Morse Code Activities

You want to know what’s fun? Secret codes.

Breaking them. Learning them. Making them.

Why do you think the Rosetta Stone is so cool? It broke a code.

Why save up box tops or bottle lids for that cool decoder ring? Breaking a secret code!

So while I hunt down my old Cub Scout and Girl Scout Handbooks, let’s start with Morse Code.
1. Teach Morse code. For fun. Or until we need to use it to coordinate a defense against aliens because they are hijacking our satellites.
2. Make secret messages of Morse code on paper. “Send” them to the kids. Let them “send” them to you. I remember a short story as a code where the Grandma made people ring her door bell in a code. It was SOS in Morse code. Do fun ones first. Wait on the “do your chores” message for later.
3. Make secret messages in Morse code with Legos. Or blocks.
4. Make secret messages in Morse code with noodles. Break up spaghetti or use long and short noodles. Glue noodles on paper. Or string them on a string.


5. Make secret messages with beads. Make cool jewelry with a special messages or words.

Morse code - Wikipedia
More to come! Stay safe! Stay sane!

The Green One

When I was a child, my brothers and I fought over the Green Glass.  It was a plastic tumbler from Tupperware, which came with a set of four, including red, blue, and yellow.  But we could care less about the other glasses.  We fought, argued, yelled, begged, whined, pushed, shoved to get the Green Glass.  My parents were at their wits’ end.  What was so special about the Green Glass?  We maintained that milk just taste better in it.  I’m sure it was more to do that our siblings wanted it, so it became more desirable.  That Green Glass.

Last Christmas, I felt it was time to arm the family with light sabers.  I bought two blues, a green, and a purple.  I kept it a secret from even The Husband, so that he too could fill the thrill of getting a light saber to play with the boys.  The purple one was mine, of course.

Last week, the boys fell into a Star Wars kick.  They’re watching The Husband’s copy of the Star Wars cartoon series from a few years back.  They unsuccessfully try to convince us to play the Star Wars video games for them.  They’re fighting with light sabers.  They’re taking light sabers to bed.  They’re fighting over one light saber whenever they get a chance.

The Green One.

Tornado S adores the Green Light Saber, carries it around, takes it to bed, fights with it.  Food and Tornado E are the only things that will pry it out of his hands.  Tornado E must have the Green Light Saber at all costs, conning, whittling, begging, forcing it out of his brother’s hands.  When that doesn’t work, Tornado E cries, begs, whines for it from us.    We have three other light sabers here, people!

It does seem fair and just over the long view.  But I won’t believe it’s fair and just until my brothers have children.  They just better have more than one.

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My First Black Friday

The day after my first Thanksgiving, my dad had off, which was truly amazing for a cop.  My mom had to work, which was much of the case for my first year.  They were able to fix their schedules so that someone would be home with me, and I didn’t need a sitter until after my first birthday.

Like any good husband, my dad decided to take advantage of the sales and start the Christmas shopping for my mom.  Besides this got him and his baby daughter out of the house.  Plus, plus, right?

Except Black Friday was always a mad house, always is a mad house, and always will be a mad house, for ever and ever.  Amen.

As my dad tried to push his way through the crowds at the mall with a baby stroller, my nearly-five-month-old self waved my fist in front of me trying to clear a path.  Because even then I didn’t like crowds.

Tonight at dinner, my dad will retell the story for everyone, imitating a baby waving her fist in front of her as everyone laughs at the antics.  Which is fine.  Because my dad, mom, grandma did not even think to invite me to their crazy, chaotic shopping trip at 4. In the morning.  And I thank them.  Because if there is one thing I hate more than crowds, it’s mornings.

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Pink Cocoa Cuplets

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I’m not big on fall.  In fact as a child, I kind of dreaded it.  School got harder in the fall.  I anticipated winter mornings in plaid skirt and knee-highs, standing in assembly in frozen grass, wondering why God was punishing me.  But worst of all was the yearly trip to cut firewood.

Starting as an infant, I was dragged out of my bed, dressed, and pushed into a truck long before sunrise, which is fairly inhuman when you’re not a morning person.  We would drive out an hour outside of town to meet my grandparents at the exit, just a little after dawn.  Then we would drive and drive until we were into the foothills of the Santa Ritas.  We would find a place to park, and then my dad and grandpa would start cutting marked scrawny oak trees.  If luck was with us, they would find good trees uphill.  Usually luck wasn’t with us.

As a baby, they had me in a playpen.  They joked every year that I cried whenever the sound of the chainsaws stopped.  She was meant to do this, they said.  I called it slave labor.  They forced me to go all the way until I was in college.  Then my grandpa would joke about flying me home just to help.  Ha.  Ha.  Ha.

Some years it was hot, but you couldn’t remove your jeans or flannel shirt to get cool.  Some years it was freezing, and you kept moving to get warm.  Thankfully, I have repressed the memory of the year it snowed.  There was the year of the baby mice, curled up tight in a nest.  The year of the horny toads, spitting blood when you pressed on them.  The year of the chiggers.  God, that was a bad year. 

There was only one good thing about cutting wood.  It was lunch.  The adults believed in getting done before lunch.  If it was a bad season of only scrawny oak trees marked, then lunch was an hour rest or so.

My grandma made the most perfect submarine sandwiches.  Each one specific to the person it was intended for.  She made deviled eggs that were heavenly.  She brought enough snacks and lemonade for an army.  But the best part was Pink-Cocoa Cuplets for desert.

These are an excellent travel desert because there is no frosting and they are not messy.  They get there name for the pink center from the Cocoa.  Trust me, men and boys love them too, even if they’re pink.  It’s been a couple of years since I had one.  So I might have to make these soon.

Pink- Cocoa Cuplets

2 c flour
1 T cocoa
1 t salt
1 ¼ c sugar
¾ c shortening
2 eggs
1 t vanilla
1 t baking soda
1 c cold water

Topping
1cup semi-chocolate chips
½ c chopped nuts

Preheat oven 375.
Sift together the flower, cocoa, salt, and baking soda. Add other dry ingredients slowly. Blend res of ingredients well. Line muffin tin with baking cups. Fill muffin cups. Sprinkle chocolate chips and nuts over the top. Bake for 20-25 minutes. Makes 24 cupcakes.

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Dad

When I decided to go away for college, I had a panic attack after I sent in my acceptance letter.  I closed the door to my room and cried, thinking about my teenage brothers and my dad.  When I left for college, who would hug and kiss my dad?  Who would kiss him goodbye before he left for work or before bedtime?  Who would randomly give him hugs?  Like every other existential crisis I had, my dad just gave me a few words and pushed me on my way.

I got a lot of things from my dad: my cheeks, my smile, the female version of his family’s nose, my sense of humor, my flair for drama, my lone wolf style, my storytelling.  His tact and way with people skipped me and went to my brothers.  Bummer.  While he teased me about having to put more years into the force since someone had to go to college, I knew he couldn’t have been prouder.

One Sunday when my mom was too sick to go to church, my dad took us across the street to the elementary school.  He carried two five gallon buckets brimming with softballs as I carried my mitt and bat and my brothers carried their mitts.  He pitched ball after ball to me, teaching me to hit.  He never lost patience or got tired of pitching.  No matter how bad of a hitter I was.

Then there was the crisis of faith I had a week before my confirmation, wondering if I was doing the right thing, choosing the right faith.  My dad sat and listened to a thirteen-year-old kid asking how did one hear the voice of God and would God be angry if I chose the wrong faith.  He nodded and then told me that if I couldn’t think of a different faith to go to then I should go right ahead with my confirmation.  He assured me that God would lead me to the faith I was meant for, and my dad wasn’t even a Catholic.

My dad can be an intimidating guy, with his cop walk and all.  One Monday during my freshman year in high school, my dad came early to pick me up from swim practice because Monday nights were Boy Scout nights.  My dad came dressed in his Boy Scout leader uniform.  As we walked to the car, we walked by three damn-we’re-tough-and-cool teenage boys smoking their cigarettes trying to look like rebels.  The minute my dad made eye contact with them, those boys snapped to attention, hiding their cigarettes behind their back.  The leader of the pack said, “Good evening, sir.  How are you?”  For years I tried to emulate that walk.

But the night that sticks in my mind was the night I got to hang out with my dad.  I arrived home around midnight after a babysitting job to find my dad waiting for me, not even pretending to go to bed as he usually did.  I popped into the family room to give him a kiss goodnight to find that he was watching Bill Cosby Himself.  “Sit down, Fae.  The first time I saw this I nearly peed my pants laughing.”  So I sat down and nearly peed my pants laughing.  From the night on, when I came home late, my dad was there, and we would talk.  I’d listen to all his amazing stories or get his opinion on politics or matters in my life. 

The one thing I miss now that we moved here is that there are no more late night discussions.  There is always some one around.  Sure, we find time to talk.  But it’s different when it’s night and everyone’s sleeping.  And it’s just the two of you.  When it comes to measuring myself up against a pole, it’s my dad that I measure myself up against.  It’s my dad that I want to make proud, that I don’t want to disappoint.  I’m sure he would hate knowing that because all he ever wanted was for us kids to live the life we wanted, not the life my mom envisioned.  I never thought I was a daddy’s girl.  Until I wrote this.  As I end this I remember all the other memories that I have with my dad, and I could go on and on, telling tales just like my dad.

My dad and me

My Dad and me

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Was that supposed to be a secret?

Ever have one of those moments when you know you just might have gone too far.  Or maybe it’s just me because I’m always chewing on my foot.  When I was young, I would cross that line and look back a mile later and say, “Crap, was there something I shouldn’t have said?”

There I was, standing in the middle of a ring of women, conducting a bridal shower game.  Now some of these women had known me since I was a baby; while, others were my soon-to-be sister-in-law’s friends, which I just met an hour or so before at the beginning of the party.  I was conducting the games because I could lead without stepping on any one’s toes.  We were playing a game in which everyone had to guess how many questions my sister-in-law would know about my brother, who had answered them the night before.  Questions included his favorite food, book, and such.  But we had a four-way tie, and I had to break it some how.  I had the winners guess if my sister-in-law would get the bonus question.

Me: What was my brother’s doll’s name?

A collective “WHAT?” settled over the room, except for those few women who knew my brother since he was a baby.

K: (didn’t blink) Buddy.

Me: (smiling) No.  Not his My Buddy.  His first doll.  The one he loved.

K: What?  He had another doll?

My mom: Actually, he had three.  The My Buddy.  A Wrestling Buddy.  And this one.

K: Then I don’t know.  I only knew of Buddy.

Me: You’re going with Buddy then?

K: Yes.

Me: It was Paula.

“WHAT?”
K: I’ve never heard that one.

Me: It was a boy doll, and T was only three or four.  But since I had dolls, he had to have one.  He begged and begged for one.  So that Christmas, one grandma got him a homemade boy doll, which he named Paula.  He loved that doll.

Then I remembered I was not alone with K, pouring over embarrassing baby pictures.  I was in the middle of ring of women.  Many of these women were friends of my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, my boyfriend’s girlfriend.  Now they knew he had a boy doll named Paula.  Good thing we don’t live in the same house any more.

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Just another evening

They looked so sweet banging together matchbox cars and making a loud ruckus that not all the shushing in the world could keep quiet.  But I only glanced up in between words from the game on my phone.  Mat, head, sad, man, bed.  Oh, look, I got honey.  I’m pretty pathetic for a writer and a holder of a bachelor degree in English.  Then the murmur of how those loud boys should leave the room because she can’t hear anything, which might have more to do with her seventy-four year old ears than the loudness of the boys.  It seemed unfair to me because where would they go.  They want to go outside, but they can’t go alone because there’s an ungated pool out there and Evan still had a minor issue with dogs even if this one had one foot in the grave and the other on the banana peel, which meant she worried more about that than playing with some puppies, even if they played her favorite game of soccer.  Go ask your-.

What am I doing?  I’m their mother.  They’re my boys.  They will only be this age once, and one day they won’t ask me to play with them.  They won’t want me to play with them.  How will I feel then?  How will i feel when I look back and see that a stupid video game was more important?  What will they remember?  Today they want ME to play with them.  They want ME to go outside with them.  Besides don’t I need to lose a few pounds, get some fresh air, teach them to kick a ball correctly because I forgot to sign them up for sports class again.

Come on, guys.  Grab the ball.  Put on your shoes.  We have rosebuds to gather as we may.

We danced outside, chasing the ball, kicking the ball, dodging the ball.  We ran, jumped, hopped, walked.  I tackled Evan to give Sean a chance, teaching him to take turns as I tickled him without mercy.  I taught them to ring around a rosey and to find shapes in the clouds.  They figured out it was hilarious to watch Mommy try to get a ball out of a pool without a net. 

I didn’t care if I missed my game or that no one else joined us.  They were my boys, and I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

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Can someone say therapy?

I’m writing the night before because I told my mom and grandma that I would help make some Polish cookies that I have no idea how to spell, but as you need many hands to make it reasonable to actually bake, I, of course, volunteered.  When I said Tuesday afternoon, I meant like 3pm, after naptime, after blogging time.  When I said Tuesday afternoon, my mom and grandma assumed 1pm or so when the boys were napping at my parents house, so that I would come over for lunch, put the boys down, and hang out with my dad while my mom plays computer games.  Super.

I was going to write a post about the different schools we’re looking at and write the pros and cons.  Then I realized you might not understand the horror that is for me to send my child to a private school, or to the private school I went to.  So I felt I should explain myself.  Just so we get this straight, I feel like I had to go through the fire to become the ceramic piece I am today.  But fire is fire, and it sucks to be in there.

First off, I don’t remember much from grades three to sixth.  I’m sure you’re thinking, “Fae, that was a long time ago.”  Well, by the time I was in high school I couldn’t remember them.  I could remember pre-kindergarten up to third grade with clarity, but I had few memories of those years, which makes me think I blocked it all out.

Fourth grade was the year my best friend of three years left me for the popular group, and I remember my mom pushing me to join.  I remember trying by going through with a dare of kissing a boy.  It just gave them more ammunition to make fun of me.

I got a new best friend, but she left before junior high.  She didn’t even tell me she was leaving.  Everyone else knew but me.  I heard it from my mom who accidently heard it from another mother.  I cried for hours.  When I asked my friend, she shrugged it off and spent the next few months making fun of me like the popular girls.

During this time I had a bully.  Yup.  Do you know how rare it is to have an older female bully?  Girls tease in packs, and usually they don’t keep tormenting a younger girl.  But I was lucky.  Unfortunately so was the girl.  She was the niece of one of the other teachers, so it was always my word against hers.  She always won.

During these years, if I stepped out of line, danced to a different tune, the popular girls would ignore me, setting the example.  After a few days of being alone, I would cave and march to their drum, killing the last friendships I had.  Those friendships were with two boys.  Because they were boys, they weren’t swayed by the female orders, so I was shunned into cutting off my own allies.  I’m not proud of that, but I did go to high school with one of the boys and was able to make amends.

In sixth grade with all the bullying and teasing, I came home crying most days.  My mom went again to the teacher.  I remember the teacher telling me how she was teased as a girl.  As though that was to make me feel better.  As though that was a reason to let the kids do it.  As though that was a justification.  I was also told boys only tease girls they like.  No.  Boys that tease are mean snots who should be taught manners.

I hated my life.  School was hard for me as I struggled to teach myself to learn.  Sports were hard for me as I didn’t have natural talent but tried any ways.  Popularity was elusive because I was poor.  In this vain, I would like to point out that the reason uniforms are good is because they make the playing field equal, disguising the poor kids and the rich kids is BS.  Kids notice shoes, jewelry, hairstyle.  Kids find ways to make some one the loser.

Seventh grade my life changed.  I remember very well.  First off they divided the class of thirty-two into two classes for the harder subjects of math, science, and grammar.  For the other four classes we were one large class.  To divide us, they took out math scores and divided the class in half.  I missed the other class by two points.  My mom was pissed.  She went in charging into the office to ask what kind of moron isn’t up to date on child psychology to do a stupid move like that, making the kids feel stupid, making the math teacher think they were stupid.  The powers to be assured my mom the class was going to be taught the same.  My mom was not satisfied with that answer until she talked to the new teacher, who promised her he would teach them the same.  And the crazy thing was he taught like a college professor, and this right-brained, word-slanted kid GOT IT.  I actually understood math for the first time ever.  I got it enough to actually tutor some other kids.

In the beginning of the school year I was in the bathroom with a friend before a volleyball game.  My bully was there hair spraying her bangs even higher for the game.  When she noticed some dry hairspray clogging the nozzle, she let out an “eww” and wiped it on my friend’s shirt.  She apologized to the girl and said she thought the girl was me.  She started to come closer with the spray bottle.  I pushed her twice at the shoulders, sending her into the paper towel dispenser.  For a second I was amazed that I did that and that the move my father taught me actually worked.  The second wore off as I saw her glare at me.  I grabbed my friend’s hand, dragging her behind me as I ran back to the courts to where the grownups were.  I didn’t want to die.  My bully never bothered me again.

This was the year I gained more teasers.  A boy, who was held back, took special delight on tormenting me about my braces.  But I studied the source, thinking this kid is Ugly.  He was pasty white, overweight, and didn’t brush his braces so there was crud all over them.  Then he was not the brightest penny in the fountain.  My problem was he sat next to me, where he would whisper insults at me during class.

Several months into the year, the girls started shaving their legs, and it scared the crap out of me.  One of the girls showed us a long hideous cut on her leg where, she explained, she tested the razor to see if it was dull.  As an adult, I know better, but as a kid who didn’t know a thing, I was freaked out and disgusted.  It wasn’t long until the boys noticed I wasn’t shaving.  They pounced.  When the girls found out about the boys teasing me, they pounced.  I was miserable.

Then one day a boy, that I had known since I was four years old, handed me a razor and told me to go shave my legs in the bathroom.  I handed it back, patted his cheek and told him to go first.

The teasing intensified.  A few weeks later, he handed the razor to me again.  I just handed it back.  When I got home, I cried and cried.  My mom got the story from me and was on the phone, demanding the principal.

Now that I’m older I realized that if he hadn’t brought the razor to school, no one would have done a thing.  Because he brought it to school, he brought a weapon.  The idiot still had it in his backpack the next day.  But my mom demanded justice.  I had been tormented long enough.  I had to submit a list of my tormentors.  My mom was in the principal’s office for an hour. 

Finally the principal called me in, and after she heard me out, she called in the boys.  The boys, who weren’t part of the razor joke, were warned and forced to give an apology.  No detention.  Though I received detention if I talked in mass.  The other boys were forced to call their mothers, mothers who had known me since I was four or six years old.  THOSE mothers were righteously pissed.  While those boys had to write an apology saying they would never do it again and received detention, their mothers forced them to call me and apologize as well as tell my mother how sorry they were.  I remember one mother telling my mom that her son was stupid with hormones and she didn’t know what got into him, and then the mother threw The Look at the boy, who cowered.

Then it dawned on me.  These were mean boys.  These were mean girls.  Why the heck (because I didn’t cuss when I was a good Catholic school girl) did I want to be their friends?  They could go to hell.  So I went to school not caring.

Oh, and they tried to make me care.  The popular girls gave the order to ignore me.  After the first lunch where no one said a word to me, I starting bringing a book.  For two weeks, no one said a damn word to me.  F- them.  Finally one of the girls disobeyed the order.  As she was new, she was not ruled by the absolute authority.  She was slightly outcasted because she was not just Hispanic, she was Greek and Japaneese.  She was slightly outcasted because it was assumed she had no money, she had a strange name, and no one had seen her father.  It turned out she was the richest kid in my class (not the school, my brother was best friends with the heir to the third richest man in Mexico.  Weird)  because her father was a specialist food taster in Japan, where it turns out they take their marketing and food very seriously.  And this girl spent her summers in Greece with her grandparents.  Um, go figure.  This girl liked me because I made her laugh.  The ice thawed a bit.

My eighth grade year I didn’t care.  My mom had tutored me in algebra because we got a new math teacher mid-year because the old one was fired because all the kids blamed him for their failure though they were the ones not doing their homework.  This new teacher took two days to teach my “slow” class a concept versus the one day the “smart” class did.  In eighth grade I was one of eight kids able to do the algebra that was expected.  I was put in the smart math group. Oh and the best friend who dumped me in fourth grade, well, she was one of those eight, but she declined it so she didn’t look too smart for the popular girls.  I couldn’t care less about my peers.  F- them.  I told my mother if she was going to send me to the Catholic high school with the rest of them, then I would get myself expelled within the first week.  I didn’t know what I would do, but I would do it.  If I couldn’t get expelled, I told her, I would commit suicide then spend anymore school years with those evil kids.  She let me go to public school as long as I stayed in Honors English.  Fine.

While all the other kids that I would join a gang or do drugs or screw a bunch of guys, I only thought nothing can be worse than the hell I just survived.  After the first week, braving the fights only to gain the respect of the kids who tried to fight me and finding my own nitch, I was ok.  Though I did hear some of those kids DID do drugs and DID screw a bunch of guys.

The moral of the story?  Well, first off I know why those boys did what they did at Columbine.  I could have done it too, if I was forced to stay with my tormentors.  The second, the principal that was there when I was a kid is there now.  I didn’t see anything on bullying policy like in the other two schools.  I do know Columbine changed a lot of minds about how to deal with bullies and teasing, but I don’t want my kids to go through what I did.  I don’t know why I was singled out; I just know that I was.  I also know as boys they have a better shot than a girl.  Boys aren’t harassed as much, especially if they play sports, but I don’t want to test the theory. 

So while I try to make up my mind, I can’t seem to shake the ghosts of the past.  I think I would kill the little punk that hurts my kid.

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This is Mama Bird. The eggs are safely in the nest. Over.

Yesterday I went to an open house for the pre-kindergarten at the school I spent ten years attending.  While my brothers, and even I, think it’s a little scary to incarcerate my boys at the same school we went to, but I must say that the education was excellent.  I’m hoping my kids do not repeat the same horrific bullying experiences I had, but they’re boys, so that’ll help tons.  Plus we plan to send them martial arts, so the bullies have one chance before my kids kick butt.

 

As I sat there, with my mom, whose Council of Women decreed she should attend to find out what was happening in their school, I thought about what I could write about as my eyes glazed over from the information overload about how it had been 21 years since they had a pre-kindergarten class and the qualifications they had to meet.  I thought about sharing that information, and then I could watch my numbers plummet.  I thought I could write about how my mom and I kept staring at the young woman sitting two seats down from us who looked terribly like my elementary school best friend (before middle school turned me into a walking pariah) but how she just looked too young.  It turned out it was her, but how amusing can I make my weird staring become?  Then they talked about security, and I thought of Bad Mommy Moments and The World According to Me.

 

Apparently parents are WAY more concerned with safety then when I went to school.  First off, at my Brownie induction, my mom, being the leader, decided to have it at night, so that all the parents would be there.  With the gate open and the ceremony taking place in the first room inside the gate, some guy broke into the office down the hall and stole all the petty cash.  My dad secured the scene like the cop he was, and my mom alerted the priests, called 911, telling the operator she didn’t know if the robber was still in the area.  Minutes later, the children were thrilled to watch the SWAT helicopter search the school grounds and the neighborhood.  Way to go, Mom.

 

Second, my school is two blocks from a mall.  The junior highers would try to ditch and walk over but were always caught.  Though as a big junior high kid, many of us asked our parents to let us go over there for a few hours before they picked us up.  One year, a store or two was robbed by a man with a gun, and he took off into the neighborhood near our school.  Word on the street was that some of the kids saw him running with the gun in view, and we were forced to abandon our lunch hour for the safety of the classrooms.  I put as much stock in the gun rumor as I did about the rumor of two sixth graders having sex in one of the tunnels in the playground.  The kids just kissed.

 

Granted there were two bomb threats when I was an eighth grader, which turned out to be a classmate’s boyfriend calling to get her out of school early.  But then there were several bomb threats at my public high school for the same reason.  (And the time a bunch of the students kickedtheassesofsomeneo-nazikids.)

 

Instead of keeping the gates open, an adult has to be buzzed into the office.  In the office, the adult has to sign in and show id, which is checked against the list of adults allowed to enter the school and take home students.  The adult is given a sticker, which all the kids demand to see.  At the pre-kindergarten, the adult’s id is check again before the child is allowed to leave.  Pretty standard stuff, right?

 

Then the parents asked about child safety and where the bathrooms are.  The parents were assured no child is ever, ever left alone.  I started to think they had added a whole lot more bars than I was a kid.  Where could a kid go?  It’s a tiny school.

 

Then the punch line was thrown in.  Someone wanted to donate a whole security system with cameras, which were being installed this summer throughout the school and church.  Um, what?  There was already two cameras outside the office, so the secretary could see the person to buss them in or not.  My mom and I exchanged looks.  Most parents breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Wouldn’t it just be easier to add a retina scanner?

 

I bit my tongue before I could mention it.  My mom whispered, asking me what I thought.  I smiled.  I think this will make a great post, especially when I mention the guard towers and the SWAT team.  My mom rolled her eyes.

 

I wonder if I could be a guard with a uniform.  I look pretty tough in sunglasses.  Or I could wear a suit like the the Secret Service with a radio ear piece and all!

 

 

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