I used to be a HUGE fan of Jon and Kate + 8 – I don’t have children, so I get a tickle out of watching others who do. I knew Kate was a bit wacky, but I took it in stride. I didn’t have anyone to vent to, so my pent-up frustration went unchecked. I must say, I enjoyed watching the show in ignorant bliss – until I found Jessica’s post on this blog! Now I watch each episode with a critical, and sometimes unfair, eye.

So yesterday’s episode — Color Me Gosselin. Why are you taking your kids to the Crayola Factory if you don’t want them to get dirty, or clean up after them, or use markers???  Kate, the reason your kids are having meltdowns is because you don’t let them do anything. And it’s not just me who feels this way – just ask your husband. He seems to think markers are fine.

While I am on the subject of markers – they are called washable for a reason. Last week I came home to find my precocious pooch with a chewed up purple Crayola marker. There was purple everywhere – on my cream rug, on his white paws, and all over my very expensive, very large tan micro-suede sectional sofa. But here is the real kicker – it washed right out! HA! Who would of thunk washable markers would just wash out!

Kate, you do not need to spend hours treating stains, as you claimed. You just stick the marker-decorated clothing in with the rest of the wash – you know, the stuff other people fold, iron and put away for you.

Your kids are what, three and a half and six (almost seven), right? Let them use a marker! They are freaking out and “melting down” because they are pissed. And the damn blue glue won’t kill them either. Do you really think that Crayola would supply toxic, hazardous and stain-inducing materials for their young patrons to use?

I know I don’t have any children of my own to clean up after, but during the day I am responsible for 20 – 25 youngsters. And it’s just me! No one else there to wipe noses, clean messes, correct papers, or march to lunch, music, gym, or the library.

Here’s my next complaint — stop complaining about taking your kids to public places. As a teacher I can tell you that field trips are much worse! 25 kids and only three adults to corral them. They have to be fed, taken to the bathroom, and shown an educational and enjoyable time – all of which is easier when the adults chill out and let the kids be kids.

So here is my final note on this episode – Jon, step up and put your foot down when it comes to Kate’s obsessive compulsive mandates. And Kate, quit your damn bitching! If you didn’t want to clean up after eight kids, you shouldn’t have had eight kids.

Read more at the Jon and Kate site at Examiner.com

No matter how badly I was lost, I should have known I was on Troost, just by the car in front of me.

‘94, ‘95 maybe, Ford Festiva, patchy paint, shocks sagging comically on the driver’s side. Well, no wonder, the woman behind the wheel must have been at least four hundred pounds, if her mammoth neck and sloping glacier shoulders were any indication.

The passenger was a man, average-sized, in do-rag and enough bling that it shone even at the back of his neck, from one car back. He was getting the ever-loving shit beaten out of him.

I was yelling obscenities at the driver, probably cursing her to die of syphilis in a back alley of Calcutta, because of her driving. Once I saw exactly *why* she was driving like a retarded tweeker on sedatives, though, I just couldn’t help but follow.

You’d think that such a violent argument would require her to make some movements of her head and body that didn’t involve her right fist, but you’d be wrong. But no. Of course, maybe this wasn’t an argument, maybe this is just how these two people pass the time on a Tuesday lunchtime drive through downtown.

Anyway, about twice, maybe three times per block, and nearly incessantly at red lights, that fist went. Pow. Pow. Pow. She looked like she knew what she was doing, like she did this a lot. Then again, so did he. Several times his head recoiled from her blows with such force that it rebounded off his window and hit her fist again of its own accord. At times she maintained a rhythm reminiscent of those balloon-on-a-rubber-band punching toys I loved so much as a child. No slapping, no grabbing, just punch, punch, punch to the side of his head, which, when it wasn’t being buffeted about like a pinball, was bowed over his lap.

I finished the drive to my husband’s work in a state of wonder. As in, I wonder if she supports him financially, or can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, or even less likely, if he deserved it. And I wonder why, if I saw a woman being beaten like that, I’d have been on the phone to 911 before the second punch landed, but in this case, I just followed for half a dozen blocks like the scene before me was a particularly engaging television program.

Mostly, though, I just wonder what more ludicrous bits of street theatre this strange new city has in store for me.

Just a little something to think about…

Reading and school success are directly linked to what a child sees in the home, and long before they reach school age.

Twenty-one kindergarten classes were examined for children who displayed either high or low interest in books. Their home life was then examined in detail:

While this study may be a bit outdated, I am confident in saying that this would hold true today.

Lesley Mandel Morrow, “Home and School Correlates of Early Interest in Literature,” Journal of Educational Research, vol 76, March/April 1983, pp. 221-30.