Schooled

A few years ago the Z was standing beside me at a gas station ATM, eyes wide as money spit into my hands. A few days later when I told him I did not have the cash to purchase yet another set of neon vampire teeth he told me to just find another one of those machines where I won all that money the other day. It’s for this reason and others that it’s probably a really good thing that his school gets to send classes to the school of economics each year.

When I was a kid it seemed like all of the other elementary schools in the area got to go to some kind of economics/supply and demand fun day … but mine. I went to a tiny parochial school that did seriously awesome things like slumber parties in the school basement and “Let’s talk about Aztec human sacrifice!” But we didn’t get to go to Exchange City, and after hearing all of the neighbor kids talk about working in the bank or owning their own shop or buying bags of candy with their pretend paycheck I was feeling pretty gypped. So when Ace first started attending SoE when we moved here in 2^nd grade, I was pretty psyched for him. But not so much that I volunteered for it. I volunteer for a lot of stuff at the kids’ schools; I’ve gone to literature festivals and concerts and plays and planned parties and served vats of Hawaiian Punch. There are just some events I’ve opted out of. But right now…. What else am I doing?

Besides laundry. I am ALWAYS doing laundry.

I want you to imagine a room a little larger than a two car garage. Put eight shop booths around the perimeter and cafeteria tables in the middle. Stock each booth with four third graders and a large amount of kool-aid, sugar, and/or glitter. Then unleash 50 first graders with wads of play money. They are excited. They are anxious. They need a hot dog RIGHT NOW. They are LOUD. Now, take half of the 50 third graders working the booths… and set them FREE! Give them their “wages” and send them among the masses to consume. Watch as they all line up at YOUR SHOP because you are not only the first store inside the doors, but also the only one with potato chips and pixy stix. Do this in cycles for two hours. Consider, more than once, hiding in the staff bathroom. Don’t because you fear for the kind grandmother who was suckered into volunteering your booth as well. Consider, more than twice, using duck tape on the kid who keeps trying to take all of the money out of the drawer and just clapped chalk dust over the drinks. Don’t because… well, because you don’t have any duck tape.

But then watch as something really cool happens… and these four or five third graders start working as a team. They’re setting prices and mixing Kool-Aid and cooking hot dogs all on their own. They do the dishes and sweep the sugar dust off the floor. They know they have an $85 loan from the “bank” and that, in addition to paying it back, they have to pay rent, taxes, and utilities. Try not to snort coffee through your nose when the kid in the Uncle Sam hat comes around for the tax checks and you hear a third grader mumble about “big government”. And I dare you not to smile when Chalk Dust Boy is shilling the booth’s wares for all he’s worth, determined to be the first team to sell out of product... or when the kids realize that not only did they make enough money to pay back their loan and the overhead costs, but enough to turn a real profit. That they were successful.

And while it wasn’t like I'm sure Ye Olde Exchange City was back in the day, I had my moment of commerce. I bought a hot dog, four cups of kool-aid…. And a purple eye patch. It’s awesome and I refuse to take it off. It feels like a childhood dream is coming true.

Would anyone like to hear about Aztec human sacrifice? It’s the least I can do.


Vaguely amused? You can follow The Pirate Mommy on Facebook... like living right inside her addled little mind... now with 50% more insanity and absolutely no High Fructose Corn Syrup.

Hey, I can see my lunch from here!

Last night while having a conversation with my friend The Doc, he forced me to realize the fact that I am, indeed.... AGING. Me. I'm sorry, Doc, you must be mistaken. There is no way I'm getting older, nuh-uh, no way. I mean, I'm wearing a Muppets t-shirt and Karate-Kid esque headband (don't ask. No, really.)! You can try and remind me all you want that I'm sliding down the southern half of my thirties, careening towards middle age, but I will reject that assertation and replace it with this picture of a trout.

I don't feel like I'm supposed to be in my mid-thirties. Maybe that's the problem, that a piece of me hasn't caught on (or caught up) to where I "should" be. But my body is trying on a near constant basis to remind me to get with the damned program and take another vitamin. Or maybe some Boniva... because Sally Field says it's good stuff and M'LYNN DOESN'T LIE.

What do you mean I'm iron deficient????

(Oh God, I just made a Steel Magnolia's reference.... someone, a hipster injection, STAT!)

It really doesn't matter, though, what my mind thinks because my BODY is all to happy to remind me that I am, indeed, edging a little further away from the joys of youth each and every day. It's the knees with their Snap! Crackle! Pop! symphony EACH. AND . EVERY. MORNING. It's the squint as I try to read the fine print on a box at work only to have to cart over that damned ladder to climb up and take a closer look. And today... today it was the roller coasters.

I've never done spinny rides. My heart goes out to those of you who have ridden on the "Hurricane" style rides with me before. But roller coasters? Please, child. One of the few times I'll tell you that the faster, the better. I LOVE roller coasters. Love them. Front car, back car, doesn't matter. My kids share the love, and today... today was a rite of passage for the Z Monkey.

Ah, my Z, my little adrenaline junky. When he turned four he announced that, due to his advanced age, "I guess I ride roller coasters now." One by one he ticked off the rides as he grew... Spinning Dragons at 42". Mamba and Prowler at 48". Next stop: 54" and Patriot. Upside down, spiral looping, free hanging Patriot. And sure enough, on this our first visit of the 2013 season, Z hit not just 54", but 56". Would he shatter the current "youngest in the family to go upside down"? mark held by his brother at 8 years, 6 months?
First he needed to think on it. So big brother and I bounded up the stairs while Z stayed back with Dad. First coaster of the season! Starting it off right with the big one, right out of the hatch! No hands, flying through the air... so, so good. And as we ran down the stairs to the waiting area I may have mentioned something about him being glad that he had a Mom that was still a coaster junkie... oh, my youth! My fabulous youth!

Next came Mamba ("Hey, I can see my house from hereeeee---yeaaaaaagh!") which has always been Z's favorite. Because what 7 year old doesn't like to be thrown down a 205 foot hill at 70 mph? Then we looked at dinosaurs. Then the boys did that "stick to the wall while the floor drops out" ride. I hate that thing. How can an adult do that and NOT end up with a colossal wedgie? And after all of that fun, Z made his decision (well, he made the decision that he was not letting his big brother do something alone with Dad). He was riding.

And if he was riding, I was riding. A glorious family experience!
And when he wanted to ride again immediately after, we rode again! Togetherness!

And when he wanted to ride AGAIN immediately after round two, my husband had the good sense to sit out. I did too, until I heard the words "front row".... aaaannnd then I could actually FEEL every bit of common sense that I possess leaving my body. Just exiting through my nostrils as I said "OKAY!"
Look, I am the woman who once rode Wildfire at Silver Dollar City FOURTEEN TIMES IN A ROW WITHOUT GETTING OFF. What a fabulous day THAT was! Ride the ride! Pull in! No one in line! Adorable ragamuffin in 1880s Ozark garb shrugs and asks you if you want to go again? Is there any other answer but YES? Not when you're 25. But thirty five?

It's eleven pm as I write this and I am STILL SOMEWHAT NAUSEOUS.

The kid? The kid did great. Says he's riding EVERY roller coaster up front now. No fear. Bigger, faster, stronger, better, all of that. The mom? Apparently the mom needs to remember that while 35 isn't exactly old.... well, it might not be such a bad idea to listen to the old body every once in a while, especially when zero gravity is involved. Moderation. Moderation is KEY.

Anyone in the mood for Cedar Point?

Behold! The Pod People!

They've come to take over your brain... and they all seem to be congregating around the spinny toys.

My youngest little Buccanneer, the Z Monkey, has this thing with his eyelashes. First, they're ridiculous. We're talking long, curling, thick, Elizabeth Taylor-esque eyelashes. As someone who fights with the mascara wand on a regular (oh, who are we kidding, once a month TOPS) basis, it's sickening. They're just gorgeous.

They're also a pain- literally. The kid has these 4-5 lashes on the outer corner of his left eye that like to get a little rowdy, like to buck the system and actually grow INSIDE BACKWARDS. What that means is that his eyelashes, rather than flashing and curling beautifully like the rest, flip around and grow INSIDE HIS EYELID AND BACK AROUND HIS LITTLE EYEBALL.

I'll pause now for you to shudder and cringe and maybe even throw up a little.

When Z was three, he blinked. A lot. Like he was sending morse code messages to the people around us. At first we thought "well, the kid just blinks." Then we took him to the doctor who said "Huh. Haven't seen that before." Want to feel totally reassured by your pediatrician? Have them say THAT. Makes me feel AWESOME. So they pulled out their magic book, gave us a little card and told us to go see the opthomologist at Children's Mercy the next month, where they'd determine if it was an eye issue or if my kid had neurological problems. Sweet.

Turns out, it was all in the eyes. So impressed was Dr. Olitsky- who happens to be the section chief- that he called in approximately 47 other opthomologists in training to stare at my toddler's eye. "Amazing!" "Incredible!" "They're so long!" I wasn't sure whether I should be proud or terrified. Eventually they called me over to look through the mutant cyclops helmet cam, into my kid's eye. Sure enough, there were four 

lashes, wrapping their way backwards and around the eyeball.

*pause for cringing*

They fixed it that day, and we've been lucky enough to not have issues with it for two years. Then on Tuesday, the Z began compaining that his eyes hurt. They were scratchy. After pinning him to the carpet and bribing him with chocolate, I managed to peel back his eyelid and see that, sure enough, the little curly tentacles of doom were wrapping their way back. So it was off to CMH once more.

If you go into a kids' opthomology department, the lights are all low and soothing, and the first thing I think is "Mood lighting?" Then one of the little darlings scampers up to you, flashes you a smile,a nd GOOD GOD, ITS THE POD PEOPLE! See, they dilate the little buggers WIDE open. So what should be a nice, clean, lovely office waiting room is rendered creepy and uncomfortable. I mean, you try sitting there calmly with all of those creepy little black orbs drilling into your soul, stealing your thoughts, using them to plan the revolution. I'm just sayin.

Once Z was all Podded up and his eyeballs were numbed and turned yellow (yes, yellow. I'm not sure why they did it, but he was really excited that he'd look like our cat), the doc went in with his pokey thing and pulled the eyelashes back outside the eye. Yes, it's as gross as it sounds. Then they have to pluck out the offending lashes. That's a good time. The kid was a trooper though, which always confounds me. I try to take a piece of tape off his arm and he screams like he's being dunked in boiling oil and served up fresh to the demons of hell. A man with a thick Russian accent, saying "You are big boy! Tough, I see!" like some pediatric trainer from Rocky IV, that guy goes in and YANKS OUT HIS EYELASHES... and the kid doesn't flinch. I flinched, I'll tell you that. And I'm pretty sure his big brother threw up a little.

Nevertheless, the kid is good for, hopefully, another two years. They gave him the awesome junior version of the South Florida dog track special cataract sunglasses and sent us off into the heat once more... but not before he used his Pod People skills into convincing me that nothing would heal him more than 4 McNuggets and a Dr. Pepper. What the hell? The kid doesn't even get caffeine, and there I was, ordering it up. It's a good thing he's just six and hasn't used his powers for evil. Much.

Only he could make these look good.