Packing

07/30/09

I’m drinking my coffee and trying to pull my brain together to get My Kid and I packed and ready to go.  The Husband is packed and working.  My Kid is still sleeping.

I’m counting the hours and looking around the apartment listing what needs to be done.  It’s 9 am.  We need to be getting into a car service car at 5 pm.  Some friends of My Kid will be at a local pool at 11:00 am.  I’d like her to join them but I don’t know if I will be able to make that happen.

Woah! And I’m back!

My Kid is still asleep.  My plan for focusing by making a packing list in my blog has fallen apart.

Now My Kid is awake and hungry and watching Hannah Montana.  It’s an episode from the first season and it makes me want to cry the way Miley Cyrus and Emily Osmet don’t look that much older than my daughter and her friends do now.

Too many clothes in my carry-on already and I know I’m going to be cold in Montana.  It’s so hot and muggy here in Brooklyn it’s really hard to remember to pack long sleeves and long pants.   Maybe I’ll just plan to buy a new pair of jeans when I’m home.

I must have been traumatized by an early data entry experience

Our home is not large.  Rain is pouring outside.   My daughter has a friend over and she has decided she would like to play in the front living-dining-media-play-room part of the apartment.  So I am relegated to the back bedroom half of the apartment which is fine with me.  I’m listening NPR and writing this blog post in which I hope to unwind all the anxiety I have built up over the past few days.

Last night, we had a production meeting for Clown Axioms which I had been looking forward to because if I do too much stay-at-home-mommy-camp without a break I start to go a little nuts.  In addition we’re going to travel West tomorrow to see all of My Kid’s grandparents and cousins and there is the stress involved in that, cleaning the apartment, packing the clothes, which involves multiple trips to the laundromat both to drop off stuff to have washed (towels, socks, jeans…) and to wash clothes myself using my own detergent and pulling half the stuff out of the dryer while it is still damp (black clothes, brightly colored clothes, clothing containing spandex) additionally my husband has his shirts done and of course the wool suits are dry cleaned.  I grew up in Montana where maybe dress coats are dry cleaned in the spring but that’s about it.  My mother and her peers all had laundry rooms!  We washed jackets with tennis balls to fluff up the down.  Special t-shirts were routinely tumbled in the dryer to get the wrinkles out and then hung to dry.  Other things went on drying wracks or ironed on a board set up in front of the television.  When I was growing up during the last great period of economic downturn and environmental awareness my mother eschewed paper towels and used wash clothes that she threw down the basement stairs to end up in the laundry room.  I can comfortably handle only 1 or 2 wash clothes in the bathroom and at the kitchen sink and one hand towel in each place.  I have no laundry room, mud room, or back porch to hang wet anything.  I can’t seem to manage haul laundry down the two flights of stairs two blocks to the laundromat more than once a week.  I am always behind.

As a stay-at-home mom who doesn’t stay home I have had a great deal of difficulty getting a handle on the housework over the years.  I am experimenting with hiring a cleaning lady which friends of mine do without thinking and which I have a great deal of angst about,  possibly because I am descended from Nebraska farm wives and why shouldn’t I be able to get my work done by myself.  OK. So yesterday, the cleaning lady cleaned while I went up and down the stairs and down the street with six bags of laundry.  At the same time as I was saying good-bye to the cleaning lady I was telling My Kid to put on her shoes and get ready for her tennis class.  As soon as her tennis class was over I was telling her how we were going to take the train to Penn Station so I could go to a production meeting and The Husband would take her out to dinner in the city.

And so I found myself sitting around a conference table with the other clown women excited to see them and to get going on our next project.  At the same time all the talk about all the things that need to be done to take our company to the next level began to fill me with anxiety.  There was much discussion of fundraising and data bases and donor spread sheets and mailing lists.  I found myself feeling guilty for hesitating to “step up to the plate” at the same time knowing that I am already counting down the hours and things that need to be done before we check in at the airport tomorrow.  (Phone, Nintendo DS, and lap charges have to be collected and packed.  Windows have to be closed.  Electronics that must be turned off.  Suitcases that need to be packed.  If the flight is at 7 should I feed My Kid before we leave or pack food to eat on the road or buy something at the airport.  If we leave NYC at 7 and get to Seattle at 10 how many hours will we really be on the plane?)  I really couldn’t bend my mind around exporting the “vertical response CSV files” by the end of the week people were talking about.  I just felt vaguely guilty and incompetent.  When the multitude of tasks were being assigned I felt so much anxiety it crossed my mind that maybe it would be so much work that the performances at La Mama that I have been looking forward to for some time might not be worth it.  I held back and was careful with my volunteer choices.  Press kits.  That involves hand carrying original documents to Kinko’s and printing a set number of copies and arranging them colored folders in a particular order.  I can do that.  It’s immediate, tactile and physical.  Other jobs were so technical or so vague I knew they would leave my head as soon as I crossed the threshold of the conference room.  Then I would come back from my trip Seattle and Montana, finish up My Kid’s summer activities and get her settled into her new class and grade only to realize I’ve completely forgotten to do some clerical task for the clown troupe the dereliction of which will cause everyone in the company to hate me.

And then there was the doctor appointment I had this morning which was just a check-up but in the context of my anxiety over packing for a cross country trip to see the in-laws and the parents and the publicity and fundraising tasks of the growing theatrical company I was ready to throw in the towel and not even go when the voice mail from the doctor’s receptionist reminded me that the doctor runs on time and a tardiness of more than 10 minutes could cause the appointment to be rescheduled and or cancelled.  Since I had a different appointment in Brooklyn Heights at 9 am and then had to take My Kid back to Fort Greene to hook up with her friend for an outing to the Scholastic Store in Manhattan and get back to Brooklyn Heights in time for the appointment.  I had to be talked down from my fear of failure by someone who pointed out that it would not be the end of the world if the particular combination of car service and subway rides that I put together failed to get me to the doctor’s office by my check-up had to be rescheduled and the doctor I’ve never met probably would not have time to be upset with me if all the pieces of my life puzzle did not fit together at  exactly 11:15 am in a particular office in a particular building in a particular part of New York City.  

I don’t know who these people are that they have been talking about on the news who use way to much medical intervention.  (They must be hanging out with those “Welfare Moms” who go through pregnancy and childbirth not to mention living with a baby/toddler/preschooler/kid just for a few additional dollars per month.)  After I’ve been weighed and measured, had my blood drawn,  peed in a cup and wired for an ECG. It was just an office visit, completely anticlimactic given my fear of  cancer/heard disease/unknown.  I’m done!  Significant numbers of calendar pages will turn before I seek additional medical care.

Self-induced Frustration

I woke up this morning to the sound of a young female grew-up-in-Montana writer being interviewed about her collection of short stories on NPR.  Hey I’m a young female grew up in Montana writer.  I checked her blog.  In an interview she said something about making time to write everyday.  I thought to myself, “Hey I’m awake and the rest are still asleep on this Sunday morning.  I think I will get myself up and have some writing time. 

So I got up and went into the front room where I immediately faced the pink and blue princess and new technology sugar frosted detritis of my daughter’s birthday yesterday.  I started some water boiling for a quick cup of instant coffee in order to face it and to give me courage to write.

For some reason thoughts turned  (I suppose because of the radio conversations’ references to Montana and college) to an awkward dinner I once while in college, lonely, and apparently socially inept.  As a writer who doesn’t produce much and wonder why–I was aware with Zen-like clarity– of my movement as I jumped up to deal with the boiling water and coffee just as an image so clear and so full of potential as a short story popped into my head.  And as I was trying to figure out what was wrong with my life 20 years ago–when I was young and cute and didn’t know it–in a literary fiction sort of way,  my kid arouses herself and wanders through the room to the TV, which she turns on to a very loud episode of Spongebob Squarepants, lounges back against some pillows and declares that she is hungry.

I haven’t really written anything except that I remember an incident from when I was in college.

I find myself agreeing to–offering even– to make pancakes which I begin, still thinking I can satisfy my child with food and then go back to my writing –yeah right–that train has left the station;

I fill a bowl with pancake mix, oil and milk only then to discover that we are out of eggs.  I pull on some clothes, inform my husband that I am going out and head to a corner market for milk, and also the Sunday Paper which I see as I am paying for the eggs.

Back home again, I make pancakes and also coffee, out of beans this time for sharing with the spouse, instead of the instant that I had made for myself.  I hand deliver a cup of java to the spouse who is working now but on a laptop and still in bed so physically it feels like he is doing nothing and I am doing everything as I begin to burn the fake sausages and spill coffee beans in the soapy dish pan and try not to burn the pancakes by clinging steadfastly to my post in front of the stove while verbally mapping the location of the milk carton so my daughter can find it herself as though this were a game and she wore a blindfold.

The strong coffee and New York Times Real Estate Section make me tense and anxious as I broach the possibility of heading up to Lincoln Center to try to catch an ensemble-improvised-three-and-a-half-hour-long-French-language-theatrical-piece that was recommended by one of my clown friends who is single and lives in Manhattan.

My mind is full of the dishes in the sink and unwritten stories in my head as I apply sunscreen to myself and my offspring and follow her downstairs to act as her spotter as she practices using her new pink and black RIPSTICK on the sidewalk in front of our building.  I go down quickly without keys or cellphone so when we become hot and tired and The Husband still has not come down yet we cannot stop and go up for a drink of water.

And as I write this I am backtracking because I have just lost the edits I have just made which causes me to look at the clock and think of The Husband who is now in the park with My Kid and her RIPSTICK and how I still haven’t started the breakfast dishes which is the reason I ditched them and came back up to the apartment for a few minutes instead of going to the park with them for some family time and how really it is time now to be thinking about lunch…

And the phone rings and it’s My Kid calling from the park; “Mommy where are you?”

This is why Barack Obama is our President

During the campaign, Barack Obama reached out to Native People and was adopted in a traditional Crow ceremony by Hartford and Mary Black Eagle of Lodge Grass, Montana.  They were introduced as grandparents to Malia and Sasha. Obama honored his Black Eagle family by having them brought to Washington DC and given prime seats to witness the Inauguration Ceremony.

His mother Dr. Stanley Ann Dunham Soetoro, would have been proud.

We’ve got the good pilot

I have been a weepy mess, tearing up  several times a day, ever since Captain Chesley B. “Sully” Sullenberger ditched a US Airways jet safely in the Hudson River last Thursday. The cinema-cheesy symbolism went straight to my core and I am convinced that the United States of America is an airplane and Barack Obama is the cool, calm Carey Grant/Sidney Poitier/Jimmy Stewart type genius pilot who is going to save us all. Or not.  Everything makes me tear up.  Boats. Airplanes. People asking me what kind of coat I have because they need to buy a warm one before they leave for Washington, DC  for the Inauguration. Twitters from friends who are on their way to DC or already in DC.   Martin Luther King Day. Fresh snow.  Civil Rights Movement veterans on CNN.   My husband telling me Obama chose a Nobel prize winning physicist as his energy secretary.  Listening to “This American Life”.  Miley Cyrus in a grown-up red dress.  Malia and Sasha Obama taking pictures of Miley Cyrus.  My 8-year-old rolling her eyes because I am tearing up because I am watching both my kid and  Malia Obama mouth the words to the Disney tween songs they both know by heart.  Reading the Inauguration Parade lineup that includes both the Crow Nation of Montana and the Brooklyn Music and Arts Program.  I’m just sitting here with my seatbelt on looking out the window at the water putting all my faith and hope in the pilot as my life flashes before my eyes and I pray for a safe landing:  Ourfatherwhoartinheavenhallowedbethynamethykingdomcomethywillbedone-onearthaseitisinheavengiveusthisdayourdailybreadandforgiveusourtrespasses-asweforgivethosewhotrespassagainstusandleadusnotintotemptation-anddeliverusfromevil-AMEN

Went to Clown Lab…

I am always conflicted; playing with my child vs housework.  Writing vs performing.  Exercising vs volunteering at My Kid’s school.  Creativity vs getting a real job and on and on and on.  So it wasn’t out of character for me when Jef started to talk about being in the theatrical space, I caught my mind wandering and had to bring it back into the room three times.  The first time I realized I had gone off topic was when my mind came back into the room  after I learned that Saturday’s workshop is 3-6 instead of 11-2 as I had thought.  This lead to a working out of numerous scenarios for My Kid’s weekend schedule as I had made tentative  plans with another mother to take the kids to see a movie on Saturday afternoon.   The second time I lost concentration was when in the course of developing an improv I fell into a bit of a reverie about Bush falling through a trap-door at the swearing in ceremony and Obama coming down from the sky in an airline pilot’s uniform…  The third time my mind wandered away from the studio work at hand, I thought about a handbag I used to own and wondered if I could use any found object to develop a relationship with up to and including grief and loss and weather that would be a good clown piece for me to work up.  I’m tired and wide awake  from several cups of coffee and several cups of green tea and my mind is still full of meaning of life, good work, and competency vs heroism thoughts that arise from the safe landing of a disabled plane in the Hudson River and timely rescue of all the passengers by local boat crews and the preparations for the upcoming Obama Presidential Inauguration.  There’s a clown lab scheduled for Tuesday, but I will not go.  I already know that my head and my heart will be in Washington, DC where I would rather be at this historic time. I moved from Montana for a post-graduate job in my congressman’s office on Capitol Hill and  I auditioned for Ringling Bros and Barnum & Bailey Clown College  in the center ring of the arena between shows while the Circus played Washington DC. I hope to spend Tuesday evening drinking champagne  at home with my husband and watching the recap of the Inauguration Day on TV.

In Pennsylvania during the campaign, I contemplate regional diversity

We were in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania this weekend.  It’s not at all like Brooklyn. The biggest lifestyle difference was driving everywhere.  There were things that reminded me of Montana where I grew up and Nebraska where my parents grew up, historic places and times where and when we could go around on our bikes by ourselves as kids.   My friend lives in a beautiful neighborhood of cul-de-sacs that has much in common with the home of my relatives in Orange County, California, beautiful houses on a hill but nowhere for a kid to ride a bike.

 Sometimes I fantasize about living in a house in a neighborhood where my kid can go outside by herself and have some autonomy.  But, that’s not possible in many suburbs, built in my lifetime, without sidewalks or street lights.  I wouldn’t let my kid ride her bike along the side of the two lane highway anymore than I would let her ride up Fulton and cross Flatbush on the way to school or a friend’s house in Brooklyn. Whatever happened to riding your bike and playing with the neighborhood kids and “Come home for dinner when the street lights come on.”?

 Pennsylvania was insurance company calendar rural instead of what I think of as farmland which is mile after mile of mathematically straight rows of wheat and corn with giant tractors and combines.

Subtext being the presidential campaign, it was gratifying to have the woman selling pumpkins by the side of the road and the biker chick waitress at a restaurant both complement me on my Obama t-shirt.

Our friends  took us to Lake Tobias Animal Park, a family farm that has been turned into a zoo.  I wore my bright orange Obama Mama t-shirt, but nobody commented at all.  I’l bet the people there saw it with disdain and disapproval. The tour driver told us they called the longhaired breed of Scottish highland cattle on display, “hippie cows”.

The kids loved Lake Tobias, a popular local school field trip destination.  It was disturbing (although not deeply disturbing if I thought of it as a farming operation) to ride in a topless bus and watch people give crackers to small children who held them out to the bison that loped up to the side of the vehicle.  This, goes against everything I know about wild animals.  But, I suppose technically these were not wild because they live with a steady parade of topless busses full of outstretched arms and crackers.  Who knew such eclectic private zoos existed?   It was bizarre to see elk and yaks and water buffalo together in the same pasture

 I grew up with regular visits to the National Bison Range in Moiese, Montana. (The Snake Pit tourist trap on I-90, notwithstanding, it was the closest thing we had to a zoo.)  When comparing notes on our childhoods with a college roommate who grew up in Annapolis, Maryland we discovered that the big 3rd grade field trip where she was from was a day at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.  At Lewis and Clark Elementary in Missoula, Montana, the big 3rd grade trip was to the bison range maintained by the US Department of Fish and Wildlife Services.  The bison range is deeply educational, you can go there and experience the animals as brown spots miles away because the 18,500 acre preserve is experienced via a one-way 2-hour car drive.  (There is oh so much for a disaffected teen to ignore and it’s the kind of place where parents feel compelled to go to battle with their children to put away the novels and video games in order to look for the distant wildlife that only adults paying attention can see.) There is ample time to read the brochure cover to cover learning more than anyone outside of the Department of Interior needs to know about native prairie grasses, birds, rodents and the breeding habits of the elk, deer, bighorn sheep, antelope and black bears that share the range with the bison. 

Because of our visit to the Lake Tobias wildlife park in Pennsylvania, I now understand how it is that the tourists in Yellowstone National Park come to make the kind of stupid mistakes that get them killed.  In Montana we never cease to marvel at the tourists whose deaths and injuries we read about every summer in the local paper.  They are gored while walking toward a moose or a bison in order to pose for a picture, or got between a mother bear and her cubs on a trail or most mind-blowing of all to a kid raised in the Rockies, attract bears by cooking in their tent.

Women’s Theater Project

Yesterday I received an e-mail, forwarded to me by Kendall Cornell.  The Women’s Theatre project was papering their Off-Broadway house for a play about a clown.  So I went.  It was a much nicer theater than the ones I usually get to play.  The stage was large and the grid was jam-packed with lighting instruments. Most of the primary people involved in the production listed a Yale degree in their bios.  That theatre seemed out of my reach and yet the play was obviously written by someone who is not very old and reminded me of shows we produced at Annex Theatre in Seattle where, incidentally, quite a few company members had gone to or would go on to Yale.

After the play, “Aliens with Extraordinary Skills” by Saviana Stanescu (MFA, NYU); directed by Tea Alagic (MFA, Yale); featuring Natalia Payne (BA, Yale); Set Design by Kris Stone (MFA, Yale); Costumes by Jennifer Moeller (MFA, Yale); Lighting Design by Gina Scherr (MFA, Yale); Music and Sound design by Sarah Pickett (MFA, Yale), I walked alone to the Times Square subway station.

My heart raced, as I looked at the marquees and the after theatre crowd brushed by me with their playbills in their hands.  I was remembering my very first trip to New York.  I took the train from Washington D. C. (where I had an internship in the Women’s Division of the Democratic National Committee when Geraldine Ferrarro was running for Vice President on the Democratic ticket with Walter Mondale) to visit Kathy McNenny, who I knew from home.  She was attending Julliard and living in a room, not much bigger than her mattress, in a very scary building in Hell’s Kitchen across the street from Studio 54.  I was afraid I would be raped every time I got on the elevator.

I saw 6 shows in about 48 hours.  I went with Kathy and her boyfriend to see a play at The Irish Rep because a friend of theirs was in it.  There was a lot of real dirt on the stage.  I saw ” A Chorus Line” because I had always wanted to see it.  I had received the album as a birthday present in grade school and had listened to, memorized, and performed, for my drama class, a deeply felt rendition of “Nothing” (just like all the other high school theater geeks my age).   After “A Chorus Line” I went directly to another theatre to see Whoopi Goldberg’s late night performance, because Kathy told me that was the must see show everyone was talking about.  I was blown away proclaiming that we would soon hear of her in Montana.  “The Color Purple” was in movie theaters the next year.  As soon as I woke up I went directly to the TKTS booth in Times Square to see what I could see.  I wanted to see “Sunday in the Park with George” because I wanted to sing like Bernadette Peters, even though my voice teacher was always telling me not to (apparently I had a lovely voice of my own or some such drivel…)  But, there were no TKTS tickets for “Sunday in the Park with George” so I got a ticket to “Forbidden Broadway” and went and sat on the ground outside the box office of the theatre where “Sunday in the Park with George” was playing and waited with a few other people until curtain time to see if there were any returns.  I blushed with pride when someone in the ticket line, told me I looked like a real New Yorker and not at all like a tourist, sitting there on the ground and scribbling in a notebook, in my dark oversized coat full of pockets.  The woman in the ticket booth told me she had some obstructed view seats but they weren’t worth it because they were way off to the side and you couldn’t see the amazing set come and go.  So I waited until almost 8 o’clock and then ran down the street to use my ticket to “Forbidden Broadway” which I didn’t find funny since I wasn’t familiar with most of the shows and certainly none of the personalities being parodied.  I went to Greenwich Village to see “The Fantastiks” because I adored that musical, having seen a such sweet chamber production of it in Missoula, accompanied by two grand pianos (or one grand piano and a harp–anyway it had been beautiful) and ever after wanted to be a good enough soprano to sing the role of “Luisa”.  I believe I also saw “Le Cage Aux Folles” on Broadway that weekend. (“I Am What I Am” is a favorite song and I harbor a fondness for drag queens.  “Pricilla Queen of the Desert” is one of my favorite films.)  Between the shows I walked around and ate bagels and slices of pizza.  My first bagel in New York was schmeared with an enormous amount of cream cheese and the man behind the counter said something to me that made me think he gave me extra for good luck on my first day in New York.  All the money I had went for theatre tickets.  No restaurant meals, no drinks.  I didn’t even know at that point in my life that I ought to buy food or wine or a gift for my host who I actually never saw after joining her for the one play.  She was so busy with classes and rehearsals.  She told me when she first came to New York she tried to live in Queens (where the rent was lower and the rooms were bigger) but it was just too far away.

If Queens was too far away from Broadway, how very much more difficult must it be to get there from Missoula, Montana.  Although both Kathy McNenny and JK Simmons succeeded.  They represented the only two ways I knew of to get to New York.  JK Simmons didn’t go to New York until after he had his Equity Card.  I knew this because his brother David was a friend of mine and his father was my freshman advisor at the University of Montana.  I also knew that his skills included the ability conduct an entire orchestra!  (He was very nice to me and invited me out for a drinks with the cast after I sent a note backstage, via an usher, letting him know someone from Missoula was in the audience, when I saw the touring production of the short-lived broadway musical “Doonesbury” in which he played a small part and understudied most of the others. –It was during same fall term of my political internship as that first trip to New York.)  The other way to get to New York, as I understood it was to get into a school, scholarship necessary.  Kathy McNenny was able to do this after first attending the University of Montana.  I remember other drama majors, eager to get on with their lives after college, talking about Kathy’s decision to go to Julliard where she would have to pay for another bachelors degree, instead of going to the Globe in San Diego which offered her a full-ride, an MFA and an Equity Card.  But it wasn’t in New York.

 Kathy knew what she was doing and I was not in the same league.  In high school she was a competitive swimmer with a near perfect GPA,  president of the Thespian Society, in the select show choir and involved in many other organizations that involved having her photo in the high school year book.  She taught swimming lessons and visited schools as Captain Power for the local utility, possibly the only paying costumed character gig in the entire region.  When she was a senior and I was a junior, she played the title role in our high school production of “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie”.  I played one of her pupils who grew from child to adult under her tutelage.  I was the only actress who did not have to bind for the first scene and had to stuff my bra for the last scene.  That pretty much says it all.

Hank Paulson don’t you dare take all my money so you can say you are solvent and everything is fine!

After college I left Montana to find work.  A year or two later I desperately wanted to return home but couldn’t find a job that covered rent.  While visiting my then boyfriend at his father’s home on Flathead Lake, we went out to a bar.  I was introduced to one of his father’s friends, one of those retiree transplants to a beautiful part of the state, (the county with the highest per capita income and the poorest record of passing school levies). He was the kind of person known in certain circles as “A Golfing Republican”.  He looked me straight in the eye and said “You have no problems here.”  

This was a year or so after the stock market crashed spectacularly just as naive newly minted college grads such as myself were entering the job market.  I remember overhearing one of my ambitious well-educated housemates sobbing on the phone;  “so tired of watching the clock day after day” at her receptionist job and actually being told to her face that she must “be patient and wait 2 or 3 years” until the baby boomers ahead of her were promoted out of the jobs for which she was qualified.  Without the perspective of age and experience, I heard so much about the importance of being productive (a word that had never once been spoken in my presence as I pursued my liberal arts degree at a university) that I believed I was failing to the point that I would face a firing line and be executed for my crime of not being productive.

If Hank Paulson gets his money from Congress then Wall Street will be fine and the executives can retire to beautiful locations.  BUT THERE WILL BE PROBLEMS THERE.

More Standardized Testing

It’s not much of a stretch to imagine that someone who identifies herself as a clown would not think much of standardized tests.

So it is not a stretch to imagine how appalled I am that Mayor Bloomberg has announced a pilot program including timed paper-and-pencil assessments for children as young as kindergarten. That’s insane. Children spend the year of kindergarten learning to sit in a chair without touching anybody else, how to transition to circle time, again without touching anybody else, at least not hard enough to knock them off balance. In addition they must practice standing in line without playing with the hair of the girl in front of them. There are other activities involving reading and math. But, learning to sit in a chair when the teacher says it is time to sit in a chair is the main objective of the average kindergartner.

My Kid is going into 3rd grade this year, the first year of high stakes testing in New York City. She has been aware of THE BIG TEST for months. She has thought long and hard, and has decided the best way to prepare for this public evaluation is to brush her hair everyday

I too am being mature about the test. My fantasy back up plan is to pull her out of school in January and put her on a plane to Montana so my brother can teach her to ski like her Idaho born cousins because that’s a learning deficit in my family.

However, I think My Kid is actually looking forward to the test and would be really upset if she missed it.