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January 17th is my son-in-law's birthday. He'll be 304. Oh, that's right, you probably didn't know about our son-in-law...    OK, ok, ex son-in-law.

Actually, it was Mikaela's second marriage.

Her first relationship lasted only a few months, a steal-your-heart-away, whirlwind romance with a wild fella by the name of Tigger. The nuptials were surprisingly staid, infused with ceremonial pomp, striped of oozing sentimentality. Yet, soon enough, Mikaela would learn that old lovers' lesson the hard way: An affair with just another pretty face can't sustain itself forever. Sure, even if he makes you laugh...



It wasn't long before she sought truer substance (& less fluff). Someone with standing, as opposed to bouncing. A Frank kinda gent who you could build a real future past with...

And that's when she met Ben.  Eventually, they'd go their separate ways, but, oh my, it was something to behold while it lasted!


The initial attraction was typical: she was drawn to his senior letterman [book] jacket. She fell fast for his rags-to-riches story, in its accessible, easy-to-get-to-know-you, abridged autobiographical style. Here was a guy who wasn't afraid to communicate, plus his doing so in 240 pages allowed her to boast she'd read him like a book in only a week. Thus, they'd formed a hard-binding commitment - for who can resist someone who sets you up to achieve a new personal best?
 

After that, she began seeing him constantly. And she wanted it to be exclusive, willingly dropping friends or dates if they (playgroup) threatened to interfere. So much so that Chris & I discussed limiting their time together to just 30 minutes a day. Precisely from 4:00 to 4:30, because, after all, PBS' strict curfew also had to be taken into consideration. As far as Mikaela's loyalist devotion was concerned, it was Give me "Liberty's Kids" or give me "But I'll die if I have to miss a single episode!" Of course, we encouraged her to see other shows... as if there was a remote chance that it was within our control.



So, once again, we watched a rerun: Mikaela walked down the aisle (hallway) to the chapel (playroom) to vow eternal love until death do they part (?). As you Mikaela might imagine, it seemed a match made in Heaven. Her dad & I tried to be receptive to her wishes and set the right tone... Whosoever has just cause that this occasion should not be joined in music, click now or forever hold your peace:

Regrettably, only later did it occur to me -- I should have hired a professional armonica band!

It's with sincerest compunction that I admit it now, but at first we parents were skeptical. We predicted the numerous potential problems that life would bring this unConventional couple, yet their united Constitutions were resilient in the face of such adversity. For instance, we reasoned, her young man had quite a reputation. Was she aware of his previous activities, like when he was 18 (-th century) and quite the lightning rod about town?
Yes, yes, she countered, he'd told her every electrifying detail (excerpt what the Kids' Classics editors left out to make room for illustrations), &, besides, she wasn't naïve. She'd read the other tail-all accounts penned by his hangers-on, like Amos (that rat), or poor, pithy Richard Saunders (who notoriously suffered from an Almaniackal complex). Moreover, if she gave us a piece of her opinion, we would Do good to Silence our Mrs. reservations! (Ben suggested we could Master them Posthaste if we followed his General example -- he had such a humble way of stamping out mailstroms.)

And, as it turned out, those two crazy kids were right! Theirs was a remarkably productive partnership. Certainly he was inventive and, with time, his Franklin Institute-ion proved that he was an experiment that would last. He was a brilliant mathematician (further confirmation he was a total square, magical as he was in our daughter's eyes) who prompted Mikaela to accelerate the pace in memorizing the multiplication tables, thereby raising her expectations for a happy future -- as well as her math grades -- exponentially. (Finally, evidence he's not a D-ist?*) True, we did discover that he was a player, but his Morals of Chess merely entreatised us to make the next strategic, and simultaneously altruistic, move.

Indeed, he was the ideal checkmate for our girl. Following his example, she acquired a requisite "little book" to chart her progress (nifty graphing practice) & then allotted one week per virtue in her quest to expeditiously attain moral perfection. But, as the weeks wore on, she tired of it, experiencing such easy mastery over them all -- "child's play," I think she called it -- that she felt no need to continue past week 12. (Really, who orders a Baker's dozen of virtues anyway?)
     
1. TEMPERANCE. Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.
2. SILENCE. Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.
3. ORDER. Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.
4. RESOLUTION. Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.
5. FRUGALITY. Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e., waste nothing.
6. INDUSTRY. Lose no time; be always employ'd in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.
7. SINCERITY. Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
8. JUSTICE. Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty.
9. MODERATION. Avoid extreams; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.
10. CLEANLINESS. Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation.
11. TRANQUILLITY. Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.
12. CHASTITY. Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dulness, weakness, or
                        the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.
13. HUMILITY. Imitate Jesus and Socrates.

But their most prolific collaborative effort was the stuff of legends (which they thoroughly investigated & only then reported in their newspapers). His Pennsylvania Gazette was the journalistic inspiration for her Texas Gazette. Further, he served as her opinions' column editor and certainly provided as much valuable input in that capacity as do most advisory committee board members. (What'choo talkin' 'bout, Michael Moore?) So, she began building her publishing empire -- as a community service, you understand -- which soon led to her wanting to scope (scoop?) out the competition. A field trip was arranged to tour a small, local paper where she compared typing wpm speed with the owner-managing editor, took turns interviewing & being interviewed by staff reporters, and laid out - as straightforwardly as she could - headlines on the copyeditor's light table. (Unfortunately, Ben was unavoidably 'otherwise indisposed' on that particular day, but he went with her, as they say, in spirit.)
 

Yet then love accomplished the impossible! It was Ben, alive & in person! (And, if I may be permitted to acknowledge, their supportive mother-in-law had a lot to do with it.) Leafing through a Houston Kids' magazine, it was as if an arrow struck. For what was on the agenda February 14th? Hold onto your heart, it was a lovely surprise rendezvous at the Museum of Printing History! I'm still not sure why Ben Franklin made an advertised appearance on that particular day... not that a print museum isn't the first place most people think of for romance. And back then, it seemed, he'd be Imprinted on her forever...  


But, alas, rekindling
an old flame, even
with a candlemaker's son,
can be wicked. There came a day -- right after that Valentine's Day, actually -- when she told us that she'd simply outgrown him.  


So we no longer celebrate the Printer's birthday in the old (Goudy?) style. Not after she threw Benny over for Robin Hood, anyhow. The attraction of an older man - roughly 400 years that young whippersnapper's elder - and a British accent was too much for her to resist...


*Some recent biographers have purposefully mischaracterized Franklin, both historically and intellectually. His family attended the most liberal Puritan church in Boston, Old South Church, home to many rebellious spirits who later led the American Revolution. As a young man, he advocated Deism & throughout his life stated that "the most acceptable service of God was the doing good to man." Although even he took some liberties with his autobiographical image, it's inaccurate to rewrite history to fit a religious agenda (I mean, that ain't Right). Franklin, like the majority of Americans today, held that belief in God, virtue & patriotism are inalienable rights for all Americans, Left for each of us to value & express in a "liberty of conscience." Now that's a founding, Father!

"And," he added, turning to Katrianna, "it's nice to meet you, too."  Sidney held his hand out to her...

Oh no! She was suddenly shy-struck.

Here? Now? This, despite all of our exaggerated & exuberant "How do you do, And how do you do, And how do you do again" nursery rhyme handshaking sessions begun almost at birth, Richard Scarry's Polite Elephant reinforcement of the finer points of etiquette, and my own determination that our homeschooling kids would not be socially inept? And yet, at various times throughout their childhoods, Mikaela & Katrianna have alternately been overcome by silence. Or experienced urgent, rapt absorption with any stray object located on the ground. Or have inexplicably lost all sensation & mobility in their arms, hands and the cerebral cortex-common courtesy region (could it be an involuntary response of their fluctuating nervous systems?).  

"Well, okay then," Sidney said, "I'll just take a hug instead." And he did.

Though it happens with predictable regularity, the girls' rude-imentary lapses in social skills still take me by surprise every time. Their extroverted phases lull me right up until the sporadic moments that they re-intro-vert themselves. Now I know this cannot really be attributed to our homeschooling. I remember doing the very same thing when I was a kid, repeatedly bewildering my mom at the most inopportune or embarrassing times. When she tried to talk with me about it later & ask what had happened, I was unable to explain it, even to myself. Then, when I was a teacher, I watched freshmen high schoolers work through those first weeks of insecurity with about as much self-assurance & panache as the 18-month-old toddlers who'd so amused me when I'd taught preschool...

Still, there's nothing that adequately prepares a parent to handle those awkward moments that persistently arise in spite of one's conscientious efforts to prepare a child to conduct herself with civility & charm... and then watch as she completely blows it. Well, there was nothing, until Katrianna met Sidney.

We were introduced in person for the first time this past summer while Steel Pulse was on tour. Sidney Mills plays keyboards & is the band's musical arranger. That afternoon, Chris was meeting with lead singer & songwriter David Hinds, Selwyn Brown - also on keyboards, band manager Rich Nesin & Sidney to discuss marketing ideas & potential internet campaigns, especially those promoting charitable partnerships. The girls and I had come along because we were all going to attend their concert later that night. But, to be honest, it wasn't just Katrianna who felt a little self-conscious, so M&K & I quickly left Chris alone to impress the rest of the guys by himself & went off to do all kinds of important things while we waited (primarily reading Calvin & Hobbes comic books in the restaurant next door).
  
But, we'd known Sidney - even if he hadn't known us - for many years prior to that. Long before we had kids, Chris & I globe-cooled: we would travel anywhere in Texas to see Steel Pulse in concert. (Ok, so Texas isn't truly "global" & we weren't actually cool, but...) Theirs was our first date concert & a valid enough reason to skip work anytime to drive 800 miles for a Reggae SunSplash festival. [The most strange & memorable being a San Antonio concert happening in concert with the 1994 World Cup's opening day & the Houston Rockets' NBA Championship playoff game 5, watched on a tiny, borrowed, handheld tv while driving - amazingly, Hakeem stood .610" tall, yet still managed to dunk on Ewing! Then, part way through Steel Pulse's show, the big stage screens broke away from close-ups of David singing or Grizzly on drums to show a white Bronco in a slow-speed police chase? The music stopped & an announcer explained it was OJ Simpson. Everybody stared at the images & each other. The jamming resumed. The next morning, at our favorite, most popular, jam packed 'secret' bakery in San Antonio's Market Square, every single table had ordered not the usual coffee or tea which complement Mexican pastries, but glasses & whole carafes full of orange juice... It just doesn't take much subliminal messaging, does it?]
 
Over the years, I'd also consistently taken every single opportunity to play Steel Pulse's singles in my classroom (the long-play versions whenever possible). Sometimes, it even fit in with what we were studying! On the first day of school, students walked in to Grab Education. Certainly, that set the right tone in the kids' minds: this woman is so dorky she plays music about education - or - this woman is so cool she plays reggae music & calls it school. If it was a successful year, I kept 'em on the fence (or should I say on the ropes?) & guessing like that, unable to come to a definitive conclusion, until well past spring break (if ever).

When I'd first begun teaching, the headmaster chose to emulate the I'm-not-ratifying-it-hold-out-hero-senator John McCain & refused to honor Martin Luther King, Jr Day (although, acting under the auspices of a private school charter, they seemingly found it appropriate to take every other Monday off as some sort of patriotic holiday). So, I respectfully showed up for work anyway - to moderate debates about the validity of observing MLK's Day as a national holiday and play Steel Pulse's Taxi Driver, Sweet Honey in the Rock's Peace & Stevie Wonder's Happy Birthday for my 9th graders. The juniors got to read Alice Walker's 1955 Elvis fable, then listen to Steel Pulse's Roller Skates & tie it all back into our studies of the relationship be'Twain Huck Finn & Jim... Within a couple of years, our school's board voted to take MLK day off after all. Accordingly, I switched my curriculum. Our MLK class celebration was moved to the preceding Friday so the kids (and their parents) could dwell on it all 3-day weekend long.


My American Lit scholars also learned that David Hinds & ee cummings have a lot in common: Wild Goose Chase & pity this busy monster, manunkind seemed a perfect pairing to write about Modern disillusionment. Yet, interestingly, Chant a Psalm hearkened back to Puritan era selections. And Throne of Gold might just have been the sequel to Anne Bradstreet's To My Dear & Loving Husband (I also put Your House with Upon the Burning of Our House, July 10, 1666, so they could prove to me how thematically unalike? they were). For Civil War literature studies & our related, subsequent discussions about apartheid in South Africa, we had an obvious State of Emergency. And, along with contemporary political & environmental poetry, Earth Crisis (matched with Marvin Gaye's Mercy, Mercy Me & What's Going On) inspired some spirited exchanges, as well as good creative writing pieces.

Whoops, sorry about that, went off a little bit here --- we teachers get so bogged down in believing that what we do might actually matter to others. My bad. Now returning to this decade & the 21st century... Once again, let me hear ya put your hands together for the real, live                     STEEEEEEEL PULSSSSSSSSSSE!


From then on, each time we saw Sidney that evening, he'd offer his hand to Katrianna. As she added another scuff mark to the toe of her tennis shoe by way of response, her emerging smile grew increasingly visible. Sidney'd give her another gentle hug, along with an extra backstage pass, & continue with his equipment prep and pre-show routine. 



During the concert, we got to sit in the special "Friends of the Band" roped-off section, a privilege to which the girls were completely oblivious no matter how many times their impressed parents tried to convince them it proved Mom & Dad's ultimate, verifiable hipness. Frankly, Mikaela was too preoccupied with maintaining her tween 'rep,' regardless of the fact that no other tween, besides her sister, was anywhere in sight. Still, she kept busy looking nonchalant, taking some photos & bootleg videos, as well as alerting us with "Timber!" every time some Man No Sober guy was falling in our direction. And, despite the fact that once upon a time she rocked [asleep] to Rally Round the Flag, Reggae Fever & Brown-Eyed Girl as her most preferred lullabies, now she stood-fastly refused to dance. [Again, I tried to be as understanding as I could -- that is, while simultaneously jumping up & down in my signature, syncopated, reggae rhythmic, spastic style. For I'd acted the same way long, long ago when my mom took me to St. Stephen's Coffee House, a 1970s hippie version of an Episcopal church. Everyone sat in a big circle on the floor, a couple of guys played acoustic guitar & people joined hands to sing folksy, Cat Stevens-type tunes by candlelight. I never let on that I liked it, shrugging off encouraging participation nudges from Mom and all those other annoyingly warm, glowing faces. As we (I mean, they) crooned only slightly altered C'mon, baby, light my fire sanitized lyrics, all that was missing was a real bonfire - perhaps that would have brought me in? So hard to tell with a tween... Although, while we waited between Steel Pulse sets, I asked our friendly, frazzled usher if reggae or rock audiences were more difficult (well, after allowing for those notoriously riotous Christian rockers). No, she set me straight, it was the bluegrassers- they'd set fire to the seats & rope lines only weeks before. There, now we know who's really got it going on, don't we?]

However, 'bashful' Katrianna happily danced, bounced & sang alongside me until pure exhaustion made her smooth moves more of a hang-over-mom's-shoulders sway. Yet, once the concert was over & we went backstage again, she instantly revived by running up & down the ramps as the stage crew broke down the equipment. We joined the band in their "headliner" dressing room, standing around at the edges trying to be both unobtrusive & take in our first-ever, behind-the-scenes glimpse of the rockstars' world. Soon, Sidney took control again, sparing us from the overwhelming strain of trying to summon & then project our own auras of coolness (good thing, since I'd forgotten to bring mine... plus I couldn't even remember where I'd seen it last). He directed Katrianna to please take his seat, a primo, overstuffed, fully-featured deluxe chair. Ahhhh, so that's where her comfort zone had been hiding! Immediately, she turned to David, confidentially sharing - amid giggles from her Throne of Recliner - "When I was little, I used to think you were singing 'Sitting on a doughnut hole!'" Somehow, David managed to laugh as though that was funny, but Katrianna was so tickled with her own hilarity that she didn't really notice. Then Chris tried to help the joke along. By singing aloud a few bars from Throne of Gold directly to David. It worked, all right -- it was so embarrassing to everyone involved, the whole room's attention was promptly diverted completely away from us...

Which gave us more time to look around. And notice a fridge well-stocked with varieties of organic, soy & almond milks and tables laid out with abundant choices of fresh fruits, avocados, tomatoes, whole wheat breads, bottled waters & all-natural juices. Though David offered, Mikaela was much too shy to partake in any of it, but fully appreciated observing that his after-concert meal was "All vegetarian!" Her confidence now bolstered, without warning she blurted out, "So, David, have you finished Dreams from My Father yet?!" And, again, one of our daughters had managed to leave him slightly stunned. Not that it was a fair contest exactly, since previous to this moment David did not know he was embroiled in a competition. But, when Mikaela had overheard her father talking with him on the phone about Obama's autobiography, apparently that was the impetus she'd been looking for - she started reading it herself that very day (a unique approach to preparing for an upcoming reggae concert, no?). Valiantly, David rallied to her cause, teasing Mikaela about his additional incentive now that he'd finally learned of their fierce reading rivalry race. Mikaela was smug, content in the political coup she'd just pulled off - which, in her mind, was definitely equal to the bands' being invited to play for Bill Clinton's inauguration or their releasing an election-coinciding single entitled Vote Barack to encourage getting out the vote last year.   

When it was finally time to go, Katrianna forgot to shake hands with the members of the band. She was too distracted with giving high-fives & hugging Sidney to remember her manners. Darn it, we proved once again that homeschoolers lack all social graces, didn't we?

Seems another review of our Missed Manners is in order. OK, I'm putting it on the family 'To Do' list right after "Rehearse our barbershop quartet remix version of Handsworth Revolution." There's just so very much to do to get ready for our next Steel Pulse concert...
 

Mikaela and Katrianna are just like the Williams sisters. Yes, that's right, so similar to Venus and Serena, it's hard to know where to begin...

Well, you see, Mikaela and Katrianna are also sisters. And best friends. They spend nearly all their time together. Homeschool together. Travel together. Are too two together? Really, like V&S in every way.

Only M&K can't play tennis. No. Not at all. But besides that one little exception -- of sharing 40 Grand Slam titles between them -- our daughters could be the identical twins of the Williams sisters.
 

They just don't want to be. Not that we haven't tried. And it's not that the Easter Bunny didn't do his part ... nor is it the foot fault of Coach Grandma, who gave them several enthusiastic lessons: to Mikaela, on how to serve and volley, & to Katrianna, on how to scoop up the balls & NOT throw them as far away as possible. (Granted, watching those funny men on the next court rushing the net and, just as they were going for a smash, make contact with one of those errant balls underfoot - well, let's just say, in Katrianna's humble opinion, that was a sport in and of itself.)



Of course, tennis wasn't the only game in town. Or even their first athletic endeavor. I mean, who creates those kinds of expectations for someone who has just come into the world under 24 inches tall? (OK, besides Andre Agassi's parents?) Not us, we were fair. Without any pressure, we patiently let them grow to 2'6." Then we went with basketball.

And, just for the record (is that American or world?), it wasn't like we christened Mikaela with sports in mind. At least not her 1st placed name. Instead, I casually selected her middle name for its sporty nickname potential, something that could be easily shortened and then chanted by stadiums full of adoring fans. That way, her entire identity did not have to be wrapped up in being an athlete. Thoughtful, no?

OK, so she did attend Houston Comets games before she was actually born. Her first shoes were high tops. She dined exclusively on the Breakfast of Champions (mom's milk, supplemented with Special K). She had a Michael Jordan coloring book. And we'd insisted on using Hakeem Olajuwon's brand of drinking water for her baptism.
In terms of nothing-but-net gains, it seemed all was going well. By the tender age of two, Mikaela had learned to slam dunk - her balled up socks - into the Sheryl Swoopes mini hoop rim set over the laundry basket. A guarded Cynthia Cooper [Mom] often assisted with 2 pointers. She even learned to count by keeping score during these grueling five-minute shootarounds. But, most importantly, she gained the confidence & assertiveness necessary for trash talking during pick-up games (ok, that might be unrelated... reminding her dad to take out the garbage is not really the same thing, is it?).

When she was finally ready for Show Time, we presented her with a real hard b-ball (though technically it's still smaller than "real" since it's for girls, pro-playing WNBA 'girls'?). Swish! This is fun! It was easier to dribble, shoot, pass, catch -- until she stretched her hands out and misjudged - Ow! jammed her finger. She responded as any future hall of famer would: shock, anger, disbelief, all culminating in a dirty look shot in my direction. I encouraged her to try again. So she did. Seconds later, Ow! sprained the very same knuckle. I explained that it was just part of the game, better shake it off. So, again, she did. Only not the injury, the whole sport. Just like that, her basketball playing years were over, her last ever jam session done.

[By the time Katrianna was old enough to play, it was too late - she got the "benefit" of her big sister's experience - for Mikaela, unlike some other has-been hoopsters, smooth-moved into retirement with maturity and grace, content in her new role as a tv color commentator: "O my, what excitement! See all those grown ups rolling around on the floor after a silly ball?... Hey, look - there's that player who got a bloody, broken nose and has to wear a plastic face mask. Now listen, Katrianna, Mom says that's just part of the game... Let's watch him try to shake it off!"]
 
Then there was soccer. Though I never had any aspirations to be a "soccer mom," Chris wasn't about to let that stop him: Take notice, playgroup moms, minivan or no minivan, Daddy's little girls were gonna be fútbol stars! I have to admit, he gave it his all, put in 110%, kept his focus, stuck to the game plan, executed at crunch time, never gave up, just wanted it more, took it one game at a time... no, that last one is not true. In fact, he skillfully used his young prodigies to get a pass to watch not just one or two soccer games on weekends, but whole World Cupfuls of games at a time. For instructional purposes. For the sake of our children. He also read to them daily from scripture (Pelé's My Life and the Beautiful Game), requested they respectfully rise from the couch and sing "Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé, Brasil, Brasil!" every time Ronaldo scored, and, if I proposed that maybe the girls should get back to school (or just go play outside... play some soccer even?), he countered that this was educational: After all, weren't we studying Spanish? And here he was modeling full language immersion, encouraging them to absorb every linguistic nuance this romance language & Univisión's Andréas Cantor had to offer. 

As many rookie parents learn, soccer is the first organized team sport available to 3 year olds - so how difficult can it be? The YMCA emphasizes that a successful season is determined by two factors: 1) everyone plays & 2) everyone has fun. Yet, despite three years of attempts, those impossibly high standards remained elusive for our dear daughters. Then again, who am I to judge? It is quite probable that the girls were getting just as tough a cardiovascular workout running away from the ball as they would have had they actually run toward it. Absolutely, the sum total of exercise was impressive. All that bending, stretching, building up a sweat, straining to reach out & score - that perfect dandelion or clover stem needed to complete the fresh-picked flower necklaces they and their friends were braiding on the sidelines (or, not to stifle their creativity, often right in the middle of the field as the game went on about them). Plus, that doesn't even take into account all of the miles logged while traipsing after butterflies... It did make me wonder, exactly how realistic were the goals we were setting for them - or, for that matter, were those goals occupied by the opposing team's goalies? You know, the ones at the end of the field, girls, where the ball is supposed to go? Wait a minute, Dad -- what ball? Even Chris came to accept, as far as M&K were concerned, soccer would forever be an "away game."
 
We were 0 for 3 with sports. For the love of the game, any game, I decided to throw seven-year-old Mikaela a softball. Spring into action, it was time for Little League! Besides a few rounds of catch with a tennis ball & making sure she didn't knock herself out when swinging a bat (plus showing her how to break in her glove by oiling it, folding it around a ball, placing three rubber bands just so and then sleeping with it under her mattress), I didn't work with Mikaela very much ahead of her inaugural season. We'd been homeschooling for a couple of years & I purposely intended to use this opportunity to let another adult coach her and act as a role model. Not surprisingly, she fared poorly at tryouts. I imagine she was drafted in the last round or two, an afterthought at best.

A few evenings later, I found myself at a champagne reception for parents. It started with a toast: "To the winningest team in the league, for two straight undefeated seasons!" Turned out, amid bites of hors d'œuvres, this was a strategy session. Item #1 (scratch that, the only item) on the agenda: How to manage that again. The head coach boasted he'd exerted all his influence with the board to secure the best practice schedule available - most importantly, one where the weak players would be able to practice on a different field. Nods of appreciation circulated the room. Later, the team mother assured me not to worry, that all the starters made a special point to talk to the other girls between innings in the dugout. Wasn't that nice? Plus, and this was not theoretical, my daughter might not play even one inning in a single game & she could still be guaranteed a first place trophy at the end of the season. Well, thank my lucky stars, Mikaela'd really hit one outta the park this time, hadn't she? Ever so briefly, the mom stared at me, then laughed loudly and suggested, "Now, how's about some more champagne?"

In my own athletic career, I'd made it a practice not to quit. For my daughter, however, I justified that the season hadn't officially begun and perhaps this didn't count because Mikaela had not yet met her teammates (or the bench). Sure, it occurred to me to request a transfer: Please, sir, can you trade my kiddo to the lousy team? Not only would we be pariahs of the league after that, but, if she did end up being good, the potential consequences were even worse: she'd inevitably play for these All-Star coaches eventually and/or, every time she came up to bat, have to subsist on the blue home plate special: daily servings of cheap beanings. The next morning, I stopped by the treasurer's office and explained that something had come up (values, but I didn't specify) and that, due to unforeseen circumstances, I was sincerely sorry that Mikaela would be unable to participate this year (that last part was true, I did feel like one sorry mom for months afterwards). No doubt, it was another missed opportunity for my daughter to win that coveted "good sportsmanship" award - or, if she allowed herself to dream, the "most improved player" plaque - and it was all my fault.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that maybe M&K are not exactly like the Williams sisters. The honest conclusion is that Mikaela & Katrianna are actually just like the Andrews Sisters. Well, except there are only two Sarkar Sisters... And they can't sing.


The following is a petition for enTITLEment allowances:
I know, there are some homeschoolers who are really good sports. So good, in fact, that the very reason they homeschool is to free up more time to devote to training, schooling their adversaries on the court and bringing home(school?) the gold. But, those rare, fast-ballin' pitchmen certainly throw off the curve (or is that the slider rule? Ut oh, I'm getting that sinker feeling again... O, screwball it, this jock jargon is just splitting fingers, runs afoul ball of the law of homeschool averages & will never produce a hit anyhow) for typical 'athletically challenged' homeschoolers, who proudly took their ball and went home schooling...
 Anyway, "Homeschoolers Are Such Bad Sports" was Title number IX - the first eight I thought up couldn't get equal fun-ding & had to be phased out. Along with - and to the dismay of - my conscience's wrestling squad. Hey, gotta make those cuts somewhere.

"Who's gonna win this week?"
"Who's y'alls' favorite?"
"Can you believe she got kicked off?"

We're bombarded with these questions at the park, at coop classes or at the Y. We know the librarians like Adam, the plumber is pulling for Allison, and our neighbors' bracket is betting on Kris. Each week at the grocery store, we listen attentively as our favorite checker argues the singers' merits with the less critically acclaimed (but more vocal) baggers. It's really all very exciting!

Of course, we're not watching.

But we did. Once. Season 5. It was thrilling! So much so, that it has apparently sustained us for the three seasons since... 

The girls began watching the show, I'm happy to say, after succumbing to peer pressure. Friends in their homeschool hiking club were big fans and made it clear that, if M&K wanted to interact in conversation of any kind from January through May, they would have to fan the flames of idolatry. Discussing books, science experiments or poetry was out. "Normalcy" was in. For once, M&K decided to give that a try.

Honestly, we were all a bit skeptical. And, after the first audition episode, M&K's reluctance grew. But I only saw opportunity. When they announced that there was "no way" they were watching next week, I declared a national (ok, familial) emergency and imposed an executive order stating that American Idol was officially, from that moment on, part of our spring 2006 school curriculum.  I justified it on intellectual grounds: it would serve as a much-needed impetus to study music theory, a subject we'd long neglected.

Besides that, I had a hidden agenda (I am a mom). I cynically judged the worthiness of American Idol for its potential to expose the kids to something much more important than musical styles: namely, it could enhance their Jerk Identification Radar. I told a bewildered Chris, "This is great! Real, live jerks, so now I don't have to feel guilty for overprotecting them anymore!" (Sure, Chris and I do our best, but we're only two examples of jerks. . .  How limiting is that?)

Truthfully, my strongest reservation about homeschooling M&K was that they might miss out on the most important lessons school could provide. No, not trigonometry, macroeconomics or physics. But, the study of human nature: "reading" people's body language, "calculating" others' ulterior motives and, basically, honing essential skills in the survival of the finesse. (Perhaps I was also overcompensating due to the haunting voices of former private school students who stated, "We may not be book smart, Ms. Sarkar, but we're street smart!" Irony on so many levels, I never could think of a suitable response... If that sounds too haughty and judgmental, blame it on months spent with Simon Cowell.)

American Idol could supplement my innocent, sheltered children's education in condensed, 60-minute weekly classes that encouraged them to survey all aspects of American culture and social nuance. Together, we would watch many "types" of vulnerable folks parade across our tv screen and exercise our God-given right to judge them without mercy. And, bonus, it was fully sanctioned, socially acceptable scrutinizing that even scored them points at playgroup!

There were some halfhearted attempts to tie this into our academics. We did learn to identify whole, half & quarter notes and taught ourselves to play "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the girls' recorders.  We rewatched Sound of Music - the 'do re mi' part - several times. We conducted ourselves admirably when reviewing the sections of an orchestra and even attended the symphony - and not just because there were fireworks. We listened to almost two classical music cds. And, finally, as Idol's singers exited each week to the tune of "You Had a Bad Day," I likened it to Aristotle's theory of tragedy and gave them an enlightening 30 minute lecture on identification with and empathy for the iconic tragic hero and his fatal flaw of hubris. I mean, isn't that what comes to everyone's mind upon hearing that song? Anyway, it counts because they took notes. Oh, and about halfway through the season (once we found out it was free), the girls loved haggling over the performances and calling in their votes - that was democracy in action, so I jotted it down under 'political science.' Who knew pop culture was so cross-curricular?
 
But, my original "social studies" mission didn't turn out as I expected. What I hadn't counted on was the preponderance of unbelievably nice and nerdy people wanting to be our next American Idol, many of whom were also quite talented. Pretty quickly, even before the final 24, the "mean girl" was eliminated and all we had left to ridicule were the country singers, Bucky & Kellie. They weren't very good, but still seemed too endearingly naïve to incur much of our wrath.

Plus, there is no way to express my relief or Chris' parental bliss when the girls did not swoon for the sultry Ace or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, the squeaky Kevin. Mikaela's top crush was the clean-cut crooner and Sinatra crony, David, and Katrianna fell for Will, the Brady Bunch's lost sibling. Other than that, there was the very sincere Elliott (and his mom), the marvelous Mandisa, the effervescent Paris, the naturally graying & soulful Taylor and even the cool but dependable rocker dude who had married a single mom (thereby automatically securing the votes of many moms I know). 

I heard that season 5 was the most watched in Idol history, ratings no doubt buoyed by our cutting edge, trendy family of 4.  It showed that real life - at least as portrayed on a tv 'reality show' - is schmaltzy, heartwarming and generally the good guys & girls win in the end. Really, American Idol was chock-full of virtuous role models for the kids and it restored my faith in humanity. So, now you see why we stopped watching.  Who wants a repeat of that?

Today is Jane Goodall's 75th birthday!
In 2004, Mikaela spread the news of Goodall's 70th with a front page cover story in her paper:
At that time, Mikaela was in fact torn between wanting to be President of the United States & wanting to be the next Jane Goodall. Initially, it seemed she would go with being the most powerful person in the world. During playgroups, she split her time between her playmates on the swing sets and their moms at the picnic tables where she canvassed for votes (merely requesting signatures on a contractual agreement to vote for her in 2032). And, since we homeschool on the slightest provocation, we also read biographies of all of the past presidents and memorized as much White House trivia as we could. (But we were limited by the fact that my kids' couldn't tolerate being virtually toured around and talked down to by "Barney," George W's schnauzer, for more than 5 minutes. Doggone it, we're really gonna miss him!)  The lure of the White House was undeniable and she had extensive redecorating plans, such as turning the oval office into a playroom. . .

But, ultimately, she instead elected to devote herself to full time motherhood, "adopting" Golden and Glitter, twin chimpanzees, from Jane Goodall. Naturally, I used her wanna-be naturalist aspirations as a chance to have us learn everything we could about Africa and encouraged Mikaela in her Tanzania itinerary travel planning. We compared and drew chimpanzee and human anatomy, read Jane's biography In the Shadow of Man plus her other observation journals and all of her children's books, along with Dian Fossey's Gorillas in the Mist. We knew that, as a young girl, Jane had a beloved stuffed animal monkey, so Mikaela acquired 7 stuffed animal monkeys since obviously that was the key to becoming a professional naturalist. Finally, Jane Goodall's Wild Chimpanzees IMAX easily trumped Jungle Book as her new favorite movie, opposable thumbs up!

Late one night, however, Chris was overcome with worry, unable to sleep, fretting that his little five year old girl would immediately need to start rounds of immunizations, apply for a passport and take machete bushwhacking lessons all before her sixth birthday.  Of course, I laughed off his concerns and he went back to bed, ridiculed but relieved.  I then stayed up wide awake til sunrise wondering if all this monkeying around might truly have dire consequences for our daughter -  all the while dabbing at my Leakey eyes. But, by dawn, I'd regained my composure and perspective, whereas Chris, after his full night's rest, was refreshed enough to deliver a lengthy and heartfelt speech exploring each and every danger posed by living among wild animals - all the way on the other side of the world, did she realize? - in frightening and excruciating detail. Luckily, Mikaela was not so easily deterred and, most probably as a direct result of Dad's little intervention, she declared her choice very soon afterwards. That's right, she fully abandoned her presidential campaign and decided with complete certainty that she would absolutely, positively follow in Jane Goodall's footsteps. (Thereby making Chris a monkey's uncle?)

Mikaela then took up the cause of wildlife around the world with admirable fervor, collecting 1,690 "Pennies for the Planet" and even - after trick or treating exclusively for pennies one Halloween - convincing one of those pre-K teachers (who'd negatively said Mikaela was too participatory and eager a year earlier) to add Pennies for Pandas to her class' kindergarten curriculum the following fall. [In fact, she ended up being  Mikaela's biggest sole contributor, making my little sisterly lions wait inside her front door for a good fifteen minutes while she searched through every purse, change jar and even her son's backpack for pennies to donate.] From then on, all relatives' birthday present inquiries were answered with requests for cold, hard cash - Mikaela's "fun"ds to be put toward chimp adoption fees, land purchases around Gombe National Park or bamboo reserves for pandas in China. And, after our hundredth viewing of Goodall's IMAX dvd (a most cherished Christmas present), Chris finally came around to accepting his daughter as the next Jane Goodall. Just in the nick of time - right before she changed her mind and decided to become a pastry chef.


   














Now it's Katrianna who wants to be the naturalist. . .  Or, after being wowed by Planet Earth, a roving wildlife photographer. And that, too, might evolve into something else before Chris has to learn to fly helicopters so Katrianna can hover above a lion and film its thrilling pursuit of a wildebeest. . .  

But, in whatever goals our kids set for themselves, we hope they can do as much Good-all around as Dr. Jane.
 

Send Jane Goodall your Happy Birthday wishes!
 

Because we homeschool, I've always been a little hyper aware that Mikaela & Katrianna don't have the variety of teacher role models that I enjoyed and Chris drove into early retirement. So, like many overcompensating homeschoolers, we've supplemented with teachers for extracurricular classes in music, art and writing, participated in ongoing educational programs at science or history museums, nature centers & the zoo, plus had the tutelage of a couple of little league coaches. We've also discovered "positive influences" in many of the other homeschooling parents who have surprisingly diverse and interesting careers, such as NASA rocket scientists, professional artists, architects, doctors, ranchers, airplane pilots, supercomputer engineers, landscape designers & geologist 'rock stars.'

And a final, unexpected way we found mentors for our kids is through interaction with and learning from Chris' clients. We just spent most of March in Boulder, Colorado, so Chris could meet with colleagues with whom he has consulted for a few years now. Over time, we all have gotten to know many of them and several have become significant role models for our girls. Their greatest qualification? They are nerds who found a way to make it their life's work!

Now, before Chris gets fired, let me explain. In our family, "nerd" is a term of endearment, a complimentary title reserved only for those we most admire and idolize (and, obviously, what we aspire to be ourselves). Nerds are people who have been able to turn their passions into action. Bespectacled or not, they fully embrace and fixedly pursue whatever "turns them on," become specialists in their fields and, eventually, find a way to put their education, enthusiasm and expertise into practice. (For us, this applies to traditionally "nerdy" intellectual pursuits, but also to excelling in sports, politics, music, art ... ) At first they might seem too geeky or unconventional, but ultimately they become, often as a direct result of their previous "misfit" status, the coolest and most respected extra-ordinary people out there.

Really, it's quite similar to Ralph Waldo Emerson's call for "The American Scholar," only we prefer the ring of "The American Nerd" (pə-tā'tō as opposed to pō-tot-ō?). We constantly point out historical and contemporary examples of this phenomenon to M&K, who are true believers now due to an innate propensity to nerdiness [nature] as well as exposure to as many nerds as I can find to teach them about [nurture]. So far, our daughters' nerdy-cool heroes have ranged from Br'er Rabbit to Ben Franklin, Daniel Boone to Clara Barton, Martin Luther King to Mother Teresa, John James Audubon to the first dog astronaut (along with the lesser Neil Armstrong), Hatshepsut to Louisa May Alcott, Robin Hood to Nelson Mandela, Joan of Arc to Jane Goodall, Sacagawea to Eleanor Roosevelt, and Abe Lincoln to Barack, Michelle, Malia & Sasha Obama. That's all good, since these are laudable legends studied in textbooks, newspapers or from afar, but meeting and befriending real, live "pal"-adins is, of course, even better! 

Stephen Mitchell is an author who readily admits that initially he had no idea he could actually earn a living by writing. But, to date, he has 38 published books and has gained a large and appreciative audience for his translations, poetry, fiction & non-fiction works, children's books and philosophical writings. He was in the middle of an eleven-city tour arranged by his publisher when we met him and attended his reading for The Second Book of the Tao. Many receptive thinkers and fans were gathered there to hear him expound upon its chapters, as well as to get a few moments to chat with him while he signed copies of his book.

In preparation for the reading & seeing Stephen again, the girls and I read his book and incorporated it into our studies for school which included a year-long unit on China (where we focused on all the typical cultural facts & wrote historical research papers, plus partook in protest demonstrations favoring Tibetan independence & watched the Olympics as "homework").  Even before the book hit bookstores' shelves, we had a sneak peek and discussed such concepts as accepting things as they are. Our perceptive daughters' understanding of this idea mostly centered around its application to Mom - their prime examples being my gracefully accepting the "perfection" of their untidy bedrooms, lackadaisical tooth brushing or school papers that are found everywhere except in their portfolios. Enthusiasm for their particular interpretation of "the way" then extended into the minutiae of our daily routine, as in 'Are not a correct answer and an incorrect answer to this math problem equally worthy and virtuous?'

After the reading, as we all strolled down the blustery Pearl Street Mall, Chris was the personification of "yes chasing no endlessly in circles" as he orbited in hyper leaps about the ever composed and serene Stephen. (The allusion would be a good one, except for one thing - I am the one who sits up all night sweating ethical dilemmas, while Chris peacefully snores right through - clearly demonstrating that he is much further along in his journey to Zen than I am.) Finally, we found ourselves ensconced safely inside the Dushanbe Teahouse and enjoying a moment's peaceful silence when Katrianna, the existentialist, suddenly piped up: "Could it be that I'm a butterfly just thinking I'm having tea with Stephen Mitchell?" Well, at least it showed she'd taken a fancy to chapter 5...

Not long after that, coincidentally I'm sure, Stephen mentioned that he enjoyed doing the book tours and meeting people but that he would rather be home spending time with his wife, Byron Katie. His affection and respect for Katie, who he had also mentioned fondly several times during his reading, moved me to such an extent that I immediately gave Chris an elbow to the ribs and said "See?!" before I realized I wasn't Loving What Is...  

Understandably, Stephen then expressed a desire to get back to the hotel and work on his next book, a highly anticipated translation of The Iliad. Just as the cab was about to mercifully whisk him off, Mikaela eagerly called out, "In your next book, remember when you're formatting not to align the text to the right - it has to stay centered!" By then, however, I believe he'd successfully plugged his ears with beeswax, so he just graciously smiled and waved goodbye. Certainly it had been a productive day, one that no doubt illustrated Chris' invaluable worth as a consultant, especially in his ability to fully test Stephen's resolve to adhere to the Taoist tenet of remaining calm and unaffected by worldly strife and drivel.

Another client we met last week was Robert Freling, who was in Colorado to receive the King Hussein Leadership Prize presented by Her Majesty Queen Noor at the Aspen Institute. Previous recipients have included Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Doctors without Borders and Muhammad Yunus, founder of the Grameen Bank.   

Bob was introduced to our family over the phone a few years ago, when he called Chris immediately after returning from a trip to Rwanda where his team had been busy installing solar electric systems to replace diesel generators used in several community health clinics.  My interest was piqued when I overheard Chris saying "No way... How many ribs?!"  Turned out, a couple of very dark nights before, Bob had decided to take in a view of the stars, stepped out onto his bungalow's nonexistent back porch and promptly plummeted down into the wilds of Rwandan jungle. (Demonstrating the need for some solar lighting, no?)

He broke some ribs but still managed to hike several miles the next morning so he could fulfill the fun, relaxing part of his visit and see some gorilla families, descendants of Dian Fossey's beloved buddies. With that, he instantly became our family's latest hero and was thereafter affectionately dubbed "Solar Bob" by my admiring kiddos.

Bob, who also happens to be a native Texan, leads a charitable organization called Solar Electric Light Fund, based in Washington DC. They install solar panels in remote villages around the world, providing essential power for hospitals and vaccine storage, fresh water and drip irrigation systems for crops, lighting & electricity in local schools and personal power units for individual homes. Among SELF's many impressive projects are those for the Jane Goodall Institute in Tanzania, for local schools in Nelson Mandela's birthplace, for the Vietnam Women's Union, in partnership with the Clinton Foundation HIV/AIDS Initiative for numerous medical clinics in Africa, with Brad Pitt's Make It Right project in New Orleans, and alongside the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation to provide reliable technology access for the Navajo Nation.
It's been a fun and ongoing inspirational lesson just trying to keep up with and learn about all of the places Bob has been to and that SELF has helped.It makes those places "real" and the world becomes, as a result, smaller and more accessible - if not physically, at least psychologically.  Certainly it underscores the theme that one person (even a kid who grew up in Dallas, Texas) can make a meaningful contribution toward "making the world a better place." 

Stephen and Bob are examples of "regular guys" whose natural interests and strengths became integral to their work and lifestyles. They do what they love & they make a living doing it. But, they are still nerds...  after all, despite all of their accomplishments, look who they ended up hanging out with in Boulder. 

The summer before my senior year of college, Mr. Wayne C. Martin, a former high school teacher turned mentor-father figure, invited me to brunch. We met at a funky, retro diner where he treated me to a ridiculously large breakfast, all the while extolling the virtues of its low price, Texas-size portions and value for the buck. Since I usually made do with cereal or some synthetic vending machine donuts before my early classes, I actually thought him quite extravagant and politely requested more syrup as I listened.

It seemed the real crux of our conversation would have to do with my career choice dilemma.(I suspect my mom might have put him up to the whole thing, but this cannot be verified in the usual way as she remained inconspicuous and I never once caught sight of her head popping over a booth to snap our photo as a record of this monumental, life altering exchange.)
 

Ultimately, there are two options for an English major for whom gainful employment is merely a novel idea: teaching or law school. Ironically, it was the college profs, who themselves had just mastered the fine art of university politics and finally received tenure after 15 years of one to two semester stints shuffling around the country, who had taken me aside to recommend law school with visions of dollar bills dancing in their heads.  But, it was Mr. Martin's shrewd scheme to bring me over to the dark side - educating young minds and feeding my hungry soul with virtue.
 
Actually, the teacher point was moot, already decided. If I became a lawyer, I knew I'd want to specialize in constitutional law instead of criminal defense, so I readily foresaw that I would end up working for some corporate law firm & feel guilty for not doing enough pro bono work - after all, what good can a theoretical, constitutional lawyer ever do for the world? (Unless you count becoming a community organizer, returning to law school to position yourself to help those most in need, lecturing as a Constitutional law professor, rising to US senator, and then becoming America's president & the leader of the free world as doing 'good'? Thankfully, I stuck to my high moral standards & taught in a private school that catered to the overprivileged upper classes instead.)

So, what approach would a world history teacher take to entice someone to spend her days locked in a classroom with 150 kids? Travel. He wanted to assure me that I could make a teacher's salary and still travel the world. Frankly, this took me by surprise as I thought, based on consistently poor quiz grades from his nitpicky classes years before, that it would have occurred to him that I had learned very little about the world and lacked all essential curiosity. If so, he discreetly kept it to himself that day.  I also failed to mention then, mostly because I was preoccupied with the rapidly cooling hash browns, that all my world travels in the past ("world" referring here to 30 miles or so away from home plus a couple of out of state ventures) had taught me that places didn't matter because people had a unique ability to make themselves absolutely miserable regardless of their surroundings or proximity to desirable amenities.

Still, this was his own, personal rasion d'etre and he was going to make it mine. He explained that if I was frugal about money in other areas, I could save enough to go to Europe or anywhere else on those three month summer vacations that only teachers, not lawyers, enjoyed.  He had done just that for the last thirty years, plus built himself a house with the help of only one contractor, and had an extensive collection of classical music records of which, no matter how many hundreds of times he replayed their selections with amplifying frustration, I never once successfully identified the entry notes of the cello and always mistook them for those of a viola...  Really, I was a lost cause and he probably should have just let me slip through the cracks as hopelessly ineducable.

Upon exiting the esteemed eatery into Houston's stifling 10 am heat, Mr Martin directed my attention to a two story building across the street which declared itself to be "Blue Bird Circle." He said he had one more thing to show to me and, lured by visions of Mr Martin as fairy godmother and me as Cinderella encircled by singing, highly skilled seamstress bluebirds, I followed in meek but expectant certainty of the eternal happiness that was surely in store. Twenty years before it was cool in Paris Hilton's eyes, this trailblazing, trendsetter teacher had brought me to fully air-conditioned, 35,000+ square feet thrift store nirvana. Here, he revealed, is where he'd found many of the antique treasures I'd no doubt admired in his home. Sounding eerily like Bob Barker, he began pointing excitedly in all directions and asking "Can you guess the price of this item? What about the complete set of mismatched dishes here? An almost unbroken vase there?" 

At that time, I was making my way through college with scholarships and minimum wage jobs and living with four bohemian-type roommates, with whom I had little in common except a predilection to share $100 rent, in an ancient house that mysteriously kept losing its monthly condemnation notices. What did I need with used furniture? I'd salvaged cinder blocks & plywood planks as bookshelves and they worked just fine. What other furnishings did a person really require anyhow?

Still, I absorbed all his carefully imparted knowledge, examined scratches and dents with expertise and left with a parting gift: an Egyptian statuette of Bastet, the goddess of war & solar energy for only $2.25!

I appreciated his efforts, truly, but I'm proud to say that I was sensitive enough not to share my ultimate impression: World travel? That's not why I chose teaching. This morning would never, ever have any relevance to my life.

I left a bit befuddled but mostly in a hurry, eager to get over to my boyfriend Chris' house where we could spend our afternoon doing significant, meaningful things like watching soccer matches that ended in a 0-0 tie.

Eighteen years later...