Dragon Droppings: A Photo Essay

Sport recently became fascinated with an origami kit Grandpa D gave him for Christmas this year.    

Now there is no flyer, brochure, homework assignment or slip of currency safe from his deft and relentless fingers.  Imagine, if you will, that he created a giant origami dragon, and it’s now roaming the house at night, eating paper and pooping little folded treasures.

Sport names these little folded treasures.  This one is Bert.  Bert doesn’t just have eyes, but also a mouth complete with teeth, tongue and a uvula dangling beneath the nose. 

Let me digress for just a moment to say that in moving to Washington, we purged our lives of all knick knacks, trinkets, Happy Meal toys, hazardous waste (don’t ask) and general pocket debris.  Of course, by ‘we’ I mean ‘me’ as in ‘I got bossy and told them how it was going down.’  Either way, the boy is in direct conflict with my Zen.

He’s very possessive of all his paper creations and swears to have a personal connection with each one.  Unfortunately he says that of all knick knacks, trinkets, Happy Meal toys, hazardous waste, pocket debris and dragon droppings which litterally litter his room. 

Today we’re going to excavate said room and try to instill some order.  Sport is very skeptical.  

If I don’t come out alive, the origami dragon got me.  You may find my remains in the handful of Berts guarding Sport’s nightstand.

P.S.  These are the paper dragons that roam my house at night.

Maggie, the Pseudo Pet

We love our new digs, and one of the perks we enjoy here is Maggie, the Pseudo Pet.  Let me explain.

We’re renting this fabulous house from some fabulous people we know.  They don’t live here anymore and haven’t lived here in awhile.  But they had this dog named Maggie who was a little too old and attached to the area for a move across two states, so they left her here with the neighbors across the street.  But to Maggie, this is her home.

When I first came to walk through the house, Maggie was sitting under the tree in the front yard.  No one else was here, yet the old girl was playing sentinel—Maggie, the pseudo guard dog.  

Since we’ve moved in, she’s become a regular visitor.  She scratches on the front door to alert us, and then barks if we don’t answer.  And because I explained to my children that there were no dogs in our immediate future, Maggie is win-win.  The kids get to love-up a dog without doing dootie duty.  I get a pseudo guard dog that requires no feeding (okay, okay, so we have a large supply of doggie biscuits she seems to enjoy).  And we all get a sorta pet that greets us when we come home.  Being Maggie's pseudo owners must be a lot like grandparenting.  We feed her scraps and doggie biscuits, let her jump onto the furniture, and then we send her home to her real owners.  

Did I mention that she has our meals timed and comes right when the table is being cleared and children are carelessly dropping scraps to the floor?  (I love a psuedo pet that doubles as a vacuum.)  

Now if we could just get her to play fetch she’d be perfect.

p.s. Those are hearts in her eyes, not an evil satanic laser glare.  Promise.

A Public Service Announcement: The Bestest Pumpkin Bars Ever!

Two weeks ago I discovered AllRecipes.com (I know.  I’m always late to the party).  I was looking for a pumpkin-something recipe and found these bars.  My life has not been the same.   

I’ve made them twice in two weeks, and when I told my mother that I was going to make them, again, she said, “Why?”

Uhm, why not?  I’m certain that my mother was concerned about how it might impact my recent anti-sugar campaign, to which I may or may not still be committed, but they are just too good not to make.  And eat.  And eat. And share.  And eat. Did I mention they’re made with pumpkin?  

When I posted about my pumpkin-bar quandary on Facebook, my friend Shel responded: 

Not only is pumpkin loaded with vitamin A and antioxidant carotenoids, particularly alpha and beta-carotenes, it’s a good source of vitamins C, K, and E, and lots of minerals, including magnesium, potassium, and iron. Half a cup of canned pumpkin has 6.5 grams of effective carbohydrate and 3.5 grams of fiber.

This recipe has 2 cups, count them—1, 2!—cups of pumpkin!  That’s practically a garden of pumpkin in cake-ish form!  It probably prevents cancer and stuff.  AND it’s festive.

So with Thanksgiving nearly a week away, I find myself morally obligated to share (because I don’t want to be fat alone, people!).  

(Pssst.  It’s best with cream cheese frosting.)  

You’re very welcome.

Two Storms Converge

Last night was one of those nights—what I consider a dark night of the soul, when my hope seemed to have set with the sun and every thought became a murky shadow threatening to steal my sense of equilibrium.  With sleep I thought I’d find some peace, but then the storm of my psyche took flight and became the storm that threatened to Dorothy our house away.  

At one in the morning I paced the living room as if my worry weighted us all down, anchoring us together in this home of ours.  The wind bent the trees and shook the house, making the blinds tremble and the chimney howl.  I waited for the windows to crash in or the roof to blow away and finally woke my daughter and brought her into my room, convincing myself that it was for her own good and not mine.  She tucked her stuffed animal, Wolfie, under her chest and went back to sleep only to rouse her tousled head moments later to declare, “I think it’s going away.”  Then she distracted me with talk of old Tootsie Pop commercials.

After Sis fell off to sleep, and as the storm raged on, I sat down and typed my way through one of those rare moments when the literary becomes the literal and all things converge.  Inner storm and outer storm facing off at 2 in the morning.  As they battled it out, Spunk stumbled into my room, asking to be retucked, and instead I climbed into bed with him and listened as the storm lost its strength, and, like that, was gone.  By the time I returned to my room, it was all over; unfortunately, it wasn’t forceful enough to carry my inner turmoil away. 

Since reading The Art of Racing in the Rain I’ve thought a lot about the grace with which we weather life’s storms, and it's cultivated within me a desire to endure them well regardless of how they might, at times, cause my soul to tremble and my heart to howl. Because I would hate to surrender at the moment before the gale ceases and my spirit is simultaneously refined. 

I believe there’s a reason for all of it, and as displeased as I sometimes am with life’s lessons, I don’t want to repel my divine curriculum simply because it isn’t pretty or entertaining or easy.  And after tonight I realize that it’s not worry or concern that anchors me; that’s simply an anxious attempt to control what is uncontrollable.  Faith and hope are my tie-downs—the belief that all storms cease, and regardless of their force or duration, there are still children to be tucked in and Tootsie Pops to be discussed.  And for that I will always be grateful.

Smorty Pants

It’s finally happened.  The horrific, the excruciating, the inevitable.  My oldest child was embarrassed by me, his own mother.

After years of being the sun that lit my children’s lives, my boy saw me in public, ducked his head and blushed.  Oh, say it isn’t so.  Moody, pensive and brooding pre-pubescence must be just around the corner.  That or he’s found me out; I’m totally uncool.

So here’s how it went down.  I went to the school to give my kids Friday popcorn money which required me to walk to their classrooms and hand-deliver it to their teachers.  Luckily I was wearing my holey yoga pants that make me look casual and athletic.  My hair was pulled back into a trendy sloppy ponytail, and I had my glasses on.  It’s a look I call smart and sporty—smorty or sparty.  I’m sure it’ll catch on.

Kaleb’s friends saw me before he did, and they started to whisper and point.  That’s when I called out, “Hi, Kalebugaroogala.”  It rhymes with “Eat a Rutabagala” and is a pet name I reserve for special occasions, and what’s not special about seeing your oldest child at school?  “How’s it going, Buddy?” I said.  “Are you showing off your smarts?  Being a smarty toot-cakes?  Cashing in on that brain lottery you won?”  Always praise your child in public—it’s a motto I live by.  Following which came the head-ducking and the blushing.  Totally uncalled for, right?

Okay, so that’s not exactly what happened.  Here’s version number two.  I walked into his classroom—still smorty and sparty—and slyly caught my son’s eye at which point I said, “Yo, yo, dawg” and flashed him the cool victory sign, hand sideways, palm facing chest (that’s how all the kids are doing it these days) at which point he sunk into his chair, ducked his head and blushed.  “That’s a’ight,” I whispered.  “I be the Mama on the D.L.  See you back at the crib.”  I can’t be sure, but that final statement may have activated his highly sensitive gag reflect.

The truth is, neither of those scenarios occurred, minus the holey yoga pants, the smorty, the ducking and the blushing.  All I did was walk in, hand his teacher the popcorn money and give my boy a big smile.  There was no blatant coddling, no awkward attempts to use slang and still with the ducking and the blushing.  Was my Mama Reign really that short lived?  What was next?  Requesting that I drop him off two blocks from school so that he not be seen with me?

Now if it had been my 8-year old daughter she would have leapt from her chair to come give me a waist hug.  Yes, in public!  And she probably would have told the whole class, “Look, it’s my mother!” as if it had been years, and not minutes, since she had last seen me. 

Maybe someone can tell me--do boys take on that whole parental embarrassment thing early or do I only have one measly year of admiration from my daughter left?  Someone should tell us how short our shelf-life really is.  That or maybe it’s just the holey yoga sweats.  Because I can always go shopping for new smorty pants. What I can’t buy are more public displays of affection from my offspring.  

Flag Football: A Photo Essay

Flag football saved Sport’s life.  Okay, so I’m being a little melodramatic, but it definitely pulled him from the abyss of darkness and woe, from the deep storm of internal anguish and…  Okay, okay.  I’ll stop. 

When we first moved to Washington, My Boy was down.  He had left a father in Utah and his friends in Idaho Falls.  What could there possibly be for him here?  There were quick and intense outbursts of anger and lots of crying (from both of us).  For three weeks (which is like 5 mom years), I had to drag him from bed and insist that he go to school.  And for three weeks, I listened to him complain about how horrible life was when he was at school.  It was bad enough that I started to wonder if he was clinically depressed.  

Until he started to play football.  From his first practice, there was change.  Here he is at his first game.  See that smile, that glow? 

Here’s a huddle.  They’re discussing something important, I can just feel it.  “So maybe, dude, you can throw me the ball, and I’ll run really fast.” 

Here’s Sport running really fast.  You can tell because the picture is blurry.  It has nothing to do with my photography skills.  He was that blurry in real life.  You can also see his coach in this picture, who, bless his soul, will forever be known as Coach Rocks!

And here he is running really fast again.  Please don’t ask how many yards he ran or what down they’re on or who won the Heisman Trophy in 2003.  I’m useless that way.

He would also take a few minutes at halftime to meet and greet his fans; here he is with his darling cousin, A (notice how he never smiles with his teeth?  And this was when he still had them!).

Sport enjoyed every practice and every game.  And to commemorate his final game…

He chipped his tooth.  At a flag football game.  People, he’s eligible for tackle, but I didn’t sign him up for a reason.  But Sport goes and gets his tooth chipped because some kid with arms of steel whacked him in the mouth.

But then I look at this picture again and realize it was all worth it. 

This is the first time in my adult life that I’m sad to see a football season end. 

Mom Bucks

Parenting has made me a little power hungry; this month I created my own currency.  Next month, I take over the world. 

As for the currency, it has my face on it and says “MOM BUCKS” in all caps and is only distributed to those who sprang from my loins.  My brother found a 50-dollar mom buck under one of the kid’s beds and tried to cash it in. “Whatever,” I told him.  “Go ask you own mommy for 50 cents.”

So power hungry as it may sound, I have no delusions of grandeur.  Every mom buck is worth one cent.   My kids are just desperate enough that they’ll do anything for a handful of pennies.  Or maybe they’re just bad at math.  They are my children, after all.  

So the currency only applies to my children.  And lest they forget just how tyrannical I’ve become, the bottom of each bill reads, “Mom reserves the right to giveth and taketh away at her discretion.”  I spell Power with a capital P.

Spunk's Mom Bucks in a puzzle tin

Think of it as distributing an allowance using Monopoly money which they can cash in only when they’ve accrued $500 MOM BUCKS.  They do something without being asked, they earn $25 MOM BUCKS. They do their chores for the day, $50 MOM BUCKS.  Volunteer for the soup kitchen, $150 MOM BUCKS.  The problem for my children is, I determine when they do not pass go and do not collect $200 MOM BUCKS.  In fact, I may choose to taketh away $200 MOM BUCKS instead (please refer to the previous paragraph).  Hit your brother, surrender 50 MOM BUCKS.  Roll your eyes, 50 MOM BUCKS.   Talk back, 150 MOM BUCKS and go directly to jail.  “I brought you into this world, I can take you back out.”  

Phew.  I just got a little carried away.  

Okay, so maybe it’s gone to my head a little.  But it’s a new currency, and there’s bound to be a transitional period.  Like the time Sport ripped a fistful of bills in half.  “I don’t want to play anymore.”  He said something about life being unfair and my wild eyes and trance-like behavior.  Yada, yada.  It was his idea in the first place.

Sport suggested it after reading about MOM BUCKS in The Wimpy Kid Diaries, a series that’s become one of his favorites.  He shared it with me hoping that MOM BUCKS would make him rich.  It’s become a valuable lesson in the power of centralized banks in driving the economy and subjecting the layman to unethical and disproportionate standards that threaten our standard of living.  He’s going to ace Poli Sci.  And, perhaps, require years and years of therapy.

Okay, okay, so maybe I need to rethink this whole idea of paying my kids for performing good deeds.  And having them pay me back whenever I feel like it.  But can I at least wait until it’s time to retire all the bills (i.e. after they’ve each gone through the laundry once)? 

It’s risky though.  They’re likely to revolt before then.  They are my children, after all. 

Who Needs Grass, Anyway?

I can’t remember how old I was when I first became enchanted by the White Picket Fence mentality.  Was it when I was fourteen, dizzy with hormones and a singular longing to be kissed?  Or 19 when I was torn between taking flight into the world and anchoring myself to a soul mate?  Perhaps it was when I was 27 with a freshly-inked master’s degree and a desire to be schooled in weightier issues of the heart.  It had definitely happened by the time I was 29 and engaged, looking forward to a long life with my beloved and our offspring in a beautifully renovated Victorian home with a white picket fence and a well bred dog that we would train to poop in the toilet.  What’s truly dizzying is the majesty of that imaginary future.

Within a year of my marriage things had already started to unravel.  Eventually we moved into a cute little Victorian home where we began to raise three children.  One of the few things we had in common was our dedication to that imaginary future; unfortunately we weren’t equally committed the reality of the present.  It was messy, painful, chaotic, and exhausting.  It took eight years for me to realize that I would only exit the anguish alone; we divorced and I grieved lost expectations.

Suddenly I became that woman.  The single mom with three kids driving a beat-up minivan and struggling to make ends meet.  I borrowed yet another cliché that placed our family in the lowest income bracket and predicted my children wouldn’t attend college.  I became well acquainted with pity and almost clairvoyant when married women would look at me.  Thank heavens, I could imagine them thinking, I will never be like her.  Of course that’s what I thought in the eye of the storm, when my wounds were most tender and thoughts least clear.  Now I realize that those women were most likely feeling a sister’s pain, or perhaps, communicating a common understanding, a sad union of souls.  

When I first proclaimed that sometimes there’s no grass, it was a bitter statement, a poor-me decree.  I had constructed a life based upon stolen ideologies, and it hadn’t worked.  Next I conceded to the only ideology I assumed was available, that of the poor single mom, and it didn’t work for me either. What I now realize is that I was building from the outside in—or from the picket fence to my heart, from the bumperless Caravan to my soul.  What I hadn’t yet realized was the need to work from the inside out, crafting a life that first reverenced me and then everything with which I connected.   And now, at 40, I’ve finally decided to create my own ideology and engineer a life that is not cliché—a here and now that uniquely suits me and my children, and, lest I forget, one that is grand and enchanting.  Does it really matter if it has no grass?  

When I was 20, I lived in Japan for 18 months, and I still remember the first time I walked out a backdoor to discover a Zen rock garden instead of a grassy yard.  I was mystified and exhilarated. There is something liberating about the unexpected.  I intend to embrace it. 

Capes, Relish Trays and Kryptonite

I believe that Halloween is our one chance to be something that we can’t be for the other 364 days of the year.  Which is why I finally settled on being Super Mom.  One because, well, are you really going to make me break that down?  And two because I’m lazy (which, if you think about it, contributes to one).  So my costume was one part thoughtful, two parts lazy, and five parts bad juju.  Let me explain.

Being a superhero is pretty common at the Belknap home which makes for a wide assortment of capes.  We have a black Dracula cape; a fleece Spiderman cape; a fleece butterfly cape; a red devil cape; and a red, white and blue Wonder Woman cape circa Halloween 1976.  I settled on the latter seeing as how it was long enough to cover my torso and felt very patriotic, something I guessed any good Super Mom would be.  With cape secure, mask intact and about three handfuls of supplies, I was up, up and away to volunteer at my daughter’s Halloween party.

When you have three children in school, you must divide and conquer.  There’s no way you can attend three different school parties simultaneously, unless you’re faster than a speeding bullet or can change the rotation of the earth in order to go back in time and attend them all (this is Halloween, not Fantasy Island, people!).  Because of this, I had agreed to attend Sis’s Halloween party, bring a relish tray for Sport’s party and concoct a Halloween game for Spunk’s party.  I know!  I feel pretty super just writing about.  Unfortunately this is the beginning and not the end of my tale.

First of all, the parking lot was full when I arrived so I had to park two blocks away from the school.  But never fear!  Super Mom easily extracted her packages from the van and speed towards the entrance.  But remember, this isn’t really Super Mom but a mere human mother who often uses the phrase, “neener, neener, neener” when talking to her own children. 

I dropped the relish tray one block in. 

I then proceeded to bend down and gather the now dirty carrots and celery sticks, which, I must say, cannot look more ridiculous than when done by a grown woman wearing a red mask and star-spangled cape that she is now stepping upon and choking herself with.  Oh, and I was also stepping on Spunk's Halloween game.

Let me also say that when a grown woman wearing a red, white and blue Wonder Woman cape circa Halloween 1976 walks in on her son’s already rambunctious Halloween party to discover she is the only parent wearing a costume and delivering a sad tale about an upended relish tray, she does not win any nominations for Mother of the Year, let alone best pretend Super Mom.

At the end of the day when I collected my children and aforementioned supplies, I was not surprised to drop the untouched relish tray yet again, this time in the first-grade hallway.  Know why?  Because vegetables are my kryptonite.  That and my portable relish tray is the worst in the history of the planet. 

But don’t worry, I was able to drown my sorrows in fructose corn syrup all weekend long, something which may also negatively impact my super mom powers.  

And now that I think about it, that explains a lot.

Sionara, 1996 White Dodge Caravan missing a bumper!!!

We bought our 1996 White Dodge Caravan in 2002 when Sis was a baby.  Back then it was the most pimped out ride I had ever driven.  Leather seats, remote keyless entry, antilock brakes, automatic windows and locks, CD stereo system with four speaker volume control, and, what I didn’t realize until just this past year, a back-seat cigarette lighter into which I could have been plugging our mini DVD player for the last 7 years.  

When we moved from Utah to Idaho Falls in 2006, the minivan (shall we call her Dodgie?) didn’t acclimate well to the weather, and lost her bumper our first winter there.  (Metaphorically speaking I may have lost my bumper that winter too.) 

Still in denial about the bumper's fate..

In the summer of 2007 the ex and I separated, and, in a symbolic gesture, the minivan, having lost her bumper (and perhaps her dignity), became the Frump-mobile.  There was that small accident that dinged in the driver door and a run-in with a red fence that left a nasty mark on the passenger side.  One hot summer afternoon shortly thereafter Spunk swung, albeit briefly, from the rear view mirror and broke it from the windshield, which now, by the way, has more cracks than a plumbers convention (wit flows from me like a river, people).  And also did you know that if your children spill just one melted McDonald's sundae on the carpet, Heloise herself cannot extract the odor of sour milk that wafts afresh each spring?  

This vehicle had become a symbolic representation of what single motherhood looked like to me.  Ugly, right?  And a little stinky.

The old girl had nearly 160,000 miles on her when she died this past Saturday in the driveway outside my parents’ house.  It wasn’t unexpected; her transmission had been failing for nearly 6 months, and me, being the poverty-stricken single mom that I am, had been turning a blind eye, hoping it was like some car virus that would go away if I drove her enough.  It didn’t go away.  And yes, apparently I did drive her enough.

When I realized what had happened, I cried.  In fact, I wallowed for about 45 minutes as I counted the days until Christmas, my waning freelance projects, and the spare change in my wallet.  My math skills may be limited, but even I could see it didn’t add up to much.  So I did what any able-minded person does in such circumstances; I posted about it on Facebook.  “1996 White Dodge Caravan with a missing bumper—RIP.”  That one phrase, while fairly innocuous, was loaded with despair. 

Then my cousin responded: “Farewell to the last remnant of your old life!”

And there was light.

The minivan that had driven me from Utah to Idaho Falls through one divorce and then on to Washington state was gone, and with it all those weighty and ugly expectations I had associated with single motherhood.   In the moment I read that comment I decided that this was rock bottom, and the only place we were going from here was up (cue “I Can See Clearly Now”).  

I, in bidding farewell to the Frump Mobile, am in the drivers seat, no longer encumbered by my own limiting expectations of what single motherhood should be.  From now on, it's going to be totally fab. So while I may not have a vehicle (note to Ellen DeGeneres: I would scream like a ninny if you gifted me a Buick Regal), I now know that our future is bright because I have finally decided that it will be. 

That, and I'll stop having nightmares about sour milk and plumbers conventions.

Spirit Day - Good Digital Camera = Pixelated Funky Hair

It’s Spirit Day in our school district, and my kids wanted to get in on the action.  The only problem is that I lost my digital camera somewhere in the move, so all I have is my cellphone to document this all important day.  Here goes:

Sport (that’s what we’re calling him these days).  He thinks I’m pretty cool after affecting this ‘do with just a roll of tape and that cursed black hairspray from Halloween.

And a picture of the back because he definitely looks cooler goin’.  Just sayin’.

The girl who will heresoafter (is that even a word?) be referred to as Sis.  She was content with a plethora of ponytails.

And Spunk, because if you know the kid, the name really suits him well.  He knew there would be a use for this sorry, flattened wig someday.  It’s his moment to shine.

I spared you the picture of my crazy hair.  Trust me.  It’s crazy.

And you’re welcome.

Happy Crazy-Hair Friday!

Sugarfree with a Side of Grumpy

A small percentage of their Halloween spoils...

I decided to go sugar-free just 5 days before Halloween.  And because I wanted to make it extra difficult, I swore off aspartame and Splenda too (except for what’s in my Diet Coke—baby steps, people!).

I know what you’re thinking.  

• Who does that?  
• Are you crazy?
• Whhhhyyyyyyyyy?
• Won’t you miss dunking sugar cookies into cream cheese frosting?

(That last one was mine. And the answer is “yes.”)

My body is aging, quickly.  Like a huge, mossless stone rolling down the old hill, I’m quickly reaching the end at which my body cries “Uncle!” and then curses me for signing the Do Not Resuscitate order.  Am I being melodramatic?  Of course!  (It’s the lack of sugar talking.)

Okay, so I’m only 40, and my mother has young genes so I expect to have inherited them.  But that can’t reverse the fact that spending 40 years on this planet eating sugar with abandon, drinking liters upon liters of Diet Coke, and licking butter from the bags of microwavable popcorn has had an impact on my body.  

Allow me to demonstrate:

• I can no longer drape my leg behind my head
• I cannot catch my children if they run away from me.
• In the time it takes me to hoist my body to a standing position after sitting cross-legged on the floor, my kids have fled to Canada.  
• I can no longer sit cross-legged on the floor without losing all feeling in my toes and also my forearms.
• I cannot carry my sleeping 9-year old from the living room to his bedroom without pulling something important in my nether regions.
• I’m not exactly sure what my nether regions are.

So in efforts to reset my body back to 20-year old functionality, I’m trying to consume only that which is natural.  Right now I’m eliminating sugar.  It is not going well.

This past Sunday was Halloween, and after 5 whole days using honey as my only sweetener, I consumed one bag of sugar popcorn and three, okay four, frosted sugar cookies.  But I was safety testing for the children, and it couldn’t be helped. 

I’m now back on track and grumpy as hell.  But I’m getting healthier by the day, dagnabit!  

And younger too, right?  

(Don’t answer that or I might have to chase you down and force you to eat raw vegetables.  But I’d have to catch you first, and we all know I’m not that healthy yet.)

Squid Dissection: a Photo Essay

Did you know that squid have three hearts, clear pellet-like ocular lenses and a reproductive system that rivals the bean weevil?  I didn’t either until I volunteered to help my daughter’s third-grade class dissect squid.  

I will never be the same.

Third graders are generally eight years old.  My experience has shown me that 8-year olds are good at deconstructing SpongeBob episodes, building forts out of blankets and eating an astronomical number of sugar cookies in one sitting.  But squid dissection?

I was lucky enough to supervise my daughter’s dismemberment of the unfortunate cephalopod.  First let me explain that her class was divided into groups of two, each with a grayish, googly-eyed squid in a large styrofoam, carry-out container, like this:

^{Help me, help me!} 

The poor girl (as we would soon discover) never knew what hit her.  

Sis’s lab partner was named Ryan, or as his classmates like to call him, Ryanosaur, because of his obsession with prehistoric creatures. Ryanosaur was a bit more comfortable with the thought of slicing and dicing a squid in the name of science (he plans on a long and lucrative career as a Paleontologist).  Sis, not so much.

But once they were given toothpicks and told to poke and prod their subject a bit, Leah became more enthusiastic about the whole ordeal.  Okay, not really, but at least she didn’t flee the room.

These third-graders were tasked with 1) slicing the squid down the middle to locate its heart, ink sac and reproductive organs

2) decapitating the poor creature and examining its tentacles

3) cutting the head in head in half (at which point my daughter perked up tremendously and the adult supervisor, aka me, became slightly nauseated).

4) popping out the eyes and locating the ocular lenses (at which point the adult supervisor, me again, required an intermediate break)

5) finding and removing the beak

and 6) perforating the ink sac and, using the ink, writing their names on a separate piece of paper. 

Needless to say, our ink sac was small...

There.  That wasn’t so bad now, was it?  I must admit that my daughter was a trooper as attested by the following picture, which was taken after and not before The Dissection, mind you.

As for myself, I realized that while I can deconstruct old Friends episodes, extract slivers and cleanup vomit without incident (not to mention eat an astronomical number of sugar cookies in one sitting), I’m not nearly as equipped as my 8-year old daughter to dissect one ‘lil ole squid.  

The End.