Blood, Frogs, and the Wicked Witch of the West

It was dark out there. There were shadows shaped like the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz--in fact, I was dead sure I saw her riding her bike in the air past my window. Who could sleep with all that going on outside?

But he was patient and reassuring and even though I clung to him like I was being sucked under the pull of a rushing river, my dad took me outside. "See?" He pointed at our little tree in the front yard--the one that had transformed into the gnarled tree in the Wizard of Oz. "It's just our tree. It's the same as in the daytime." He pointed out everything in the yard and waited for me to stop shaking.

He killed the wasps that had stung my brother and me in the backyard of our new house, going in like a superhero to get rid of the nest. My brothers and I watched from behind the safety of the sliding glass door.

A lot of the other dads in the neighborhood worked at Boeing, with nothing very interesting to share, and they mowed their lawns in embarrassing outfits. My dad changed the oil in the car in his old Air Force pants and a pair of his old wingtip dress shoes. But he brought home amazing things from work--like the frog from his biology lab at the high school. Nobody else in the neighborhood got to dissect a frog or type their blood on the kitchen table.

He laughed when I practiced forging his distinctive signature.

He'd listen to entire plots from the Nancy Drew book I was reading and make funny comments. Even now, he'll listen to entire chapters of a book I'm working on, over the phone, from 3,000 miles away.

He got me a coveted spot on a soccer team, taught me the rules, and acted like I was good, even though everybody knew I sucked.

He taught me to appreciate what you have, to treat people with kindness, to share with others that don't have what you do,

and to never forget your sense of humor.

He taught me the importance of the written word, whether you are reading it, or writing it, yourself.

I love you, Dad! Happy Father's Day!

Sneaky Kicks, NPR and the Sharp Scissors

There's nothing like a fight between siblings. My legs were skinny and poky and spindly when I was nine. Perfect weapons. My brother, Tim, was eight, and I'd wait to strike. I'd wait until he was watching TV--preferably a commercial, because that's when he was most engaged. Then I'd move in for the kick. It was a basic karate front kick, and it was delivered sharp and fast. Even though it seemed as if there was some planning involved, I never quite thought it all the way through. Because then it played out like a grade B horror flick. I'd run for the bathroom and lock the door. Really dumb, because you didn't have to be MacGyver to pick the lock in our bathroom. And there was no alternate escape route.

Sometimes I think our parents would wait to intervene, probably knowing I deserved what I got. But eventually they would step in. Our older brother, Tom, would scoff at us and tell us we were stupid-- or give Tim fighting tips.

Then there would be a cool down period and we'd be friends again.

It was worth it to be nice to my brother, because he was so much fun to play with. He's the type of person who can invent and create and imagine right on the spot. We made up an entire TV variety show in our backyard once, complete with opening theme song.

One thing that I know Tim and Tom and I shared, without a doubt, was the love of art, including music and writing, because our parents always provided musical instruments, sketch pads, special markers, and writing paper. They let us use the sharp scissors.

So now as twentysomething adults (okay

, twentysomething plus a little), the fighting has gone by the wayside, and we all still play music and draw and write. Hear from Tim today in his NPR interview at KUOW in Seattle!

You can listen here: http://kuow.org/program.php?id=23724

And in honor of Father's Day, you can hear him read a very funny essay from his blog, Reflections of a Shallow Pond, on another NPR station, KPLU, where he publicly lambastes me for all of those nasty surprise kicks when I was nine--just kidding--he probably should, but he doesn't:

http://kplu.org/post/navigating-tweendom-dads-tale

Band-aids, Throw-up, and Ghost Stories: Who Doesn't Live for a Little Good Conversation?

Her eyes got wide and she leaned forward so I could feel her breath on my arm. "It's a true story, Mrs. Leal! It's really true!"

We were reading good old HENRY AND MUDGE, and Henry, the boy in the story, was scared. We could see him cowering in a corner of the room. Why, you might ask? Because Henry's mother loves to tell ghost stories on Halloween, and Henry's mother thinks he loves them, too...so she tells him a headless horseman-type story.

As my reader reads aloud the story-within-a-story, she nods, emphatically. "It DID happen, Mrs. Leal. That guy without a head? It happened in the nineties. You weren't born, yet. But my grandma was." Then she sat back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. She had just shared a valuable piece of information with me.

I also had a self-satisfied smile on my face, because I realized I was a much better story teller than I thought I was. All those times when they asked me how old I was? I responded, "23," of course. (...depending on the day; sometimes I am 28.) So she was off a little on her math...double digits don't come into the first grade curriculum until late spring.

As I'm writing my end-of-the-year report cards, I always do it with a little sadness, because I realize they are moving on. I think about the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding: "Why you want to leave me?"

So I thought I would relay a few quotes that show what truly awesome little beings first graders are...

They are generous...well, most of the time...it usually means they don't want whatever it is anymore:

"Mrs. Leal? I have a cookie, and I only ate a little bit of it. I could give you half."

They are brutally honest:

"Mrs. Leal? Usually, when I swing this high, I get throw-up in my mouth."

And my favorite from last week:

A girl is proudly holding up the tooth she just lost and a boy next to her says, "Is that old?" She shakes her head and says, "It's yellow, because I didn't brush it last year. I got an electric toothbrush. I'm going to brush it tonight."

They often get sidetracked:

"Mrs. Leal? I wish I lived here. Each classroom would be someone's house, and I would watch the (security) cameras all day. (Pause) Who watches the cameras at night? A robot?"

They are incredibly intuitive:

(A boy was commenting on a fight that had just broken out next to him.) "They just need to be by themselves. They need a vacation from each other."

They are terrible liars (most of them):

"I didn't mean to pee on the wall." (Truly, I did not made this up.) "I just had to go real bad."

First grade is not for the squeamish. There is blood, Band-aids, throw-up, and the occasional missed urinal. But it is worth every minute of it.

Say What You Want

I've decided that when I get old, I'm going to say whatever I want. I haven't decided exactly when that will be yet -- if it will be a magic age or a particular date... maybe I'll just be at the grocery store one day and my filter will suddenly be gone.

I'll make loud comments about the contents of the shopper's cart behind me. Should you really be buying all of that full fat ice cream? I'll say. And when I see that person's kids running all over the place and climbing on the candy racks, I'll make a public critique of their parenting skills.

Those will be the days. I can't wait.

There's something incredibly freeing about not caring what anyone thinks. Everyone should be like my first graders. They're never worried about the public opinion. They know they're awesome, and they often make grand announcements for all to hear.

One of the girls in my class came back to the reading table. She pulled her chair out, sat down with style and said, "I'm speaking English today. I like English." (I feel the need to point out that English is her first and only language...)

Later on in reading groups, we were reading a story about animals. One of the boys stopped reading and tapped the page with a baby lion. "Baby lions," he said, as if he was making a mental note. "I've gotta get me one of these..."

One of my first grade girls is the third of three sisters who have all been in my class, and they have all had great things to say. As I was passing her desk, I heard her tell her neighbor, "We're not doing math today. It's too distracting." I've decided to use that handy statement whenever I can at home...I'm not making dinner tonight. It's too distracting. I'm not vacuuming anymore. It's too distracting...

One of my all time favorite first grade quotes was from last year. A boy said, "Mrs. Leal, I'm really tired today. I got up at 5:08 a.m.!" Really? I said. That's awfully early. He looked at me like I was missing brain cells and said, "Wizards have to get up early." I passed the same boy a few days ago when he was talking to one of his classmates. He was saying, "I can walk through walls."

The thing is, that kid has so much self confidence, I don't think I would have been surprised to see him do it.

So go ahead. Let your inside voice come out. It'll feel great.

Can't we all just play nice?

I don't usually get too political in my blog posts. Sarcastic? Maybe. But I usually leave the politics to those who are so in the know and passionate about the issues, that they can't help but make their voices known.

Today, however, I just had to say something. President Obama is giving his State of the Union tonight. Nothing unusual. But tonight they're making the Lefties and the Righties sit together...horror upon horrors!

I'm thinking about all of the kids over the years who would have rather sat by their friends in my class, but who were MATURE enough as FIRST GRADERS to sit with someone who was not their closest friend and to--again horror upon horrors--get along quite nicely!

No, they might not like the way the other guy always hoards the cool wheel accessories for the Legos. And they might be disgusted with the way the other girl always picks her nose and wipes it under her desk. But they get along anyway.

Okay, I'm done.

Wait...one more thing...how many of them do you think will show up with notes from their mommies tonight, so they can sit where they want?

Betty Crocker is Politely Making Me Nervous

I inherited my grandma's old Betty Crocker New Picture Cook Book circa 1961.

I love this cook book, because it doesn't make me take out the lard or the sugar or any of the white flour in any of my recipes. Go ahead, it

seems to tell me. Deep fat fry away. And while you're at it, double the portions. You need to put some meat on your bones. (Right now I'm picturing Jillian Michaels, outside my door, ready to whack me over the head with some kettle bells and take a torch to my fabulous book.)

I just realized that in the years that I've had this great collection of recipes, I have grossly neglected the section on page 5, "Kitchen Know Hows: Hints for the Homemaker". All of this time, I could have been starting my day off in a calm and organized manner, as outlined in the section, "Refresh your spirits":

"...Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply makeup and a dash of cologne. Does wonders for your morale and your family's, too!"

As I look down at the espresso and and mocha-stained dribble on my bathrobe and my Christmas-themed footies, I realize I could have been looking like this:

When sadly, I have been looking more like:

or this:

I am perking up a bit, because as I read on, I realize there's still time. Betty tells me to "have a hobby. Garden, paint pictures, look through magazines for home planning ideas, read a good book or attend club meetings. Be interested--and you'll be interesting!" But I'm also feeling the anxiety creeping up, because I'm not so sure Betty would approve of what goes on at my book club meetings.

Betty then says, "if you have a spare moment, sit down, close your eyes and just relax." Betty. Really? How can I possibly sit down, when you just told me in the previous section to

"plan ahead". You just told me to "make several cakes, pies, cookies, main dishes or sandwiches at a time and freeze some for future use."

Luckily, I can hear my grandma's voice drowning out Betty. My grandma just hit Betty over the head with one of Jillian's kettle bells. Betty's now knocked out cold next to her deep freeze and my grandma's telling me to put my bathrobe on and get back to my writing. I had always wondered why the spine

was torn off of that cookbook...

When All Else Fails, Write About Star Wars

I might have to start taking writing tips from my first graders. They have no anxiety at all about the writing process. They're not worried about bad reviews, and their stomachs don't get tied up in gassy knots when they have a plot problem.

First graders merely put their little bottoms in their chairs (or hovering in the vicinity) and apply the pencil to the paper. They're not afraid to take chances with their writing and go beyond their comfort zones, because, quite frankly, as long as Mom or Dad has remembered to drop the good fruit snacks into the lunch bag, nothing ever gets that uncomfortable.

If a six-year-old wants to kill off a main character (or laser them to smithereens), he or she just makes it happen. They never have any trouble with story endings, either. When they decide it's time to end the story, they just have everyone go home.

There's no worry there that they'll repeat the plot of another author, either. In fact, if it's good enough to happen to Sponge Bob, it's good enough to happen to their main character.

First graders also have figured out that no character is ever totally bad, or completely good. There's a very blurry line between the heroic status/behavior of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.

I'm going to start the new year off right, and look to my small students for writing advice. I'm going to relax, eat snacks, hover my butt in the vicinity of my chair, and let the words flow. Because if all else fails, I can write literally pages about my Jedi friends.

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