[harpsichord plays in the background]

I have an upstairs neighbor who plays the harpsichord. He has two in his apartment. Each is worth $35,000. That is a lot of money. He is playing on one right now. I am glad he is.

I need to hear the melodic sounds of something ancient (to me). Something less "today." Because today, I had a Day at work.

Alex is coming home this weekend; it's another long weekend. The transportation is all arranged. I'll pick him up after I meet with my career coach after another long day at work.

We plan to see "There Will Be Blood" because Daniel Day-Lewis is in it. [harpsichord plays in the background]

We also plan to see "Persopolis" if we can find a cinema that is still showing it. [harpsichord plays in the background]

And finally, something to totally dull the senses. I choose "Cloverfield." [harpsichord plays in the background, flourishes]

Alex took up piano at school because BTBSA refuses to teach harpsichord to anyone who doesn't have a year of piano. [harpsichord plays in the background]

It's so very logical.

Especially since the harpsichord preceded the piano. [someone suddenly breaks out in a soprano voice. Who is that?]

I guess that's what happens when one makes a point about harpsichords.

Just Say No to Karl

So, as you all know, my son, A, as of this year, is at boarding school. And guess who was invited to speak at his new school's commencement? That's right. Karl.

It's a controversy that's been picked up in all the media.

You see, Karl is said to have outed a covert fashion designer (who I will call Valerie Plain) because Plain's fashion critic husband wrote an article questioning Karl's...erm...claim that another designer obtained African-made couture zippers that were made of uranium and dangerous to the fashion-wearing public. So Karl-darling outed Valerie Plain which was sort of a fashion security disaster (she is no longer covert, and is working on a fabulous fashion book deal with Anna Wintour).

Of course, nobody can prove that Karl outed Valerie Plain. But it's sort of hard to ignore that all the fabulously baubled and manicured fingers point to Karl.

Then there's the other stuff that Karl has done that LaMai will not discuss here.

So a bunch of sartorially-inclined students at BTBSA decided to put on their fashionista best and challenge Karl to a catwalk at their Commencement. Karl must have gotten hot under his French-made collar, because he has since declined the invitation to speak at Commencement and will instead talk fashion in two weeks with the students.

In any case, if you've figured out what the heck I am talking about here, you can Google it. It's just so exciting.

xoxLaMai

Remember that entry?

From 11.21.05

These things tend to make me reflect.

Sigh.

Be The Change

If you click on the photo here, you will be able to view the entire slideshow of never-before published photographs of the civil rights movement. We remind ourselves that this happened because, besides knowing that our great country was known for some not so great things, we do know that we can be the vehicle for change. For ourselves (yes, I am looking at you, homeschooling parent, black and white, who labors every day to give her kids a better education) and for our communities.

Girl's Financials, Interrupted (Fabulous!)

My financial forms to BTBSA are late. I started the online financial thingy then stopped. I am now eight days late.

I am secretly hoping this means that A will have to pay full tuition, then I will say, Pffft! You're homeschooling from now on! But somehow, I know, the BTBSA endowment monies will cover it all.

Yesterday at work I had a headache with cold, and left early, but I had the presence of mind to head to the yarn shop before going home. I bought six balls of Debbie Bliss's Baby Cashmerino to finish the sweater I am making for A.

I noticed a fabulously-attired woman (read: money) sitting in the shop with her Henri Bendel bag, with a load of fabulous yarn on the table in front of her. "OMG. Where did you get that fabulous yarn?" I asked. "Oh my goodness! Isn't it fabulous?" She said. We agreed the yarn was fabulous. I have an inkling that her friends probably thinks she shops Henri Bendel and Bergdorf's but, her clothes are all made while she sits in the table in that yarn shop. She took me to the Fabulous! Yarn section. I bought one ball of Fabulous! Yarn. It cost me $21. In the yarnosphere, this is not cheap. Consider that I will need about four more balls of Fabulous! to make the Twinkle Best Friend Cardigan (sans those ball thingys that look like a part of the woman's anatomy I shall not name here), the amount of money that Fabulous! will run me will indeed leave a Fabulous hole in my bank account.

Then at home, I shopped at Chic Knits and bought three patterns and more yarn. This time, I did good. Peruvian wool in charcoal (ah, yes, I am sooo adventurous with the palette), cheap at less than $3 a ball. I bought 10.

I discovered Phildar. I logged on to knitty.com. I visited all the knitting blogs on knitty.com. (while I was sick, I did take my over-the-counter meds and drank my Kombucha).

I tried to get back to filling out the financials form for BTBSA, I really did.

But with so much fabulous yarn everywhere, looks like this girl's financials will be temporarily interrupted.

So I'm walking home from work, and now the grocery store, and two teenage street punks who were walking past me in the opposite direction, threw a bottle at me on the street. The bottle barely missed me.

When I turned around, I saw them running, and they, turning around to see me.

So I changed my direction and followed them...walking like the Terminator, serious with intent, my grocery bags in hand.

I walked.

They ran.

The two street punks ran into a Chinese restaurant across the street. I spotted them hiding on the customer bench, and I walked through the traffic, across the street and straight to the restaurant. They got up, dashed out and turned a corner on the block.

SUCK MY EGGS, they yelled.
"No. Suck mine," I said and reached for
my just-purchased eggs from the grocery store.

They saw the white oval in my fist, and as I aimed for them, they ran away too fast to waste the yolk.

I yelled out a few token things about boys running away from girls with eggs.

"You Are Awesome" Day

"Dear Students,

You are the most awesome students anywhere. Have the day off today.

Sincerely,

The Headmaster"

Of course, there was a Nor'Easter headed toward school today, but nevermind. My A is sleeping in as I type this.

I wish my boss could send my team an email like that.

Sunday D and other myths

A: "Hello, Mom?"
Me: "Yes, hon?"
A: "Um...I got Sunday detention."
Me: "How did that happen, A?"
A: "For missing winter running on Monday. I guess my absence meant detention. It's okay, though."
Me: "But *I* told you to miss winter running on Monday."
A: "I know."
Me: "I told you to miss it because the antibiotic that the school doctor gave you was making you nauseous that day. You called me, said you felt like throwing up again, so I told you to contact the coach about it and not go."
A: "I know, mom. It's okay, I'll just do the Sunday D."
Me: "You called the coach and told him why you missed it, right?
A: "Yes, of course, mom."
Me: "And doc knows, right?"
A: "YES MOM. HE KNOWS. COACH KNOWS. EVERYBODY KNOWS."
Me: "Then I don't think that's fair to you. You were just following my instruction. And for heaven's sake, you were sick."

Eleven e-mails later to the Form Dean and school doctor and winter running coach, the school doctor e-mailed me this:

"I think we can get rid of the sunday detention.....

If he hasn't heard from the dean regarding the sunday detention, he has
my permission to miss it....and if for some reason the deans
are adament about it....he can make it up sometime in the future....but
I think I will prevail.

thanks, school doctor"

I told A he owes me. Just kidding.

Back to knitting that WWII patterned sweater.

A Blog With A View

I admire a lot of edu- and personal blogs out there, and I've admired Poppins' blog for a long, long time. Okay, maybe Poppins intimidates me with her astonishing will and resourcefulness to try new things - constantly, and with ever-increasing momentum, until the new things become new projects, new skills, new ways of life. I think we started knitting around the same time (she beat me by a few months, and it must have been pure zeitgeist that I tried it at all; I had no idea Poppins was doing it as I had dropped off her blog for a bit). She was running around the same time I was doing my morning runs in the park. Then she started the secular homeschooling community site. No surprise that in typical Poppins fashion, I now plunk myself on her blog and see "Triathlete training log" thingy that she has created for her husband in her own watercolors (Flickrized) and in special font, no less (a little 70s nostalgia in the font?), a few more knitted duds with technical level up to THERE, and the kids are now sporting home sewn duds in fabrics too cool to find in a store, and they are climbing entire mountains (or something). Somehow, amidst all the fun, I figure she manages to feed her kids, and not the Dunkin' Donuts variety of food. AND -- and this is the big AND, because it's sort of "the proof is in the pudding" that she enjoys doing what she does -- Poppins looks great. Her whole family looks great. Nay, Poppins family is the hotness.

Like, mercy.

I don't wish to mention the sorts of projects I intend to attack with Poppins-like vigor (let's be honest and call it "Maitresse-like" vigor, because "Poppins-like" is a marathon, and I'm a sprinter...but darnit, my 5 seconds of doing whatever can yield pretty darn good results!). Let's just say the manuscript is on the desk, with edits, and this is looking pretty good to me right now. Plus, the other night while I was sitting in The Bitter End with a friend, I heard there's a big bluegrass contingent in Connecticut. Zeitgeist?

Also reading Poppins blog, it reminds me of how unnecessary living with the kid problems mentioned here should be. If Poppins suddenly was given a 500-American million-dollar check that didn't bounce, I think her crew would be doing the same things they are doing now. Only picking out more stashes of fabric, yarn, and traveling to more places to do their watercolors, and finding more projects to do. In the snow, and out. Still, the kids would know how to clean up after themselves and make their beds.

I could be wrong, but it's on a good hunch that I would be right.

The Republican Debate According to a 9 Year Old

This is good. Click on daily kos


* * *

The Republican Debate According to this 39-year-old (me, LaMai): click here .

John Taylor Gatto

Whoever controls the image and information of the past determines what and how future generations will think; whoever controls the information and images of the present determines how those same people will view the past.— George Orwell, 1984 (1949)

Read John Taylor Gatto's The Underground History of American Education (and thank you, Princess Ennui, for featuring the link on your blog).

The Freewheelin' LaMai

It's 12:53 PM. Do you know where you kid is?

I don't. I've called the dorm, called the cell phone, no clue where my A is.

Last night, he called me at 10 PM to tell me, "Mom, I love you." Then he informed me he was heading off to a friend's dorm to study Mandarin.

There is a possibility that he will be heading to the Royal Henley Regatta this summer. If he does, it simplifies our summer plans...a LOT. We'll stay at my friend's London home the days before, perhaps jump over to Paris for a bit, do Henley, then head home so that A can either 1) hit that science research internship or 2) his beloved Calculus class. Then we'll go sailing.

And somehow, I have to get rid of my current job in order to do the above. That's okay, I think it's already in the works.

Bitter Enabler who Verbally Attacks and Likes to Yell ("BEVALY," formerly known as "Friendly But Disgruntled Executive Assistant Who Could Never Say Anything Really Nice To Me") to Big Gorilla Boss-Slash-Crazy Boss-Slash-Boss of My Boss-Slash-Laziest Boss is making my life and work less than productive, as she's apparently been given the green light to toss verbal grenades my way within earshot of my co-workers:

LAMAI to BEVALY after yet another stupid office incident: "I'm not going to re-hash this."
BEVALY: "YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY TO ME? You better SAY IT TO MY FACE. STOP YOUR MUMBLING. I'M NOT PLAYIN'. Go ahead. Talk to my (Gorilla) boss. GO RIGHT AHEAD. I DON'T CARE. What do I care that you're a [insert my position here]? WHY SHOULD I CARE?"

I later heard her use the word b*tch when referring to me to another co-worker.

Things like this affect me profoundly.

How will you choose?

As educators I often wonder how we teach and convey ideas to our kids. However small or mundane, what we convey to our kids, families, and friends can have an impact.

Exhibit A: This morning presented the idea of "weather." It snowed lightly as I headed out to my train to work.

Me to neighbor, Phyllis: "Good morning and Happy New Year, Phyllis!"
Phyllis: "Ugh. This weather is awful." [I kid not, that was her actual reply.]

Mother and young six-year-old-looking child walking on sidewalk:

Mother watches child carefully, uses right arm to shield child's head, uses other arm to tie scarf tightly around her neck, and burrows her brow.

Child escapes mother's guarding arms, runs toward the falling snow, and sticks tongue out.

Looking back to get forward

So A put on a brand-new H&M suit with silk tie and showed up for the orientation/workshop at Mordor Stanley, I mean, uh, Big Time Global Financial Services Firm. A learned how to shake hands while holding a drink, what food to order during a business lunch (spaghetti is a no-no for businessmen who are, apparently, sloppy eaters), and how to network.

Well, I'm glad A learned something about networking.

Before starting winter break, Alex dug up his play from his involvement in last year's playwriting group and submitted it to the BTBSA Playwriting Festival committee for consideration. Four plays get showcased in the spring, and possibly a big name playwright (and former alum) shows up to give the playwrights individual feedback.

"Just submit it," I said.
"Why?" A said.
"Why not?" I said. "You've already written it, so you have nothing else to do but email it to the committee."
"Sigh," A said, "Okay. But I don't think it'll get picked."

Did I mention that A wrote his play while part of a student group founded by Steven Sondheim?

A's play got picked.

Also during this winter break, A discovered the musical greats that are Leadbelly, Otha Turner, Son House, John Lee Hooker, and other Blues musicians. He began downloading their music immediately. A's radio playlist includes Leadbelly's original "Where Did You Sleep Last Night" alongside Nirvana's MTV Unplugged version of the same song.

We also re-discovered Bob Dylan by watching Martin Scorsese's "No Direction Home" and Todd Haynes's "I'm Not There."

"Mom, you know when Dylan would...transform...on the stage?"

LaMai asks: How many musicians can you say actually "transform" on stage? Is this a dying art? The last of the Siberian zoo tigers? When I see a musician so sublimely possessed, to me, it is a wonder to behold. I'd pay money to see non-fake stage transformation/possession any day.

A few Dylan tracks covered by Sonic Youth and The White Stripes are also on A's latest radio playlist.

What gives me hope when learning about the oldness of American music is that it affirms to me that nothing is completely, entirely new...we do, in fact, return to a tried-and-true foundation of something deeper, and wiser, than our foolish young minds would like to believe is too deep or wise to have been there first (it's often an arrogant..and reckless...way of thinking that I encounter often among my younger friends, particularly in Gotham City). Sort of reminds me of how a certain Johnny Ramone insisted that his band was about a "pure white -- not black -- rock and roll."

We looked at guitars at Manny's on 48th Street (out of towners: DO NOT miss Manny's if you love music and happen to visit NYC; the original Jimi Hendrix receipts are tacked right on their wall). Alex tried out a L'Arrivee and a vintage Martin. Martin is an older company, but the Larrivee sounded good enough for me to want to buy.

A and I have talked about summer options, and it looks like he'll return to the summer Calculus program he participated in last year. I'll probably help him regurgitate his play to submit to yet another playwriting competition.

A has a new Canon EOS digital camera which I gave him for Hanukkah. "The exposure is weird. I never have these problems with film cameras." For the Need It Now media/photography industry, digital is great and is now the standard. For art photographers (I have specific names in mind), digital is not yet there. A's new digital camera fills a need -- he can do photojournalistic/sports shots for his school paper or learn PhotoShop in a cinch without first scanning film prints. I personally believe the film photography industry moved a little too quickly when it eliminated certain types of papers entirely from the market. But my kid gets to participate in an activity that requires the speed of digital, and he gets to participate in a social scene at school that is new to him.

And me? I am knitting a sweater for A in merino wool from a tried-and-true WWII pattern. While A plays a WWII video game on his Macbook.

The Global Financial Services Firm.

So, A is home for the winter holiday.

He's been jammin' on his guitar (don't I love to be serenaded? I do, after a long absence from hearing the guitar!), reading Sir Thomas Mallory, going to the movies with me to see "Atonement" (just for you older teens, okay?) and "I'm Not There" (ditto), and looking up words on Google such as "IDF" and "Haganah" and "Shin Bet" and "Mossad" (Oh, dear, I knew the day would come).

He has completed a Fall term and part Winter term nearly unscathed in his new "institutional student" status from his new prep school in New England.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it can be done.

But done does not mean done without challenges.

We have such a one in A's email inbox. "You have been selected on the recommendation of Teacher XYZ to intern this summer at Big Time Global Financial Services Firm. Please attend the Global Financial Services Firm orientation in New York City, to take place on the Twelfth Night. The golden door with the candle will mark your entry to the Tower of Orientation. Please wear your cloaks, under which you must have on business attire. Satan will await with a deep green pen as you sign your souls away to corporate life under Big Time Global Financial Services Firm. Of course, we will pay for acquisition of your soul. Ten dollars an hour, for six weeks. "

Or something like that.

I wonder if Big Time Boarding School A (BTBSA) forgot that they gave Alex a scholarship to do science research this summer?

I read the "invitation" the first time and my heart sank. My son is a scientist/artist. Not a businessman. No No NO!

Then I remembered Mick Jagger studied business and went to the London School of Economics. Oh yes! Redemption!

But then, lest I forget, there is also the Summer Term in China and the summer term in Calculus...both in which A wanted to embark. This is where we curse the laws of Physics that govern time and space (A can only choose one course for the same 6 weeks on the calendar), and also curse the calendar for offering such a short summer.

Sigh.

In other news, A is studying for the AP French exam. BTBSA refused to place him in fourth-year French, so he is going to take the exam, anyway. He studies every weekend and seems to be making very good progress.

I've noticed that BTBSA doesn't like when students do "their own thing." I keep reminding myself, "It's an institution. They can't help it. They don't know better."

And really, they don't.

crouching dysfunctional kids, hidden parent

I would like to begin and end this post by saying that the living skeleton in my family is a Cuban called Fidel Castro. Unfortunately, dear bloggy reader, my life could not be that simple.

The living skeleton is actually a single parent who is raising two kids in sunny Miami, ignores what the kids learn in school, loathes the act of cooking for them and feeds them breakfast cereal for dinner.

She is my cousin. My Cousin in Miami (CIM).

Perhaps I am overreacting in giving her living skeleton status. But last night, after a two-hour phone conversation with another cousin in South Carolina, I learned that CIM's breakfast cereal-turned-dinner is occasionally replaced by a Dunkin Donuts "meal" (Tony Bourdain, I am right there with you on your recent criticism of Rachael Ray. Her latest endorsement is just Evil. Could someone finally please teach Ms. Ray about Integrity in Food?).

I am guessing that CIM is not the only one who relinquishes her childrens' brains to the random schoolteacher, and allows the system to work its magic on their grey matter. But my South Carolina cousin (SCC) informed me, "No, you don't understand...she doesn't even know her kids' teachers by name." Worse, SCC became concerned enough to ask CIM's kids to show HER their report cards. SCC flipped. "You're failing in Math? Does your mother know?" The child shook her head.

Neglect is a touchy subject in my family. I was a child of regular doses of neglect (a.k.a., The Spectacular Free-Spirited Seventies!). And I suspect some of us homeschooler parents may overcompensate in our kids' educations because of our own perceived parental uninvolvement -- but I'll leave that one to you kiddos to psychoanalyze for yourselves.

Anyhoo, SCC decided to intervene in the food matter and let CIM's kids eat a real sit-down restaurant. No instant gratification facilitated by quick meals, no plastic utensils. So SCC and CIM's kids go to at Gloria Estefan's restaurant on Ocean Drive. Yes, that one. It was during this noble venture in (greasy) food education, that one of CIM's kids blurted out, "BUT I'D RATHER EAT BURGER KING!" Note: The kids are age 12 and 14 years old.

SCC and I agreed that CIM's kids need help. I want to call a family intervention on CIM, I really do. The issues we'd address would include her kids' malnutrition, CIM's partying ways (sorry, won't get into that here, but let's just say there is an issue of a certain quantity of men), and the need for her to pay attention to her kids' education.

Unfortunately, because neglect is not a new issue in that side of my family, the fractured relationships prevent a family-size "intervention" from happening.

A question to ponder from LaMai: In addition to your involvement with your kids' education, what do YOU do to reinforce healthy family relations?

and then there was the sympathetic ear

A couple of days after my last frustrating post, I spoke to a school counselor at A's school.

"I think your school is driving me and my son nuts," I cried. "This is why."

The counselor listened. She was oh-so-patient. She spoke to A directly --- and discreetly --- and lent her ear to his feedback. She was as shocked as I was about A's experiences, and made some recommendations, and armed me with information. Seems she was proactive, too, because things started happening.

I received emails. A was given a treat party at his dorm. The form dean who I initially loathed for his lack of cooperation was finally responsive.

And A's academic grades, which were already good, went up a bit...he became comfortable with BTBSA at some point. He very very nearly made the Dean's List, as well, by a half a point.

Still, I encountered resistance from the form advisor on some things. Boarding schools, even if progressive, are still conservative by progressive school standards. Does that make sense?

Example: A wanted to take Photography in the spring. His form dean said "No." "No room" in his schedule to take Photography. I called the Photography instructor. He couldn't help, he was starting sabbatical, and he recommend that A start approaching faculty with his issues on his own. It seems that that is the BTBSA way. I begun to understand why.

(Note: This is something I like *very much* about b-schools...students are expected to handle their matters themselves without parental intervention, as part of encouraging their personal growth process. These kids' parents will NOT be the ones who call Human Resources at their child's first place of employment to complain about their precious babies' probationary work evaluations!).

Anyway, I told A to talk to the Arts director, and he did. Then A marched back to the form dean, photography portfolio in hand, and said, "Look. Photography is my passion. Please accommodate my schedule. Your arts program is one of the main reasons why I came here at all." The form dean looked at the portfolio, and said, "Um, I am not a photography critic. I am just a layman." Then, miraculously, A's spring schedule included Photography. Oh yes, the form dean had to CHANGE EVERYTHING in the schedule to include Photography, but darn it, the course is now there.

Another problem that came up this winter term is that the form dean stupidly scheduled A's classes straight through the day, past the time that the dining hall closes after serving lunch. Another email from me: "Excuse me? My son does not order in. He eats lunch on campus in the dining hall, sitting down, and for longer than 5 minutes in-between classes. Please fix. Thank you." The schedule was rectified by 10 AM the morning following my email.

Are there social class issues? Yes and no. In the above scenario, a wealthy student would probably order in food from a local restaurant four days a week and blow off the scheduling snafu. Or perhaps the wealthier parents wouldn't be calling to complain about a missing photography course. They could just purchase a photography travel course to the Sahara desert or Papeete and sonny boy would have a nice little exotic exhibit in the school arts center.

I relish the ways I can still participate in my son's life (and be useful as a guerilla educator!).

There is a joy to the process of getting what you want where it is possible to be had.

Tonight, A's uber-Republican roommate, IAAR!, wanted to know why A was playing Somali oud music. "Look, I don't mind you playing that Arab music. But it's weird."

"Mom?"

"Yes, hon?"

"IAAR is ridiculous. He thinks Somalis are Arabic because they're muslim. Says it's all the same. I wish he'd be more open-minded."

I really had to laugh.

And how did A learn about Somali oud music at all? Because he DJs at BTBSA on Tuesdays. And researches music. And learned that Hamza el Din, who was Egyptian, attracted the attention of the Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan. Much like Ravi Shankar got a fanbase in that group known as the Beatles. If not for the Grateful Dead and Bob Dylan, A would not be learning about global oud music.

In other news, I've learned that in my ripe 30s, I am starting menopause. No joke. LaMai's FSH levels are off the charts. Turns out my mother started at 38.

Sympathy comments are welcome.

ok maybe...

I am not so crazy about A's new school.

Maybe A got locked out of his room one evening --- At 12:41 AM (an event which I will call "the incident") and no adults responded. At all.

Maybe on the same night, at 12:42 AM, A noticed that he had his cellphone on hand and called his dorm advisor on duty -- but the dorm advisor did not respond. Then LaMai called and also got no response. Then LaMai called the other dorm advisor. No response. Then the dorm adult down the hall. No response. Then LaMai left emails. No response until two days later. Then A called campus security for help getting back into his room now that it was 1:15 AM (an event which I will call "the incident equivalent to calling the police").

Perhaps also the Form Advisor actually questioned LaMai about LaMai's Honesty and if LaMai Had Actually Reached Out To The Registrar About Correct French Class Placement Before A Started School This Fall (an event which I will call "the alleged non-incident.") Maybe LaMai, as a result, thinks the Form Advisor is a supreme jerk as a result of his belief that "the alleged non-incident" is actually true.

Maybe IAAR! is truly intolerable. Because the ammonia smells from IAAR!'s dirty laundry invading A's airspace are now just A Little Too Much.

And then, there's the Fight Club thing. Oh yes. It happened. An actual Fight Club was formed. At my kid's dorm.

And then, there's the Fight Club Decree That Fight Club Shall No Longer Exist enacted by my kid's dorm advisor.

Perhaps tonight there was also The History Assignment. For which A stated he was sure to get an "F."

After which LaMai said, "Oh, good G-d, just come the hell home."

LaMai cannot sleep.

home for the long weekend

A is home for the long weekend. It is also his b-day weekend.

Yesterday, A's school (BTBSA) held parent-teacher conferences and I took the day off work to travel there and participate.

I also got to sit in on A's classes. I was honestly surprised with the quality of the teaching. The teachers seemed great, amazingly well qualified and engaging. After classes was an abnormally long (compared to A's normal schedule) lunch totaling two hours, then the parent-teacher conferencing.

The conferencing was done in the athletic center, conducted like a cross between a job fair and speed dating session on academic steroids. All the teachers were lined up in rows, divided and labeled with placards in the special school font, by subject, and every eight minutes, a bell would go off (that was the parents' cue to get the hell out and on to the next teacher).

Furious handshakes. Look down at the schedule for the next teacher and time. Switch.

I made it to the coffee/apple cider/cookies station several times.

I observed parents behaving badly.

One parent could not erase a frown off her face. She was Asian, impeccably dressed in Textiles and Designs You Clearly Cannot Get In The U.S. Her face was very long, and very intricately painted (red being the marquee color), so the frown effect made her look like a dragon lady who had smelled something seriously foul. She sat next to me during Chinese class. I was scared. Apparently, she did not approve of A's Mandarin teacher. Maybe the teacher was too "yo, homegirl!" too "country bumpkin" and messy-haired for this sophisticated Hong Kong mother. I don't know. I love A's Mandarin teacher. I love that as soon as she walked in to her classroom and immediately began asking her students questions in Mandarin, they answered in their new language without hesitation. She could have the Chinese equivalent of a Roadside At The Hicksville Trailer Truck Stop Cafe accent, but I love that she is energetic, and can talk to me in English and smile at the same time. Some things just don't need translation.

Another mother, a waify blond-haired thing in A Very Serious Shade of Purple, without saying anything or introducing herself to me, leaned over and looked at my name card and deliberately began flipping pages in her copy of the school facebook. She was clearly searching for a name that matched mine.

I was finally able to meet A's favorite teacher -- his "G-d" of English Literature, the Leader and Middle Ground, the "agon" in the struggle (neither "prot" nor "ant"), the self-efffacing, the mu yet the all-knowing, the O Captain My Captain who will lead the young ones to The Truth. His name is Mr. Magnificent. "Your son is veddy tall," he told me with a smile. "And I am veddy short."

I swear that was the juice of my meeting with Mr. Magnificent.

The surprise of the day was finding a homeschool student from A's homeschool group in New York, now at BTBSA. The homeschooler is named M. She is one of the anti-Darwins, but I guess A might take comfort knowing that someone, a vestigial relation from his small educational universe, evolved sufficiently to land in his new school.

I have cake to buy. Have a good weekend, everyone.