Hey, Mom and Dad! Got Guilt?

Stressing over his first I.Q. test...

Despite my obvious expertise in child rearing (I usually remember all three kids’ names! Two out of the three at least!) my children are, inexplicably, “regular” children. They were not potty trained at five weeks, able to read at five months, or steadily employed at five years. Where did I go wrong? More importantly, can I get a refund on those “Guaranteed Steps to Raising an Infant Genius” seminars?

Here is the truth: My first child could competently operate a computer at the age of two. (He still has to help me with my online university homework.) My second child can play circles around me on the piano. My third child could speak in complete sentences at the age when many infants are using their mouths primarily for chewing on dirty socks.

Here is the rest of the truth: All of my children are also bad at… well… a lot of stuff, really. They were in the Oral Stage when Freud clearly stated they should have been comfortably entrenched in the Anal Stage. They stubbornly refused to enjoy Shakespeare, instead preferring inane cartoon rubbish. Most disturbingly, they tried to mix clashing prints when dressing themselves, blatantly ignoring rules of both color and fashion theory.

Entering (Barely-Accredited) University Doors

How do I get these stupid time stamps off my pictures?
They make my blog look uncharacteristically unprofessional.

Until recently, I had not noticed that every time I accessed a website via a Google search, it thoughtfully informed me how many times I had visited it. For example, when I type in certain online shopping sites, it attempts to incite feelings of guilt on my part, by reminding me, "You have visited this site MANY times." It does not actually use the all-capital nagging, but if I were to bring up a listing of webpages discussing neuroscience, it would announce on each one, "You have never visited this site. Not even once. Nor should you. You would just become hopelessly confused."

So it has succeeded in making me feel guilty. And stupid. But it shouldn't feel too proud of itself, because I was headed in that direction anyway. Thus my return to "higher" education. As we know from language arts courses, "higher" is a relative term, and let's just say that I have set my higher bar pretty low. It is really positioned more at the height of a limbo bar at an Olympic gymnast's party.  Really, I am just trying to avoid any classes that list "Seuss, Dr." as the author of their textbooks.

Acing College Courses, Failing Hygiene Practices

This is Abby. She smells better than I do right now.

   After a university term full of rigorous English courses, I am relieved to return to writing content that I can compose as I nap. I found it difficult to remain awake as I wrote research papers, so accustomed had I gotten to typing this blog as I slept.

  Thanks to an intensive grammar class, you may notice that my writing has become more robust, and now contains impressive components such as nominative absolutes. If you do spot such a golden grammatical nugget in my blog, please let me know. I could never figure out what a nominative absolute was, and would not recognize one if it slapped me in the face. I'm not even sure they are capable of slapping, but I did feel as if I had been in some sort of bar brawl after studying them for 14 weeks.

 
   The most exciting aspect of the end of my school term is the opportunity to finally shower and comb my hair. I simply did not have the time for such frivolity while all those nominative absolutes were waiting to be... nominated. Or whatever they were doing. My hair was beginning to resemble the fur of a cat who had just encountered a rabid moose. Unfortunately, I do not have a cat's advantage of tongue bathing. So, yesterday I gave it a thorough scrubbing. And that shampoo job will have to last for the next six weeks, because I start another term on Monday. 

   It's too bad, really. My husband had to work on the one day my hair was clean.