My lady at work was pleasantly festive today.
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I’ve been lollygagging working hard before my Thanksgiving break. My friend, Gabby, introduced me to this clip years ago, and I found it again this morning. Giggling Productivity has ensued.

It’s been awhile since I was a child at a party, but I remember duck, duck, goose being the highlight, not mock disaster exercises.

But it seems disaster preparedness teams now strategically target children with their threats of pandemics, terrorist attacks and overall horrific mass calamities. Don’t wince, it’s OK – according to this article, happy little cartoon characters like Ready Eddie present the message. And topics are varied:

Among the “fun things” promised by the Commander Ready workbook is a word game on biological attack. Children are invited to design a flag for their evacuation shelter.

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Silence is no longer golden, rather it’s a blatant violation of personal rights. At least that’s what some say.

Illinois is one of 11 states with required periods of reflection for public schools. Students, parents and teachers have staged walkouts, written letters and campaigned to state lawmakers to reverse the measure. The law calls for “silent prayer or for silent reflection on the anticipated activities of the day,” which varies from three seconds to 20 seconds, depending on the school district. To read more about the backlash from protestors, go to this article.
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Halloween is a good excuse. When I was little, it was a great excuse to put on makeup and walk around in high heels. (Like a princess, not a prostitute). And then it was a good excuse to eat buckets of sugar and chocolate. In high school, it’s nothing but an excuse for respectable girls to wear less clothes than normal and the already skimpily clad girls to act like they look. And now, it’s an excuse to dress babies as ridiculous vegetables or furry animals and prop them up to take pictures.
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I don’t know how to raise children. That’s OK, because I don’t have any.

But as I look at my friends, who once danced around to ’80s music with me in striped ensembles or cruised around to Bone Thugs N’Harmony with a new license to drive, I wonder how these people can suddenly know how to raise children.

I’ve concluded that they don’t. When they tell their little tike “no,no,” it’s to no avail. The babies run the show.
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The procession turns right onto Cimarron Avenue. Past Mrs. Ginger’s house, past the barbershop, the grocery store, Starbucks and the elementary school. The cemetery is tucked away, behind a grove of trees, in a peaceful pocket.
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That was the last walk Kori took with her daughter down Cimarron Avenue. Now, Mrs. Ginger brings the snicker doodles to their house. Other friends knock on the door, twist the red doorknob and bring in DVDs, flowers and puzzles for Kori’s daughter to arrange while the adults speak in hushed voices.
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When Kori’s daughter was born, her head sprouted wisps of soft gold that didn’t become hair until she was three years old. Now, two years later, her hair hangs below her elbows.
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Pictures say a lot. Some carry smells or emotions or voices and can be loud or quiet or mysterious. And the most expressive pictures aren’t proudly displayed on a bedroom wall or facebook wall, because those have been carefully chosen to show good hair days and toothy smiles and portrait lighting.

Sometimes the loudest pictures are unsuspected, unintentional.
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