Blondies vs. Brunettes Water Volleyball

Birthday Cake Pops

Happy Birthday To You!

Dumb and Dumber

Just when you thought it couldn't be easier to go to school here in Hawaii...Not only are most schools a year behind the mainland, most months rarely have 5-day weeks, and Wednesdays are half days. This week, an agreement was settled between Governor Lingle and the teachers' union in order to cut back $117 million from the state budget. (They are hoping to cut a total of $227 million). The teachers get a 7.9% pay cut and will be furloughed for 17 days throughout the remainder of the school year. What it shakes down to is that there will be 4-day school weeks for the rest of the year, with the exception of 2 full weeks in April. In return, the teachers are guaranteed not to get fired for the next 2 years. Quite an upheaval. Parents are scrambling for child care on furlough days, rounding up some independent study groups, and otherwise wondering how to make up for the loss.

Why do I feel like I'm getting pushed closer and closer to the edge of falling into the Great Schooling Abyss?
With apologies...

When Mommy Was Nice

Lately Trevor has been telling random strangers, "When I was a baby, my Mom was nice to me. Jamon told me that." I jokingly add, "Those days are over!" But I was a little stumped the other day when we were checking out at the grocery store. He had been unusually and exceptionally cooperative. A model child. I was planning to reward him from the candy selection at the check out to reinforce the behavior for future shopping trips. So we were waiting our turn:

"Can I have a treat?"
"Were you a good boy at the store today?"
"Yes."
"Did you scream?"
"No."
"Did you run?"
"No."
"Did you stay by Mom?"
"Yes."
"Yes. You did. You were a very good boy, so you can pick a treat today!!!"
"I didn't cry!"
"You didn't."
"And I didn't yell!"
"Nope, you didn't."
"And you didn't hit me!"

"Uh..." My reflex was to quickly scan the periphery. Surely all the people who had been grinning at this interchange hadn't heard that last part, had they? Cause there was no way I could answer the accusation in a believable manner.

If I said, "What are you talking about?" as my eyes are flicking side to side to ascertain who is going to report me, I have guilt written all over my face.

If I said, "What, sweetie? Why would you even suggest something like that? We don't even know what hitting is! Did you learn that at preschool?" it would be an obvious cover.

So I stood there saying nothing, feeling the guilt I had not in fact earned. A grown woman at the mercy of the vocabulary choice of a three-year old.

Jamon's First Decade

He came to earth smelling like a boy. When the doc told his mama he was 11 pounds 3 ounces, she died. Laughing. But it was no joke. As an infant, he snacked on an entire quart of peaches cause his Grandma couldn't resist his charms. He drank his gallon of milk every day and grew so fast, he barely had a chance to wear a sportin' pair of overalls to the Kindygarten. By first grade, strangers were recruiting him for pro football, but he was busy kissing girls to make them cry. By the time he learned to play soccer, it only took one powerful kick for the ball to go from one end of the field into the goal. He was still so big that the creek would run out of water before he could soap up in the bath. Most days, he'd go on smelling like a wet dog. He was so big that he was called to be the Preacher on his second week in the chapel at the ripe age of 9. So big that the top bunk bowed clear down to the ground till his baby brother could barely breathe and slide out the side. He's learned to sit still enough to do his homework (Yay for 5th Grade!). And every year, his hugs get bigger and better.

And even though he's out of diapers, he's still a BUNDLE OF JOY!

Love you Jamon!