Four Score and Seven Lies Ago…

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop1 Comment
michael jackson
Don’t you see the family resemblance?

When I was in the first grade, I told everyone that Michael Jackson was my cousin. Before you get too excited, that statement is unequivocally false. I have no idea why I said it. Could I have already felt the push to be cool even as a fledgling student? Anyway, an immediate divide occurred among my classmates: my supporters versus my non-supporters. Heated debates on the playground raged as to whether a black person and a white person could be related. At this point, I am sure I felt pretty caught in the lie, and I fessed up to the truth. Surprisingly, I was not shunned as a crooked liar for those next eight years that I coexisted with these children. Some, even in the face of defeat, continued to argue in my favor that I could be Michael Jackson’s cousin if we traced my family tree back far enough.

Does the story sound familiar? I think it does. We hear it all the time. Nixon, Clinton, Blagojevich, Spitzer, Craig, Edwards, and most recently Weiner. A politician lies (which means he’s breathing – hehe), the country goes at each other’s throats trying to prove their side is right, the politician admits to the lie, some people argue that the lie is irrelevant anyway, and eventually we all move on. All the while, real problems go unsolved.

abraham lincoln
Sorry, Honest Abe. Politics ain’t what they used to be.

It will be a rare occurrence that I blog about politics…unless it is a rant against the politics keeping The Monkees out of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (I told you they would pop up now and again – see my page “Why I Like Bananas“). I am not much for politics. In my opinion, politics are what is wrong with government. Too much “my side is right,” not enough, “let’s see if we can compromise.” Too much abuse of power, not enough empowering the country. Too much feeling I am above the law, not enough making laws that will help our people. It’s enough to cause disillusion. And that’s about where I am at with the whole thing; I have a feeling a good portion of the country is behind me.

I am aware there are people who will chide me for my apathy. I know I should care more. I know I should read more newspapers and less Sandra Boynton. I know I should watch more CNN and watch less Real Housewives. I know I should, but I don’t. I am glad there are people out there still passionate about politics, because we obviously need someone to run this country. I just wish more of the sincere, level-headed citizens of that passionate crop were the ones elevated to office: more Atticus Finches and less Svengalis. Perhaps there will come a time when I find the desire to change a crooked system. After all, my mom, who I pretty much never heard utter even the word “politics” growing up, has now become seriously active in a political campaign. Her kids all moved out, and she decided it was time to put her mark on the larger world. Maybe that will happen to me…maybe.

In the meantime, I will likely tune out when the news anchor reports on the latest politician caught in a scandal. I will get a queasy feeling when I hear a Democrat and Republican calling each other idiots for having a difference of opinion. And I will head to the polls only to stare at the ballot and sigh, because I don’t like any of my choices.

Now I think I might go listen to “Christ for President” by Wilco and ponder what life would be like with Atticus Finch as president…and Michael Jackson as my cousin.

Damn Is for Beavers

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

With every milestone a child reaches, there are joys to look forward to as well as fears to dread. When a child begins walking, a mother will look forward to a whole new world of activities they can do together. She will also dread skinned knees and searching for her child who has wandered off in Target. When a child loses her first tooth, a mother will look forward to spinning tales of the Tooth Fairy and seeing the excitement when her child wakes up to a dollar under her pillow and “fairy dust” on the floor. She will also dread the future payments to the orthodontist when her child’s permanent teeth come in crooked right off the bat (this one is hitting close to home at the moment). When a child begins to drive, a mother will look forward to a little freedom from carpool duty and pick up from practice. But she will also dread speeding tickets, fender-benders, or something worse. And when a child begins talking, a mother will look forward to finally hearing the words I love you, along with all the other wonderfully charming things kids say. She will also dread all the not-so-charming things that will inevitably accompany them. Like “damn it.”

Michael is a few weeks into being three years old. I think by now it has been well documented that three is the new two…in terms of being preceded by the adjective “terrible.” A few months ago, Michael went through a tremendous language explosion, and almost overnight, he started sounding more like a “kid” than a “toddler” when he talked. And as it must surely go, he now also has the humor of a kid, and we all know what that means: potty humor. Oh , the number of times a day the child inserts the word “poop” into a sentence is staggering, and it is always followed with hysterical laughter. My new catch phrase has been, “Excuse me, but poop is for the bathroom.” Of course that has not stopped him in his potty talk. Now, every time he says the word “poop” in a random fashion, he just adds, “poop is for da baffroom.” Apparently he sees it as more of a disclaimer than a deterrent.

christmas story soap in mouth
“Oooh Fuuudge!” What punishment is worse than the guillotine? Hanging? The chair? The rack? The Chinese water torture? Soap in the mouth, of course.

But I can handle the poop talk. It’s part of being a kid. I get it. And I can also handle his driving need to make people laugh (namely his sister) by saying, “Shakin’ my boooooty.” What I can not handle is that he has started saying, “damn it” when he is angry. I would like to blame the indiscretion on “kids at school,” but let’s face it. Preschool has been out for two months now. I hate to admit it, but I know he has heard it come out of my mouth…never at him or his sister, but there have been times it has freely fallen from my lips. And now I’ve created a problem for myself to fix.

Grace also went through a small “damn it” phase around the age of four. Overall, I’ve been lucky with her. She’s never been much of a potty mouth. So I thought back to what I did when she suddenly found a fondness for this “bad” word. I did not want to make a big deal about it and give it more power than it had, but I also wanted to make sure she knew it was not an appropriate thing to say. So I figured I would give her a funny alternative that would surely be more enticing. Very casually I said to her, “You know, how about instead of saying ‘damn it,’ we say ‘oh pickles.’” Well she seemed to like that, but it was not always so easy to remember. I recall one time I could hear her in the kitchen. She had spilled some water, and she whispered, “Oh damn it…I mean, pickles.” A minute later, she came up to me to confess: “Mom, I said ‘oh pickles,’ but I was thinking ‘damn it’“. Before I knew it, “damn it” just kind of disappeared from her vocabulary.

I am hoping the same will happen with Michael. In some ways, he seems a bit more stubborn than Grace, which I did not think was possible. But I know it is just another small battle a mother must fight, and hopefully if I teach my kids what is right enough times, they will eventually choose wisely. All in all, I guess a little “damn it” is not so bad, especially considering most of what comes out of Michael’s mouth is worth smiling over.

A Lesson for a Teacher

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop6 Comments

A few nights ago I had dinner with a former student of mine. She had recently found me on Facebook, was coincidentally back in town, and she wanted to catch up. I was elated. It is always a treat to have these little versions of “What Are They Doing Now?” whenever my path crosses with an old student. As a teacher, I could not help but get invested in my “girls,” as I would call them (no, it is not that I ignored the boys…I taught at an all-girls Catholic high school). It is the nature of the craft.

I have gotten together to catch up with students before; some I even talk to on a fairly regular basis. Inevitably there are always kids you grow a little closer to: you taught them for multiple years, you helped them solve an important problem, and so on. I always seemed to strike up a deeper relationship with my Yearbook students since the nature of that class afforded us all to chat about our lives; therefore, I knew them all a little better. These were usually the kids that would shoot me an email when they were in town to grab some lunch and catch up.

But this time was a little different. This particular former student was in the very first class I taught as a fledgling teacher. They were a great class, and we all got along smashingly, her included. She was a good student, but art was her thing, not English. So after leaving my class, she became one of the many students who would still say hello to me in the hallways, and that became the course of our relationship until she graduated. I was just as proud to see her receive her diploma as I was of any of my students, but then I never saw her again. As far as I knew, she didn’t give me another thought. It happens.

But then we met up the other night, and it was wonderful to hear about where life had taken her. She is an amazing, and I mean AMAZING, artist, and it was beautiful to see how she has found the courage and strength to find what will make her feel happy and fulfilled. When I told her how delighted I was that she had contacted me, and how it is always a nice little surprise when students find me on Facebook, she replied, “Of course! Who wouldn’t want to ‘friend’ you on Facebook? We always had fun in your class!” Well, shucks. But seriously, that was a wonderful validation for me, even now that I am not teaching anymore. I know how much of myself I put into being a teacher; I know how much I racked my brain for ways to keep my students interested; I know how much I agonized when they were not working to their potentials, or when I just could not seem to get something across to them. But they did not know that. So it felt really good to hear that somehow it all came through, and even better to hear it from a student I would not have expected.

Photo via Karen Watson liscensed under CC BY 2.0
Photo via Karen Watson on The Graphics Fairy liscensed under CC BY 2.0

Now I sit here and think of all the teachers I had over the course of my education and wonder how many of them realized the impact they had on me. My grade school Music teacher Miss Mooney, who undoubtedly created the connection in my brain that music equals fun, and who taught me that everyone has the right to sing by giving me a solo in the spring concert…despite my lack of tone and pitch. My fifth grade teacher Mrs. Semsar, who taught me that some things in life are just “no big hairy deal.” My middle school Science teacher Mrs. Lonigro, who was so knowledgable and passionate that she made me love regenerating amoebas, and who probably taught me more about the written language with her strict grading policies than my middle school English teacher. My eighth grade History teacher Mr. Blackford, who was the first adult, nay person, to really and truly encourage my love for the Monkees by giving me his old Mike Nesmith-inspired wool hat. My high school Art teacher Ms. Ahrens, who taught me that you do not have to be the best, but you have to do your best. My high school English teacher Miss Wilson, who gave me my first B in the subject, pushing me to reach her expectations, and who told me that my dreams of being an English teacher were still achievable even if I did not completely understand Shakespeare at age fifteen. My high school Latin teacher Domina Creed, who, dare I say, made Latin fun, and who called me after I had four teeth pulled to make sure I was feeling okay. My university History professor who once lectured a whole class period in the character of a stockbroker who lost everything during the Crash of 1929. My university English professor Dr. Preussner, who opened my eyes to the fact that Hawthorne was kind of a “hottie” and who made discussing Melville kind of interesting (sue me, I am not a fan). And finally, my high school Math teacher Mr. Stein who blew my mind by using the current love triangle on Days of Our Lives to explain inductive and deductive reasoning, and who, more than anyone, made me want to be a teacher.

This list of ladies and gentlemen boasts an astounding amount of talent. And if in any way I had the same impact on my students that they had on me, I am truly humbled.

mike nesmith and my dad

Is That You, Dad?

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop2 Comments

My life has just been made complete. I had the most mind-blowing revelation: my real father is a Monkee. Here is how it all played out:

I came across this recent charming article about Mike Nesmith, the famously “missing” Monkee. For those of you who don’t know, he was the one who wore the wool hat. And he is the one who no longer tours with the group. Right now, the other three Monkees are in the midst of their 45th Anniversary Tour, and the frenzy that this has stirred up among Continue reading “Is That You, Dad?” →

Reject the Mom Jeans

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop2 Comments

So I think this is the crisis of all mothers my age. I’ve discussed this with numerous friends on numerous occasions. I love being a mom. That goes without saying. But I have a fear of looking like a mom. I have always been told I look young for my age (though I am not sure if that is still the case because I haven not been carded in quite some time. But maybe that is because in addition to beer, I am also buying diapers, a pot roast, and more fruits and vegetables than Fritos and easy cheese. Not the typical grocery basket of the underage set). So there is a part of me that still does not feel old enough to have my life. I sometimes still resist the urge to call my parents to get permission to take a weekend road trip. But I also do not feel like a teenager, as exemplified anytime I walk into The Limited and try to find something to wear. Don’t they know that the thin, clingy fabric they use to make all their clothes shows every piece of flab on my body? Oh wait…most of their clientele has not had two kids. Right. But I am also not ready to graduate to buying my clothes from Coldwater Creek either. Why? Because my mom shops there. Nothing against my mom. She is a beautiful woman who always looks nice, but she is in her late fifties…and a grandma. And my husband does not want to sleep with my mom…a plus on many levels. So what is a thirty-three-year-old mom to do? I can not say I have a great answer besides compromise the best I can. I want to feel young and modern, but I do not want people to think I am my kids’ babysitter either. I would love to someday have my daughter ask to borrow something out of my closet, but I also do not want my son’s friends coming over so they can watch his mom clean the house in booty shorts (not that I look that great in booty shorts). I may not always know how the strike the balance, but I can say there will always be that voice in my head telling me to put down the mom jeans…

Are You Finished Yet?

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

The short answer: no, I’m not.

But let me begin with why I have started this blog in the first place. Quite a while ago, it crossed my mind that maybe I should jump on this bandwagon to, if anything, chronicle all the funny, wonderful little moments of my children as they grew. A sort of literary scrapbook. Besides, it kind of tickles me to think I can embarrass my kids in cyberspace. At the time, my daughter was 4 and my son was 1.  I was in “mom of young children” mode: the preschool scene, weekly playdates at the park, cutting grapes in half…you know the drill. Mommyhood was my life. (That’s not to say now that my children are at the ripe old ages of 6 and 3 , I’ve abandoned those things or the mindset. But recent occurrences have changed my inner world a bit, which I will explain in a minute.) However, like so many things I plan on doing, the whole blog idea became just another item on the “I’ll start it tomorrow” list. Well, my tomorrow has finally come.

What prompted me to finally get my backside off the couch in order to plop it down in my desk chair and start typing? A few things, but the most notable was a friend who is working on publishing a book on breastfeeding. She asked if I would contribute a story about my own experiences with it, and after procrastinating an embarrassingly long time, I finally started to compose a piece about my horrifying and hysterical account with a lactation consultant. As I typed, I could feel this energy being created in my body. When all was said and done, I realized how much I missed writing. Since young adulthood, I had always been putting the pen to paper. The frequency slowed once I became a teacher and focused my skills on teaching others to write. Then once I had my kids, I pretty much stopped altogether. But after all this time, I realized I still had something to say.

This reawakening was encouraged by a few more incidents that reminded me that even though my most important job right now is being a mom, the part of me that existed pre-children was still sleeping away inside of me. She is still little groggy, and I think I have caught her hitting the snooze button a few times, but I am hoping this blog will help her drag herself out of bed, have a strong cup of coffee, and regain her former glory. No doubt there will still be talk of kids and juice boxes and “my-son-just-said-this-what-do-I-do,” and maybe even a little poop, but hopefully I will prove to be a more dynamic character and write about the girl who always dreamed of being an author.

Now, back to my title. I had finally made the decision to become a “blogger” (I really hate that term…it sounds like someone throwing up), but the hard part was figuring out what to title it. I can never make things easy on myself and be content with something like “Kelly’s Blog.” Let’s face it; there is no satisfaction unless I completely agonize over something until the muscles in my neck want to strangle the life out of me just so I will stop obsessing. Anyway, I was staring at the computer this afternoon, trying to think of something so I could at least register for the damn blog. My daughter Grace had decided that since I was working, she obviously needed to play computer games right at that instant, after ignoring the other seven hours of the day it sat unattended. “Mom, are you finished YET?” I did not have the heart to tell her that had she not given me a wealth of ideas with that simple question, I most likely would have given up in frustration and let her frolic on Barbie.com.

Are you finished yet? I hear it more than I care to, because usually it denotes that I am falling behind, taking time away from something more important that I should be doing. Like spending time with my family. I hear it from my kids when I have told them I will play with them as soon as I finish putting away some loads of laundry. I hear it from my husband when he is going to bed and I am still in the kitchen trying to mold the perfect Star Wars character out of fondant for a cake I told someone I would make. I heard it from my friends in high school when we would go out to eat and they would be ready to hit the next destination while I was still working on my french fries (earning me the nickname Poke). Whether it is a matter of too much on my plate or just being plain slow, it seems someone is always waiting for me.

So goes my story... License: CC0 Public Domain via Pixabay
So goes my story…

But as I think about it, the question means something else, something very relevant in light of my reawakening. I am not finished yet. Despite being sidetracked, I am not finished chasing my dream of being a writer, even if my greatest works only end up on a blog. I am not finished discovering where life will take me and what new talents and joys will be born. As a teacher, I always told my students that there is never truly a final draft in the world of writing. Revisions can always be made; a composition is never finished. Now get ready for my big epiphany: the same applies to life. So goes my story of being completely undone…