Little House Church (is not a cult, we swear)

The Bureaucrat plays a hymn...just like the ones
your grandmother would have enjoyed.  Not at all
like the ones that people in sweatsuits sing to comets.
Really.

"So where do you go to church?"  Such a seemingly innocuous question.  Such a complicated answer for us Mortons.  Some families just respond that they don't go to church.  Simple enough.  Some clearly the state the name of their local congregation.  Simple enough.  Not us.  Our response sounds more like this:


"Umm...well...we don't actually go to church, per se.  We have church at our house, though.  It's kind of a house church.  But not in the creepy sense.  I mean, we're not like backwoods or anything.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.  I mean, it's really just like church, only at our house...it's surprisingly normal."

Lots of caveats.  Lots of explanations.  Because we're a little concerned that Joe Schmo on the street--or our own families, for that matter--might get the wrong idea and envision a group of zealous folks in matching sweatsuits and clean, white tennis shoes, staring admiringly at some creepy, although admittedly charismatic, guy with a ponytail while passing around questionable Kool-Aid.  We promise this is not the case.  Actually, we wear anteater pelts, sacrifice virgin monkeys and sip questionable Gatorade.

While we're definitely not a creepy cult, and we certainly don't have
a scary charismatic leader, I think that if we did, this one would
totally be a good candidate.  Look, his eyes even glow red!

Okay, not really.  We really do just have church in our living room.  In certain circles its even considered cool and cutting edge...we swear.  Not that this is why we do it, of course.  Occasionally there are spontaneous drum circles, mechanical hamsters getting set on fire, and really loud renditions of "Amazing Grace" sung to the tune of "House of the Rising Sun."  And then there's usually a whole lot of food.  And that's about it.  No UFOs, no polygamy, no virgin sacrifice (well, unless that hamster was unadulterated, in which case we came precariously close to participating in a virgin sacrifice...), just church.*  Like the kind your grandmother would have...but in socks...around a coffee table...and we like it that way.

Ceremonial Hamster Sacrificing Candle

So just in case you're ever wondering what we're doing on a Sunday afternoon, or if you're in the market for a new cult, I mean, church to attend, now you know.  And knowing is half the battle.  The other half is making yourself ceremonially clean for the rite of the spring monkey sacrifice...but that's a tale for another time.

*We even almost had a schism once, just to make us super-official.  The age-old bread/wafers debate almost did us in.  But we solved that little problem...by settling on pizza and beer instead.


Seriously, though, we actually really do care about our little community and what we do.  It's complicated, and doesn't lend itself well to satire, but it's so central to our family's life that it seems silly not to mention it, even on this irreverent blog...If you ever actually want to know more, you're welcome to ask...or check out our rather scant blog.  

The Bureaucrat's Busy Birthday Bonanza

How the Bureaucrat spends his birthday: good food,
semi-decent wine, and a Toy Story alien party hat.

So, I have a husband.  I know, I know, I never mention the poor guy.  It's because he's never around.  Not because he's avoiding me--I don't think, although I might not blame him--but because he's working like crazy as a painfully underpaid high school teacher while going to law school on the weekends.  Yup, the Bureaucrat is going to be a lawyer...fitting, no?  You can read more about his hardworking escapades here: thereluctantmichigander.

The good news is, the Bureaucrat had some time off this week to be with his family...not just look at his family for a brief moment between commuting home from work and burying his nose in Torts, or Contracts, or whatever the law topic du jour happens to be...actually be with his family.  The first two days were given by his school in the spirit of a semi-midwinter-break.  The next day was taken by the Bureaucrat after returning to work for just one day, as a belated birthday present to himself.  You can't blame the poor guy.  He never sleeps.  And when he does sleep, he tosses, turns, and negotiates legal contracts while he dreams.  His mini-break is much-needed and well-deserved.  And so were his various birthday festivities.

On Tuesday, the day before the Bureaucrat's birthday, the girls insisted we throw him a full-fledged birthday party, replete with Toy Story themed "everything," as the Dictator put it.  She even designed him a Toy Story cake, featuring a Jessie the Cowgirl's Shirt motif.  She insisted I use my frosting "expertise" to make her creation come to life.  Good thing she's an adorable dictator...

Sylvie's Toy Story cake vision becomes a reality...kinda.

My parents came to the "party," and we had dinner, cake, presents--"TWO presents?!!!" asks the outraged Dictator, "Daddy only gets TWO presents?!!--and an elaborate song and dance show to Toy Story music by the Dictator and the Anarchist.

The Dictator and Grandpa don their festive hats.

The Anarchist is festive, too.

Grandma somehow makes it look so natural.

On his actual birthday, we had friends over for our usual super-nerdy, super-fantastic Book Club (and lest you think this is some girly thing that I somehow dragged the unwitting Bureaucrat into against his will, I'll have you know that it was the Bureaucrat and our (male) friend the Scapegoat who dreamed up the whole thing, and that, for the vast majority of said book club's existence, I have been the solitary girl in the group).  Instead of discussing Annie Dillard, whom we have deemed un-discuss-able anyway, we had a nerdy game night/snack fest featuring excessive amounts of beer (thanks, Dads), overpriced cupcakes, over-sized glasses, and a Snuggie.  Delightful.  I think the Bureaucrat was in law-school-nerd-on-vacation heaven.

The Bureaucrat in his birthday glasses
and "designer" Snuggie, perfect for
reading, using the remote and fishing...
obviously.

The birthday glasses make the rounds.
Stunning.

Our friend, the Scapegoat.  What can we
blame him for this week?

The Dictator also looks amazing in the glasses, although
we didn't actually let her come to the nerd-fest that was
her father's second birthday party.  This shot
is from the morning after.

Today we took the Anarchist and the Dictator to Cranbrook to see some dinosaurs (we met friends there...remember the Ambitious Mom?)  Insanity ensued.  If you want to see my awful foray into photojournalistic documentation of our family trip, you can sate your curiosity here.

Happy Birthday, dear Bureaucrat!  You look
so excited to be celebrating it in this way.

During our family museum outing, the Dictator
pointed out that chickens are distant cousins of
dinosaurs.  She illustrated this point by growling
and roaring like a predatory dino-chicken.

 During our little family adventure, the Bureaucrat got one more special birthday surprise: an email stating that tomorrow's school day is canceled due to impending snowy doom.  We may have had a minor celebration in the midst of the prehistoric tools exhibit upon discovering this great good fortune.  Because sometimes I forget I have a husband.  And it's nice to have time to remember that I do.  Because he's pretty fantastic.  And we like him a lot...even if we only do get him two presents on his birthday.

the bureaucrat, the dictator, the anarchist, and dinosaurs

I have a theory.  Every one gets one museum kid...and probably only one.  Your odds might change if you have a couple of dozen kids, but generally, if you have the typical 2.5 offspring, chances are, you get just one.

The ill-fated T-Rex photo op.  No one was happy.
But the Dictator was the unhappiest.

Simply put, museum kids like museums.  Art, natural history, science, agriculture, whatever.  If it has artifacts/or educational displays, the museum kid will enjoy a leisurely stroll through its halls.  Non-museum kids may range from disinterested in museums, to violently opposed to museums.

I was a museum kid.  Every time my family went on vacation, I would excitedly peruse the museum brochures to select which exhibits we would visit first.  I would nerdily read the plaques discussing the history/attributes of various artists.  I would interact with each and every interactive display.  I even contemplated moving into a museum...taking up residence amidst the ancient ceremonial bloodletting bowls of the indigenous tribes of prehistoric Michigan, or some such nonsense.

My sister was decidedly not a museum kid.  She would whine, cry and generally make our lives miserable at museums until we finally caved and went back to the hotel's indoor pool, per her "request."

From the moment of her birth, I was certain that our Dictator would be a museum kid.  She was focused, observant, intelligent, mature, rule-following, and well-behaved in public places. She liked libraries, churches and the homes of quiet elderly people.  Clearly, this was a museum kid.

From her birth, I was convinced that our Anarchist was our anti-museum kid, because, well, she was an anarchist.

The happy Anarchist plays dinosaurs with
the Bureaucrat.  Look at how attentive she is!

A recent jaunt to the Cranbrook Science Institute set me straight.  After whining briefly about wanting a snack--it was lunchtime, after all--the Anarchist happily set about exploring the dinosaur exhibits.  "Ooh...a troodon!  I LOVE that one!  He is so CUTE!"  She proceeded to dig in the pretend "excavation" sites for dinosaur bones, color dinosaur pictures, and play with plastic dinosaurs.  There was only one episode of tantrum-y rage, involving her inability to share a little red toy dinosaur with an adorable and helpless infant, but we'll ignore that moment, as it was not indicative of her museum behavior, as a whole.

The Dictator expresses her disgust at being forced
to remain inside a museum filled with one of her
favorite things--dinosaurs--for a second longer.

The Dictator, on the other hand, was a whining nightmare.  After briefly enjoying the pteranodon display, she quickly turned vicious.  "I don't WANT to look have my picture taken...I only want to go home right away!"  She didn't want to see the mammoth, the cultural exhibits, the gift shop, or the super-phenomenal insect display.  "I NEVER want to look at ANYTHING!"  Okay, then.  In the excavation exhibit, she became extremely dictatorial, instructing other children that it was no longer time to dig up fossils, but to re-bury them.  And rue the day the Dictator is left without a small stool ("but not the red kind") upon which to sit whilst digging...I mean, "re-burying."  Oh man, was I wrong about her museum-enjoying capabilities!

Luckily, the day was saved by the, apparently, fascinating and child-hypnotizing kinetic motion machine in a tiny wing off the main drag of the museum.  The kids spent a half an hour following moving balls like mesmerized kittens while the Bureaucrat and I took a much-needed rest on a bench.  So the day wasn't entirely wasted.  At the end of it, the Dictator even thanked us for the "best treat ever."  I assumed she was talking about the fruit snacks I had bought her from the vending machine downstairs, but lo and behold, she assured me that she meant the trip to the museum.  So maybe I do have two museum kids after all...that would be nice, but I'm thinking it might be too much to hope for.

Check out some pictures of our little adventure, here:

The Bureaucrat makes the trip that is startlingly
similar to his weekend commute on his day off.
What a nice husband I have!

I always win the prize for most photogenic!

She sang joyfully the entire trip.

The Dictator was the picture of pure happiness...until we got to the museum.

See...everyone is satisfied.  That's because we
haven't actually ventured into the museum yet.

Here we are in the interactive section. 
The Bureaucrat is trying to engage the Dictator in
some creative play...to no avail.  She is already deeply
concerned with dictating how the other children play
with the excavation exhibit. 

While at the museum, this happened
to my tights.  I had to go around the rest
of the day looking like a street walker.
And you don't see me throwing a tantrum,
do you?  (That's because I threw it in the
bathroom stall where nobody could see me).

Loner at the Cheez-It Table

Cool kids at the Fruit Snacks Table.

Segregated Snacking.  The Anarchist, the Dictator and Mini Mommy
shun the Bitty Bruiser, whose unfortunate snack choice--Cheez Its--
won her a seat at the table for losers.

Some more angry shots with the dinosaurs.
The Anarchist calmed down shortly after this
was taken.  The Dictator stayed angry "forever!"

The Anarchist interacts with
all the interactive displays...

...nerdily reads all the plaques...

...and plans to spend the night at the museum...with
this chick, who introduced her virtual self as "Meg."
"I like you, Meg!  You're so cute!  How are you?" asks
the Anarchist, clearly lacking a firm grasp on reality.

The Anarchist really enjoyed the bug exhibit.  The Dictator growled
at the bug exhibit.

All's well that ends well.  Thanks Kinetic Motion Exhibit.

Thanks for giving me two museum kids, after all.

The Anarchist asked to go back later that night.

The Dictator claimed that she "loved" the museum.

A happy Dictator equals a happy Morton family.

Hu's fault.

The Dictator engages in coloring fun with Grandma.
Here, she demonstrates hideous crayon-grip technique.

In an earlier post, I discussed the rigorous training of kindergarten children that will doubtless put them ahead of all those Chinese five and six year-olds that think they're so darned smart.  The bulk of this training consists of a handwriting regimen that would make a 1950's Catholic school nun proud.  Since that time, many handwriting-related developments have/have not taken place.


Update:

• We still haven't even touched our handwriting packet that is due in a week--I say "our," because obviously, there's no way she's going to do it without me, and that's the point.  I'm supposed to be in on the whole plan.  They learn better that way.  Also, it's much easier for your kids to know whether or not they should report you to the proper authorities for disloyalty based upon your willingness to help Mother America in her campaign for world domination via handwriting...or not.  

• After volunteering in the Dictator's class last week, I was much relieved to discover that, despite numerous pleas that the Bureaucrat and I work with the Dictator on her apparently sub-par handwriting technique, by no means does she have the worst handwriting in her class.  Her "5"s don't look like "2"s...or "S"s, for that matter.  I'd say that's something...especially after observing some of those other munchkins struggling with writing numbers on math worksheets--and understandably so...let me reiterate: they're FIVE!  In fact, in my inexpert opinion, her handwriting is actually quite nice for that of a five year old.  It's at least as nice as Pretty Headband Girl's handwriting, and Pretty Headband Girl is Pretty Headband Girl, for pete's sake!

• This morning, I was devastated and, quite frankly, horrified to discover a note in the Dictator's backpack that revived all my old fears about my daughter's handwriting-related inadequacy.  "We are working on the Dictator's pencil grip.  Please help her practice at home holding a cotton ball in her palm as she writes...or ELSE!"*  Okay, so that last part wasn't actually explicitly written, but it was strongly implied.  I panicked.  If my daughter can't correctly grip a pencil, how will she ever succeed in life/topple the Communistic regime that is China/establish economic world dominance for her nation?  Frantically, I searched through her bag for clues...anything to help me understand what had gone so terribly wrong. I soon discovered a plastic bag, neatly tucked behind the note (okay, so all my frantic searching was really rather ludicrous and mostly for show. I like drama).  In the bag was a stubby pencil, a wadded up piece of cotton or tissue or something, a broken crayon, and a severed finger.  Okay, so the last object wasn't actually there, but it was strongly implied.  I know now what I have to do.

• For the next nine days, while other families are splashing around in Florida, or whatever it is people with money do on midwinter break, the Dictator and I will be jamming wadded up paper into her palm and concerning ourselves with pencil grip as we complete her handwriting packet with the dedication of two patriots who love their country, hate Communism, love handwriting, and hate Hu. 
  
  To be fair, I don't actually hate Mr. Hu Jintao.  I don't even hate Communism.  I don't love it (don't blacklist me, don't blacklist me), but I don't hate it.  I mostly hate handwriting packets and I'm projecting this hatred onto a safe scapegoat.  Because I'd rather face the wrath of an entire nation with the potential to muster enough economic strength to compete globally or what-have-you, than let on to the Dictator that there might be something about her school's curriculum I'm less than excited about.  Because the good lord knows that child would find a way to use my negativity to conquer me, her school, and the rest of the world.  And she would really give Hu a run for his money...unless he engaged her in a pencil-gripping contest.

* For those who are unaware, I tend toward exaggeration.  I actually adore the Dictator's teacher, disagreements about the importance of early handwriting perfection notwithstanding.  She's funny, energetic, patient, creative, fun and lovely.  And the Dictator has fun in her class...that is, as much fun as a dictator can have when she is not the one in charge.  Both the Dictator and the Anarchist are extremely lucky to have the teachers that they do this year.  I don't know how teachers do it.  And I'm afraid to ask.  Because then they might tell me...and I'd have no excuses left for being a mediocre parent.

Coffee Culture

The Anarchist participates in Operation Caffeination at
The Coffee Bean.  She is assisted by her trusty,
"chocolate milk, chocolate milk."

In my previous post, I discussed the intense academic training it is necessary for our children to undergo in preparation for our economic/handwriting war against China.  And while the entire Morton family is working hard to assure that our nation wins that war, there is another form of preparation going on, too.  Because the fact of the matter is that there is always the potential that the United States will not  fall to Chinese efficiency (I mean, they've got a way disproportionate population of rural old folk with which to contend, so it's possible, right?).  In this case, our subdivision would not turn into rice paddies, and things would continue as normal in Mid-American Suburbia.  Hence, our contingency plan:  Operation Caffeination.

Operation Caffeination refers to the socialization process by which the Dictator and Anarchist become familiar and comfortable living within the complexities of borgeouis culture.

Within middle-class suburban culture,
it is crucial to develop a conversational style
that appears intense and important while
remaining trivial.

The Anarchist works on her
"concerned about the state of humanity" look.

Looking pretentiously over-educated
is a crucial part of coffee shop culture.

The training begins early and occurs often.  The Dictator has already completed her initial course of cultural submersion.  The Anarchist is in the midst of hers.  This training consists of a daily trip to one of any number of local coffee shops.  Variety is key, as cultural mores shift subtly from franchise to franchise.

Here is the Anarchist at a Starbucks.
In this context, it is not necessary
to appear anti-establishment.  One can
happily bask in one's own conformity.

Currently, the Anarchist is undergoing courses in Elitist Facial Expressions and Masking Gossip as Intellectual Debate.  She has already successfully completed Responsible Tipping and Conversational Barista.  We plan to introduce Advanced Scone Identification and Wi-Fi and You this spring.

The Anarchist practices her skills
at a wide variety of coffee establishments.
Here she is in a cafe attached to a bookstore.
In this setting it is important to appear literate
while cramming your mouth full of cookie.

 While she is majoring in Cultural Coffee Studies, she plans to have minor concentrations in Chain Store Consumption and i-Phone Browsing.  We anticipate great success for her and hope that she will have occasion to live out her lifelong goals of either:  1)  Moving to Portland to engage in elitist hipster culture, or  2)  Becoming a suburbanite slob.  Best of luck to you, Anarchist!

Conversing about non-important issues as if they have far-reaching significance.

Handwriting, Homework and Hu: beating the Chinese one pencil stroke at a time.

Flashback to 1995:  A roomful of wide-eyed eighth graders is receiving a rousing lecture from the Superintendent of the school district on the importance of science and language in the curriculum.  “We need YOU to be able to compete globally.  It will be essential that each and every one of you take four years of Spanish computer programming and engineering in order for our country to continue to thrive!”  he says with a great deal of certainty.  My urbane, and way-more-cultured-than-the-rest-of-us friend looks up with a bemused grin, sets aside the legwarmer she is knitting (way ahead of the knitting trend), and asks how it is essential for ALL of us to learn these things, considering some of us might intend to go into the arts.  “Why do I need to learn Spanish and computer programming if I intend to pursue a career in dance?  And what about the importance of developing a greater cultural understanding and a base of creative citizens through encouraging a wider education in the liberal arts and humanities?”  The Superintendent looks at her with a look that says that the answer should be clear to everyone—and which also, I believe, proves how foreign the concepts of humanities and culture are to his business-consumed mind—and says, “To beat the Chinese of course!”*

Flash forward to 2011:  A classroom full of exhausted and confused kindergarteners is darting frantically from station to station, practicing handwriting, counting by 2s, 5s and 10s, memorizing sight words, and working diligently on fine motor development.  The little boys are bored, discouraged and antsy, as they would much prefer to fling blocks at each other.  The little girls are tired and dazed from trying so hard all day long.  No one gets play time; no one gets recess.  Watch out China…we’re catching up!

 

The Dictator traces the number "6" with agonizing
concentration.  All for the cause, my tiny compatriot,
all for the cause.

Kindergarten curriculum has come a long way since inflatable Letter People, singalongs, and sand tables.  Kindergarteners are expected to learn to read and write at a capacity their parents would not have reached until 3rd grade, at least.  And of course, there are only so many hours in a day, so this necessitates homework...for five-year-olds.  Never mind that the Dictator can't yet tie her shoes or understand the basic social mores involved in sharing toys; she is one more soldier in the fight for world dominance, and she will practice reading, math and handwriting with the passion befitting such a warrior.  

A very special celebration for the students who
return their work on time.  A very special shaming
ceremony for those who do not. 

Wait...did I just say handwriting?  Obviously.  What better way to beat the Chinese and their dastardly Communist regime than by correct letter formation?  The Dictator frequently gets letters home urging us to drill her more diligently in this area.  It seems that correct letter formation is crucial to "competing globally" and showing Hu Jintao who's boss. In light of this, the Dictator has brought home more than one dense handwriting homework packet, in which she is expected to demonstrate "quality work."  

The goal of such rigorous training is twofold.  First, it weeds out the weak.  You can't sit still long enough to plow through 26 pages of drudgery because you're a six-year-old boy?  Can't quite grip that pencil correctly because your tiny, newly-hatched brain has yet to develop the necessary fine motor skills?  You would rather play with your dolls and take a much-needed nap than work on homework for two hours after school?  Weakling!  You fail!  The Communists will eat you alive!  Nothing like a little social Darwinism to up the academic ante, eh?

 Secondly, if for some reason, the United States does  fail to live up to its China-destroying goals (perhaps due to those ridiculous arts programs eating away at precious Spanish language and engineering class time), the next generation of American children might stand a fighting chance at surviving in our newly-colonized society.  After all, Chinese characters are even harder  to write.

So write on, little Dictator!  The nation applauds you.  And for all your self-sacrificing work we say, "Thank you."  I mean, "gracias."

The Dictator has her game face on. 
Take that, Hu!

The Anarchist gets a jumpstart
on handwriting practice.  Doing
her nation proud!

*At the time, I considered asking if it wouldn't be more useful to advocate courses in conversational Mandarin, rather than Spanish, if it was the Chinese we sought to "beat."  But the man clearly knew what he was talking about.  In retrospect it is obvious to me that Spanish and handwriting are the two most crucial tools in our arsenal if we are to maintain our dominance as a society.  I'm glad I didn't question him...it turns out he was a prophetic genius.