Jersey Boys

My son used his Christmas and birthday money to buy a $100 Aaron Hernandez Patriots jersey back in January. I don’t think I have a single picture of him these past six months where he isn't floating somewhere inside that jersey. He wouldn't allow it in the dryer because he didn’t want the the enormous #81 to crack. He'd take it off before he ate anything with tomato sauce so that he wouldn't stain it. He'd pull it on before the start of each Patriots game. He was wearing it when he chose Hernandez as his #1 Fantasy Football draft pick.

Last week he asked me to throw it away.

Number 81 represented all the shiny stars a 13-year-old could reach for if he worked hard enough and remembered to dream big. Now it presents just another dull life lesson. I'm sad for all the children whose hero turned into a monster.

I was reminded of a post I wrote a few years back about bad role models, middle school Sex Ed, and a man appropriately named Weiner.

From 2011 ...

As my children wrap up fifth grade this week, they also conclude a three-week unit in Adolescence, where they openly discussed the physical changes attached to puberty; matters of maturity and acceptance; and the basic, no-nonsense biology of the reproductive system.

Did I mention my sons are eleven? Trust me, there is always some nonsense. Suffice it to say that many exciting new words have been released into my house where they swoop down on me like Bald Eagles dive-bombing salmon. The onslaught typically begins when one of the boys holds up the anatomically correct diagrams of the male and female reproductive organs and begins identifying each part. This means I will undoubtedly hear the word “penis” no less than fifty times, quickly followed by a list of every slang term known to my children and all of their classmates. This makes for some lively discussions and a whole lot of laughing as my boys can’t help acting like, well, eleven-year-old boys.

It also prompts the inevitable lines of questioning about sex and sexuality that I’ve been preparing for and dreading since the day they were born. After much reading and research, and countless discussions with fellow parents, I finally developed what I deemed to be the most suitable and appropriate answers. They go something like this: “Ask your father”, “Your father can answer that”, “Oh, that’s a perfect question for Dad”, and finally, “Dad knows all about that, go find him, I think he’s hiding in the broom closet.”

But we do answer all their questions and participate with them in the very necessary discussions. As it turns out, it’s much easier than we thought. It’s the sex scandal du jour that keeps throwing us off our game.

My children, like all children these days, can never be completely shielded from the media and its gleeful penchant for broadcasting ad nauseam the bad behavior and missteps of anyone in the public eye. My kids have been hearing, in their periphery, about the dirty deeds of such “role models” as Bill Clinton, Tiger Woods, Kobe Bryant, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and John Edwards for the majority of their lives. But most of it skimmed over their heads, as they didn’t understand enough of it to interest them. It was essentially background noise. No longer. With each new scandal, gaps are being filled and lightbulbs are going off, catching their attention, their curiosity, and their amusement. But more often than not, they are left confused.

Their new enlightenment into the world of sex has collided head on with their often hero-like worship of athletes, celebrities and politicians. And it’s their parents who are left to guide them through the wreckage.

What is a love child? What is adultery? What is a high-priced call girl? Why does she cost so much? (All actual questions, by the way.)

Beyond the sex-related aspects, I must help my children separate and reconcile the real and admirable achievements of a superstar athlete, governor and president with their very human failings. It’s an opportunity to talk about core values such as respect for women and, most importantly, respect for yourself.

And then, just when you think you can close the door on the latest scandal, in stumbles the biggest punch line EVER for a fifth grade boy. Drum roll please …

Weiner.

The twit.

I mean, come ON. It’s impossible for my children not to latch on to this one. The name, the pictures, the jokes … everything so attractive to a tweenage boy … and it’s all right there on the 5:00 news. And on the playground, and in the lunchroom and just about everywhere else they look. It’s like a middle school Molotov cocktail. It obviously blew up in Weiner’s face, and yet it’s the parent, once again, who must run damage control for this person’s stupidity.

I'm Sorry, Butt-Face

We have a saying in our house:

It’s not an apology if it’s followed by a “but.”

Or a Butt.

Or a Butt-face.

I originally imparted this valuable nugget of wisdom to the boys one summer day when they were four years old and strapped tightly to their car seats with no viable opportunity for escape. The late afternoon heat was piercing the passenger-side window with the precision of a supervillian's laser beam, causing the unlucky twin on that side of the car to swipe angrily at the itchy, wet spikes of hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks.

The full, round sun angled its face down at us and lit up the following scene like a spotlight: Overheated Boy A pelts hard plastic object at Overtired Boy B, hitting him squarely on that jutting part of the eyebrow that heroically takes the brunt of so much damage during the early years of childhood.

The shock of the impact garnered a few seconds of deceptive silence, which increased in suspense until Boy B sufficiently gathered the necessary oxygen into his thoroughly outraged little lungs to let loose a deafening, extended wail, ensuring that ...

1) All of Route One knew he had been victimized; and
2) Every abutting motorist snapped a picture of my license plate to match against future Amber Alerts.

Since I was still a good 20 minutes from home (despite the steadily increasing pressure of my foot on the gas pedal) I thought I’d turn this Kodak moment into one of those teaching moments I had read about in the pediatrician’s waiting room. I sternly commanded Boy A to say he was sorry, which he did immediately. This caused the car alarm that was my other son’s mouth to stutter out a few final beeps before shutting off completely.

Easy peasy.

I was clearly very good at this. I decided to take it up a notch and expound on the importance of a good apology by explaining that one should never qualify an apology with an excuse, thus rendering said apology null and void. But because my current audience still employed the use of training wheels and the occasional nighttime Pull-Up, I opted to keep it simple.

Boys, I said loftily, never say I’m sorry and follow it with a but.

Yes. I used that word.

To two four-year-old boys.

The lesson exploded right then and there into thousands of giggles that bounced around my car's interior like shiny, rainbow orbs before popping into shrieks of full-bellied laughter. The rearview mirror framed two heart-stoppingly beautiful, gap-toothed grins stained the color of Wyler’s grapes.

I’m sorry, BUTT!

I’m sorry, BUTT! 

The joyous refrain rang out all the way home, evolving into I’m sorry, Butt-face as we veered off our exit; and I’m sorry, Butt-head as we pulled into the driveway. They had just latched onto the hilarious favorite of the day, I’m sorry, Butt-nose, as I set them free to fly across our yard, reveling in the unrivaled bliss that can only be found in the magical mix of a gorgeous summer evening and an unfettered stream of potty words released with hearty, outside voices.

We are still, almost ten years later, known to lighten a heavy moment or argument with an I’m sorry followed by an under-the-breath Butt or a loud-and-proud Butt-face. Sometimes someone might even shout from another room an added Butt-head.

I won’t apologize for it.

Because without fail, somewhere behind the butt, comes a smile. 

Did you know it’s impossible … impossible … to stay mad at someone when you’re smiling?

Whatever works, right?

Law Abiding Citizens

My twin, teenagery sons are two things above all else.

Thing one: They are die-hard, obsessed, over-the-top-committed, wake-up-in-the-morning-singing-Sweet-Caroline-oh-oh-oh, Red Sox fanaticals. (Thank you, Dad.)

Thing two: They are hungry. All the time, every time, five minutes after dinnertime, they are hungry. 

I’m convinced no matter how much money we pump into their overpriced educations they will ultimately emerge as food vendors at Fenway Park.

Lately, however, I’ve been considering they might take up law. This wouldn’t be unusual in our family; two of my children’s grandparents and about 150 of their aunts and uncles are lawyers. From the moment my kids began to talk, they would argue circles around us until our heads twisted off like pop tops. (Thank you, Grandpa.)

Both my children are big talkers who, much to our combined delight and dismay, tend to overinform. No matter how simple the question, we’d get long, winding answers that would take us on excruciatingly descriptive journeys to places no parent wants to be—for example, the boy’s bathroom, where we’d get, um, authentic sound effects and memorized recitations of EVERYHING scrawled on the walls. We’d learn who likes whom and what the girls write in the messages they stick in their boyfriend’s locker. We’d hear all about each friend’s boasted “experience” with sex and other cringe-worthy topics that make my brain scream in horror, even as I maintain the sedate, attentive smile that keeps them talking.

We are informed of what every single child in the cafeteria eats for lunch that is so much better than what I provide; who did what on the playground, who got away with it and who got busted. We’d find out what someone said to my son that hurt his feelings, and what he was contemplating saying back in retribution. We’d also learn from one son what the other son watched on Showtime, which prompted the news that the first son was up texting until 3 am.

All I asked was if they had a math test.

But lately I’ve been noticing a new trend. I don’t know if it’s their age, hormones, or just that their mouths are too tired from so much chewing, but recently my dialogue with them has felt more like a deposition.

How was school?
“I don't recall.”

What did you eat for lunch?

“I cannot say.”

Did you finish your homework?

“I do not know.”

Who threw the wet, muddy baseball and two caked baseball gloves into my laundry basket filled with previously clean sheets and towels?

“Uhhhhh,” they’d stall, glancing sideways at each other for what I can only assume is legal representation …

“We plead the fifth.”

Eventually the floodgates reopen and we once again get much more than we bargained for—usually after dinner, or after their after-dinner dinner, or past 11 pm on a school night when they just finished their third dinner and should be sleeping but the Red Sox are in extra innings and there is no way they're missing that. 

That's OK, as long as I can keep 'em talking ... I don't even care if their mouths are full.

Pink and Purple Vellum

There’s a moment at the end of each day that I live for—when the sky opens up like an envelope and spills out the final pages of the evening in sheets of pink and purple vellum. At some point during this elaborate goodnight, Calm settles over my house with a relieved sigh and everything is blessedly still and quiet.

This is the moment when I see my life as a whole and I can right the pieces of perspective that got knocked over in the last 24 hours. It’s when I pray and listen and see and hear.

By the time twilight beds down and the stars take over, I can sleep renewed with the faith that all will unfold as it should.  

The View From Up There

My 13-year-old son was given his first detention last week. His infraction was being inside the school building after school without permission. It had been raining outside, so he went inside to work on his science homework with a student who knew how to do the science homework. This all seemed very commonsensical to my son. 

But it was against the rules. And rules are rules are rules. And some rules tend to bead up and roll off his palms, landing on the blacktop in hard splats before his fingers ever have the chance to close around them.

I asked my son what his detention would be and he said he would have to … wait for it … stay after school and do his homework.

Methinks it was the moment he grabbed that particular bit of irony by the scruff and held it in front of the principal’s nose for a good, fragrant whiff that his fate was truly and properly sealed.

To be honest, I can’t believe it took him until the end of seventh grade to get detained. This particular son is an out-of-the-box kid constantly charging into the sharp corners and rock-solid walls of a sturdy middle school.

He’s not a rebel, he aims to please. He’s outgoing, personable, inventive, and bright. But he sees the world from the sky, in wide open format, not neatly contained in a rubric. He’s an idea man, cogs spinning, thoughts flying, impulses hurtling, sometimes plummeting. His increasing challenges will be to manage the controls, stay on course, apply the brake every once in a while, and bring it all in for a safe landing. Oh, I have every confidence this child will soar in life. It’s me, I fear, who will require the use of more than a few air-sickness bags while I ride shotgun in what I forecast to be a bumpy trip through the fixed hallways of high school.

For me, the view from up where my son navigates is new, different and a bit scary. Although I guess it shouldn’t be. I married a man whose toes have never once been anchored to the ground or housed inside anything even remotely cube-shaped. I, on the other foot, am just hunky-dory peering out at the world from the inside of a cardboard cut-out window pane. I’m content drawing colorful pictures on the interior, load-bearing walls. I’m happy curled up in a precise 90-degree corner reading a book with minimal conflict and a happy ending. I’m well insulated from loud noises and when necessary, can easily refer to a how-to manual that’s sensibly outlined and tabbed, with a glossary and frequently-asked-questions page. The calendar affixed to the wall orders my day in the same precise way the nuns did during my 13 precise years in Catholic school.

Yes, I am happily ensconced in the box and am not coming out without a good prescription. If I am ever out of my comfort zone you can be sure it’s because I tripped and fell out or someone lured me out with something chocolate and gooey.

Give me a treat and call me Marley, I just realized I’m crate trained.

I think that’s why I admire, and sometimes envy, the very same qualities in my son that guarantee every year I’ll get to know his teachers on a first-name basis. My son is not afraid. He’ll make a decision and make it happen, leaving his detractors bobbing in his wake, their mouths filled with salt water. He’ll argue a point so far into the ground you can almost see China. But after the bursts of the day’s activities have fizzled into cricket calls and chamomile tea, I can vaguely detect the tiniest glow emanating from each of those impressions. I realize he’s just staking his claims in his own, unique and beautiful life. He’s laying the groundwork and mapping a flight plan … from a much broader vantage point than I ever could.

Timepieces

I pulled back the cardboard flap and glimpsed a small patch of lemon yellow wicker. I knew immediately what it was. I felt lightheaded as the memories overcame me in one big rush of awareness. It was as if a ghost, freed at last from its musty confinement, grabbed my arm and yanked me into a wormhole, spinning me backwards to a time when parents lived forever. 

That plain, brown box humbly housed all my mother's handbags, perfectly preserved and sleeping comfortably between delicate layers of aging tissue paper. I knew these purses. They were lost friends. I could easily recall in clearest detail every one of them and the evenings they represented, decades before, when I was still a young girl and my mother was Cinderella.

Back then, I’d sit on my parents’ bed and leisurely investigate the contents of that night's designated clutch while my mother arranged herself inside the bold blocks and psychedelic swirls of the 70s or, later on, the sparkling sequins and impressive shoulder pads of the 80s. I’d dab lipstick on the back of my hand and peel off a peppermint from a new roll of Certs as she clipped on glittering earrings and stepped purposefully through a puff of perfume. 

"That way you won't overwhelm the guests with the scent," she'd advise.

Sometimes my mother would let me trip across the room in her high heels, with a floppy hat covering one eye and a dangling purse bumping my shin with every other step.

I’d revel in having my mother all to myself; my brothers finding no interest or joy whatsoever in the process of powder and polish. Absent was the constant commotion that accompanied a house filled with kids. Here there was only Calm, with gentle smiles, relaxed “grown-up” conversation, and a little bit of bibbity-bobbity-boo. The fragrance, colors and piles of pretty things all mounted together to transform this morning’s mother into tonight’s princess.

I ran my fingertips over the various textures tucked inside the box. I remembered vividly the clatter of the bright orange plastic beads and the scratch of the turquoise raffia. I had told my mother to reserve the maroon handbag for Midnight Mass because the rows of crimson-painted, wooden balls looked like cranberries lining up for a garland. All we needed was popcorn, a needle and some thread. 

I had been hesitant to hold, in my clunky, adolescent fingers, the particularly magical creations that gleamed like jewels. A gold one moved like molten lava from palm to palm and a blue metallic mesh design twinkled from cobalt to teal to midnight depending on where the light slid across it. One bag was dressed in nothing but pearls, one after the other ... surely a treasure like this was much more valuable than anything you could hide inside!

I had used the sunny yellow “picnic basket” to carry snacks for backyard luncheons with my friends. One warm afternoon I swung it in big, windmill circles until the dizzy handle finally had enough of my shenanigans and snapped. The streaming wicker arched out of my hand in a soaring bid for flight, only to smack full force into the trunk of a pine tree and fall to the grass with a dull thud. I thought I had destroyed it for good, but here it was, almost 35 years later, waiting patiently for our reunion in a lonely storage unit in the middle of nowhere. It had held up better than I had, the still-broken strap glibly reminding me in my mother's voice to always treat other people’s things with respect and to think before I act.

In January of 2013, I displayed a group of the purses in Boston's Museum of Science Who Collects exhibit. My mother got a kick out of seeing her old "pocketbooks" in a musuem.  And yes, they were displayed directly beneath a collection of vintage “air-sick” bags. She was sitting up in her hospital bed when I showed her the pictures and she exclaimed softly, "Oh, my word." 

Read the first part of this post in Tiny Compartments.

Sentences and Syllables

I have five new voicemails from my mother. My not-so-smart phone alerts me to this fact with blinking urgency every time I turn it on.

So I leave it off.

My mother left me those messages four weeks before she died, and only a few days before her hands grew too tired to grasp the phone. The same fingers that had once skillfully skated across piano keyboards like an Olympic ice dancer were now too weak to press the giant, illuminated key I had pre-programmed to connect her to her children.

Five new voicemails. Sentences and syllables uttered just for me … mere days before her words dissolved into fragile threads too thin to travel the distance between her lips and the receiver. A few days later her words would disappear altogether. I was with her by then and her eyes told me everything I didn’t want to know.

I had kept my phone with me at all times, resting it on the corner of my desk or on the console in my car. I charged it on my nightstand while I slept and when I woke up, I tucked it in my pocket, purse, or the thick wool socks I perpetually wore to stamp out the New England cold. Still I managed to miss some of her calls. When that happened, I'd call her back immediately, not delaying to play the messages first. More than three months later, the recordings still lie dormant, quietly signaling me like the flash of a firefly on a summer evening.

I know my mother’s voice like I know the color red. It’s bright behind my retinas, and the dominate primary determining the shades in my spectrum. I want to hear my mother speak my name again the same way I want to breathe the sweet spring air after a stagnant, gray winter. But my throat seizes at the thought.

This Sunday would be a good time to listen. Mother’s Day. It seems so logical, beautiful even. But I'm not sure. The finality would be brutal; and finality is a heavily weighted concept I’m still trying to grasp, my own fingers too tired to wrap around its bulk and press its damned pre-programmed key.

Sticks and Stones

A writer I follow and respect recently had some spiteful words hurled at her like a clump of mud. She washed it off as best she could but some bits dried and stuck and took more effort to scratch off. I suspect a dull residue remains that will take even longer to fully remove.

Last week I wrote about a particularly mean comment I received. The malice in those words lied in wait, crouched and still, ready to pounce on me the minute I haplessly wandered to the comment section below my post. The attack left me stunned, dizzy and seeing stars. I shook it off and moved on, refusing to give in to the almost seductive power those words had to create doubt and insecurity.

I don’t know why people choose to hurt. I imagine it originates from a need to feel powerful. I do know that few things are more powerful than words, especially when they’re strategically constructed and launched from behind the barricade of a computer screen and the shield of anonymity.

I can’t stop a person from being hurtful if that’s their intent. But I can make sure, to the best of my parental ability, that neither of my children (who are currently polishing off the last of the many, many groceries I bought only yesterday) follow suit.

I taught my sons, from the moment they blew their first raspberry, that name-calling is bad; and they get it. But as teenagers they will joke around, tossing about unkind and useless words like a casual game of catch, not realizing the strength of their arms or the faults in their aim. They don’t understand that somewhere an innocent window is about to get smashed. They don’t grasp the potential damage of their wordplay, especially when it involves social media, where the bulk of their "words" consist of a mere three letters ...  at most ... and no vowels! 

Words can be weapons, permanent in their destruction. But they are not arrows that simply fall dead on the ground if a target is not lined up in front of them like a row of tin cans. Cruel words and ridicule are heat-seeking missiles that tirelessly search out a live, beating heart until they zero in on one. That’s their programmed purpose, their mission, from the moment they are carelessly or carefully launched … online, out in the great wide open, or even quietly in our heads.

Words are a responsibility. Handle with care. Exercise with caution.

And above all, be kind. 

No Toe Seams: Sensory Issues and Socks

My son, at age 7 and in second grade, had a big problem with socks. Like many children that age, he would sometimes hyper-fixate on random, arbitrary matters, mainly, I’m convinced, to test the stamina of his parents. In this case, the matter was socks. Big socks, small socks, short socks, tall socks. Red socks, blue socks, old socks, new socks. It didn’t matter; my son did not like socks. Not even in a box with a fox.

At the crux of the matter was the sensation of the sock. Every sock was too scratchy, stiff or bumpy. And, oh, the drama we had surrounding that awful seam across the toe; “Too lumpy, Mom, too lumpy!”

Few socks felt comfortable in his shoes, where they would bunch up, ride up, or slip down. It was maddening. Every morning was the same; I would call for him to get dressed and come down for breakfast, and he would remain in his bedroom waging a private war with an ever-growing pile of socks. School mornings would end with me screaming for him to just pick a sock, any sock; we’re going to be late! He’d grow increasingly anxious and as the minutes wound down he’d finally slip the best of the bunch onto his feet and trudge miserably down the stairs.

Many mornings ended in tears. Most mornings we missed breakfast and raised our voices. ALL mornings I felt consumed with crushing guilt that, once again, my son began his day in a state of distress. 

As a mother I should handle this better. But what was this? Was it a phase, a test, or something normal to just get through? Worse, was my son showing signs of an actual disorder? Could he have sensory issues? OCD? Was he somewhere on that dreaded spectrum? Maybe he just had his father’s stubbornness.

After much trial and error, I finally found the cure-all sock that passed all his exhaustive standards. These socks were thin, smooth, soft, snug, and had NO TOE SEAMS. It even said so in big words across the package, gladdening my heart because now I knew that “no toe seams” mattered to other people too.

When I showed the socks to my son you would have thought it was Christmas, his birthday and the first day of Red Sox season rolled into one. The package contained six pairs and so we both went to sleep that night knowing we had six happy, stress-free mornings coming our way. I woke up and made pancakes, and we ate them with plenty of time to walk to school.

That night I came to a realization. This problem was fixable—without doctors, tough love, or self-help books. The next morning I bought 100 pair of those magical socks, blissfully paying $187.59 while picturing my World War II veteran grandfather shaking his head at the waste and absurdity of it all.

Together, my son and I emptied his sock drawer and lined up the new socks in five neat rows of ten, with an additional layer on top. My son went to sleep assured that, for the next 100 days, he would have a perfect pair of socks waiting for him in his drawer. Our nights were absent the arguments and stress, and our mornings flowed free and unfettered. He was dressed with time to spare. My blood pressure returned to normal and the screaming came to a halt.

The biggest surprise was that we hadn’t made it through half the socks before the issue disappeared and went by way of most childhood peculiarities—just an embarrassing anecdote to use at their weddings. By pair forty-something, my son started grabbing whatever socks were closest at hand. Dirty? Didn’t matter. His brother’s? Didn’t care. Toe seam? “Mom, that’s silly, who cares about that?”

For a moment, I indulged in that rarest event in all of motherhood: Triumph. I had efficiently and effectively solved this problem with no lasting damage to my son. Nope, my son would not be reporting to some psychologist about how his mother deprived him of sufficient footwear, thus destroying any chance for his future happiness, success, or ability to sustain a healthy relationship.

I know my son could have reached this point without an enormous pile of new socks. And maybe my mother-in-law was right when she said my solution was typical of the parental indulgence that is ruining our society and future generations. But the way I see it, I single-handedly shut down forty-some days of anxiety, worry and angst for both my son and myself. I gifted us with forty-some nights of extra laughs and bedtime stories, and forty-some mornings of order, relaxation, and pancakes. There is a price for happiness after all, and in our case it was $187.59.

Building a Better Lint Trap

Last week, a reader accused me of being a navel gazer.

At first I got all “horror movie” and thought she was peering through my windows because I do happen to glance at my stomach quite often. I like to be in tune with how far it might be protruding. In my defense, I was once pregnant with twins. For six months of my life I was nothing but navel. You don’t easily get over something like that.

This particular reader disliked my Cardinal Rue post. It was barely a post, really, just a few words describing a melancholy moment when I missed my mom. I mentioned a red bird and some bushes. Apparently the reader does not like birds. Or mothers. Or people who write about birds and mothers. Oh, how my “drivel” offended her. After bashing me in the head a few times with inappropriate words, she called me fat. Or I thought she did. It was hard to tell with the concussion and all. But when the stars cleared, I realized “navel gazing” was a legitimate literary term invoking the cute little belly button of all things. Being a literary type myself, I looked it up.

It turns out navel gazers are “Eastern mystics who stare fixedly at their own navels to induce a mystical trance.”

MeanGirl thinks I’m a mystic? Well, OK then. I contortedly concentrated on my core, but all I induced was a crick in my neck and crossed eyes. The navel is a pretty awkward place in which to dig for enlightenment. The whole thing didn’t seem very literary-like so I kept looking.

A little more research and I got it. A navel gazer is … a blogger. A narcissistic, indulgent writer who glorifies his life excessively in bursts of purple prose with little regard to proper vocabulary or sentence structure. A blogger.

Literaturely speaking (yes, I made up that word; my umbilicus told me to), navel gazing refers to the writer’s idea that his belly button is the absolute best and brightest in all the land and everyone will want to immediately drop their copies of Dostoyevsky and read all about it in 140 characters or less; or better yet, in fuzzy detail on his award winning blog, The Ins and Outs of Abe Domen.

The concern among literates is that the resulting lint buildup will “dumb down” the process and product of the writer and, by default, the reader. In other words, Abe is destroying the world as we know it.

Well, maybe changing it a bit.

Consider that the average reader reads at a seventh-grade level. If he spends his designated reading time climbing the posts of Social Media, there’s a good chance he might not even reach that seventh-grade rung, let alone anything above it. What standard for reading and writing is being developed?

Let’s carry the concern up another flight of stairs. Amazon is shuttering our bookstores; gadgets are replacing the rustle of pages; and the Great American Novel is suffocating beneath this week’s trending compilation of essays currently topping the Best Seller List.

The grumbles all sound a bit valid when I put them in my own words, the ones I found scrawled on my tummy.

But they also sound reminiscent of the worries wrought when the radio, television, and Information Superhighway were all first introduced.

So do we need to build a better lint trap?

I don’t know. My stomach’s growling (I looked) and Shorty, my roving attention span, just found a recipe on Pinterest I’m dying to try. I’ll post a pic of my plate on Facebook and tell you all about my full and happy tummy in my blog.