communicate in complete sentences, the use of logic often has results that can be quite interesting.

A perfect example is the conversation I overheard in the car the other day between my son and his friend Liv:

Liv: You’re picking your nose Wyatt.

Wyatt: I know.

Liv: You know you can’t do that at school.

Wyatt: That’s why I’m doing it now.

Liv: Oh.

The answer must have made perfect sense to Liv, because that was the end of their exchange.

I envy kindergarteners – not the nose picking, but the ability to speak their mind so freely.

I was reminded of this when I chaperoned the field trip to the post office last month. The postmaster showed the kindergarten students the inside of a mail truck and spoke to them about the job of a postal carrier. During his talk he casually mentioned that if anyone has a dog, it should be locked up whenever the mailman comes.

When the postmaster opened it up for questions, hands that had been resting quietly on crossed legs instantly shot up.

The first child had a comment, not a question.

“I have a dog,” he said.

The next kid who the postmaster pointed to announced, “I had a dog but it died,” followed by, “My dog is a Golden Retriever and it barks whenever the mailman comes.”

And another; "Our dog is not allowed in the kitchen, but sometimes he goes in there anyway."

The teacher stepped in and saved the poor postmaster, suggesting it was time to walk around the mail truck from the other direction.

A set of social norms unique to kindergarteners is a big part of what makes them so cute and funny to us.

I think because it is our family’s last go around with kindergarten, I have been making it a point to notice and enjoy every little thing. As if on a last walk in a beautiful place I know I will never return to, I seem to linger a little longer taking in the scenery and the sounds. When my older kids were in kindergarten, I had a baby on my hip, or a toddler tugging at me, or both - I was distracted.

But this last pass through has been much more leisurely for me. It has afforded me the opportunity to collect in my mind a list of what I love about kindergarten. Yes, the fact that kids say whatever comes to their mind is one, but there is more:

- It is the last time in one’s life until about the age of 80 that it is socially acceptable to wear Velcro shoes.

-You can get away with giving the women in your life jewelry made out of pasta and they proudly wear it.

- You “do” calendar. Never in real life would someone say, “Hey, let’s do calendar today.” But figuring out what month and day it is never seems to get old.

- Every job you have ends when the day ends. You never have to take work home with you: Pencil Sharpeners, Paper Passers, Table Monitors, and Ball Monitors all have a nice balance between work and play.

- All of your important things go into a cubby. Why don’t adults have cubbies?

- Show and Tell – need I say more?

What do you love about kindergarten? I look forward to hearing your additions to the list. 

A Kite Flight

Wyatt feels the joy of kite flying. Photo by Skie BenderFlying kites is the kind of thing you think you will do all the time with your kids before you are a mother.

On any given blustery March day you would announce to your children who are seated diligently working on their homework without being asked, “Hey, let’s go fly a kite!” and everyone would agree and that would be that.

But I am embarrassed to admit, I have maybe one time in 13 years flown kites with my kids. 

My sister was the one who orchestrated our kite-flying date.  She makes sure to have something fun on the calendar at all times.  Aunt Skie, as my kids call her, and her husband, Uncle Kevin, never had kids of their own.  That is part of what makes her so cool.  She is able to play, unencumbered by a school schedule, bedtime rituals, or the need to raise a contributing member of society. 

She is fun.

And, she spared me another errand, (buying the kite) another sibling squabble (which kite to buy).  When we pulled up to her house, she shoved three kites in the car with the kids and hopped in. I relished in the simplicity of it – no snacks or water bottles, no sand toys or towels or beach chairs. The schlep factor was a zero. While I drove to the beach, the short ride was spent trying to unravel the already tangled kites and laughing about the inevitability of kite tangles (probably another reason I never fly kites with my kids.).

I took delight in watching the kids being kids, running, with the kites, cheering each other on.

Then my sister yelled, “Give your mom a turn!” She handed me a blue plastic spool and said, “Feel this.” Immediately, the tug of the kite fluttering in the wind blew a whoosh of kite associated memories into my mind - Benjamin Franklin with a key in a lightning storm.  Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke singing “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.”

The wind made my teeth and gums feel dry as I smiled, running north on the packed sand near the tide’s edge.  My sweatshirt hood contained the majority of my wild ponytail leaving only a few loose wisps that lashed against my cheeks.  I held the tugging spool in my hand, as the floating and flapping kite followed me.  A winter sun, brown sugar under my feet, the swirling and churning ocean’s waves exploding against the sand. It all rolled in the wind like invisible tumbleweed hitting me with one collective burst of inspiration. 

I thought, “Look at me seagulls - I am flying, too.” 

But in the next instant, I decided to yell out loud to the scattering of white and grey birds as I ran past them,

“Look at me, Seagulls!” 

No one thought I was crazy, partly because the beach was deserted, except for my sister and my kids and partly because my sister wouldn’t think twice about talking to seagulls, anyway. 

Just then I heard my kids’ voices.  My daughter caught up to me and asked if she could have a turn, I handed her the spool of kite string, charged, like Benjamin Franklin’s kite with electric inspiration. 

No Snow, But Plenty of Icing

Wyatt, 5, Payton, 13, Janey, 9, and Sally, 8, get ready to celebrate a couple of birthdays: George Washington’s 279th and the big two-oh-two for Abraham Lincoln.We are few and far between.

The handful of families who are not going skiing this week.

I am not sure when Presidents Day became Presidents Week and cannot remember when Presidents Week became affectionately known as Ski Week. But it is so ingrained in the Newport Beach vernacular it is as if it is a constitutional amendment.

“A well regulated School, being necessary to the sanity of a free State (of mind), the right of the people to keep and bear ski equipment to be used the third week of every February, shall not be infringed.”

I know deep down my kids would love to be part of the excited buzz of conversations:

“Where are you going for Ski Week?”

“Mammoth”

“Oh, me too!”

“We’re going to Colorado…”

My kids know that we will be home. So in the true spirit of the holiday, we did what any flag waving, stuck-at-home –a-week-with-only-each-other family would do.

We planned a birthday party for Abraham Lincoln and George Washington.

I told the kids we would bake a birthday cake.

“It has to be a presidential cake,” I told them. That was a new word for the little ones.

After everyone seemed to get the term presidential, it was decided that a tall, multi-layer cake would be best. It was frosted white, with red scalloped edges. Two skinny wood skewers poked out of the cake; one with a picture of George Washington scoth taped to it, the other a picture of Abraham Lincoln. One of the kids printed out the message “Happy Birthday George and Abraham” and the slip of paper stuck nicely to the icing, just under the red frosted USA.

The menu planning was easy: barbecued chicken, corn on the cob, baked beans, salad, hot dogs and Tootsie Rolls.

The dining room looked positively presidential. The table set with red plastic plates, blue paper napkins and a white paper table cloth. Red, white and blue streamers hanging to match.

The sideboard in the dining room was cleared off and decorated with books pulled off our shelves: “President’s Day,” “Dear Mr. Lincoln,” “Fight for Freedom: The American Revolutionary War,” “American Revolution” and “Abraham Lincoln Will You Ever Give Up.”

Before dinner we built replicas of log cabins using the giant container of Tootsie Rolls from Smart and Final. They began to collapse and buckle. We laughed. But not before it was duly noted that from such humble beginnings, one of the greatest presidents of all time could emerge.

My husband asked trivia questions, such as “How tall was Abraham Lincoln?” and “Where did George Washington live while he was President?”

After dinner Payton stood on a chair at the head of the table and read “The Gettysburg Address,” which sparked a surprisingly interesting discussion.

Finally, the candles were lit and everyone sang, in various keys, “Happy Birthday” to the first and 16th presidents of the United States. We marveled at the five-layer pieces of cake that hung off the sides of the plate.

We didn’t see a single flake of snow this week, but I feel we added a drop to the Family Memories Bucket just the same. I hope the kids enjoyed our special birthday celebration and maybe even learned something about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. I was reminded that snow or sun, rain or shine, the most fun adventures are in my favorite place called together.

On Monday it’s back to the grindstone. But, Hawaii Week, formally called Spring Break and prior to that known as Easter Vacation, will be here soon enough. 

A Cry for Help

Dear Girl Scouts of America,

I write to you today as a former Brownie (Troop 701 from 1978 to 1981), a former Girl Scout Leader, and current parent of two daughters in scouting. But more than anything, I am writing to you as a concerned citizen and cookie enthusiast.

I would appreciate your attention to the following items regarding Thin Mints and I hope you will take my suggestions into serious consideration.

Before I begin, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you how much I love Thin Mints.  The easy-to-grasp, slightly scalloped disc shape,  the perfect ratio of robust mint and rich chocolate, the flaky crunch center.  A smooth dark coating, rippling slightly beneath the surface. Whether straight from the freezer, room temperature, or slightly melted in your child’s lunchbox leftovers, a Thin Mint is consistently perfect. 

However, from the moment I peel back the strip of corrugated cardboard to open a new box; I know I am flirting with danger. 

But I do digress. This letter is not about the contents of the box, but rather, the Thin Mint box itself. 

Below are some suggestions for some changes or additions to the signature green box.

Firstly, I strongly recommend that you change the serving size which is currently 4 cookies, to 1 sleeve.  It would reduce the math involved in figuring out how many grams of fat and calories were just consumed when eating an entire box in one sitting. 

While I do believe in personal responsibility, perhaps there is an argument for a small warning label on each box of Thin Mints.  Simply: “WARNING: Thin Mints are addictive!”

This brings me to my next point.  I believe the Girl Scouts should exercise social responsibility and address the euphoria-binge-guilt cycle that accompanies each box of Thin Mints.

May I boldly suggest 5 cents from the sale of every box of Thin Mints be dedicated to maintaining a Thin Mint Crisis Hotline.  (You may want to check if 1-800-COOKIEJONES is taken.)  The 800 number can be conveniently printed just below the photograph of smiling Girl Scouts in helmets and rapelling gear.  By the way, what a great project for a troop’s Sliver or Gold Award: to create an App for a smart phone which immediately connects consumers to help.

Just the other day, I could have used a lifeline.  A trained professional to reason with me before I lost control. I was driving.  Alone, and hungry, with an opened box of Thin Mints in my car.  I came to a red light where I justified that one was no big deal.  By the time the light turned green, I was happily crunching Thin Mint number 3.  A couple of miles later, I came to and had to throw the box to a far corner of the car that I could not reach while driving.

I am confident with the change of serving size, a warning label, and a toll free Thin Mint Crisis Hotline printed on every box, responsible and controlled consumption of Thin Mints could be within our grasp.  It may even bolster the public’s confidence to eat Thin Mints without fear of the euphoria-binge-guilt cycle; thereby increasing sales.

Underlying all of these suggestions is the opportunity to showcase part of the Girl Scout Law itself.  “To protect and improve the world around me and to show respect for myself and others through my words and actions”

Thank you for your time and consideration in addressing these pressing issues. I look forward to your response and many future Girl Scout Cookie seasons ahead.

Yours in Cocoa and Peppermint Oil,

Jill Fales