Princess and the "F-word"

It happened. Princess said the F-word.

I thought I was prepared for this moment. I knew it was just a matter of time before she picked it up from our fast-and-loose media culture.

But when it came, it came out of nowhere.

"Mommy, are you fat?" Said with a look in her eye that said, "I know the answer, but I need to hear you say it."

What could I say? I have been fat my whole life, so this really shouldn't be an unexpected moment.

And I don't tell you this to get protests or reassurances. I'm fat. If I were 12 inches taller, I would still be fat. I look like those people you see on the news, with their heads cut off, wearing elastic-waist sweat pants and polo shirts, just strolling along in packs to illustrate how fat Americans are becoming. In fact, some of them look good compared to me.

I'm fat. But, I'm also smart, funny, sexy, and, in my own way, quite gorgeous. I consider my weight to be one thing about me, a thing I'd like to change, but just one thing. I think about it sometimes, but I don't let it define me. In fact, there are entire days that I forget that I'm fat. I will attempt to have one of those again sometime very soon...

"Yes, I am," I answered after a brief out-of-body experience that I'm sure she didn't notice.

"Why are you fat?" she asked. Princess is nothing if not forthright.

"Because I eat too much and don't exercise enough," I replied.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because I'm lazy," I said. "I don't want to be fat. I'm trying to change that."

"I don't like being fat either," she said. Great. I've now got my 3-year-old on the road to an eating disorder.

"Honey, you're not fat," I answered. "You're healthy."

"Healthy. Yeah," she said. "Daddy's not fat."

"He's a little fat," I said, somewhat stung.

"No, he's just really healthy," she answered.

Sven wins again.

Cereal Killer

I had a startling realization (i.e. "antiphony") at Sam's club a few weeks ago.

We were in the cereal aisle. In front of us was an array of well-known breakfast cereals packaged in truly offensive quantities. This was a serious decision. Whichever cereal we chose to buy would be with us for a while. I scanned the aisle, and saw it:

Frosted Mini-Wheats. My favorite cereal.

"Let's get the Frosted Mini-Wheats," I said to Sven.

"Frosted Mini-Wheats?" he asked, the expression on his face indicating I had actually suggested Crunchy Grit -n- Paste. "What about Froot Loops?"

You see, Sven and I have very different attitudes about cereal. As children of the '70's (and in my case, '80's), we understand that, after our choice of Saturday morning television, nothing says more about a person than the brand of breakfast cereal they endorse. You could be Wheaties (Bruce Jenner, Mary Lou Retton), or you could be Trix (Silly Rabbit). These were important decisions, in those days.

My cereal identity was determined by my mother. A child of the '50's, my mother took the 1970's and '80's health revolution very seriously. (From everything I understand, in the 1950's a fistful of Oreos crumbled into heavy cream was an acceptable "breakfast." They didn't really start to figure out that might not be good for you until my childhood. Thanks, science.)

Our pantry contained an assortment of rock-and-twig cereals such as Shredded Wheat and Grape Nuts. When she was feeling "kooky" we'd get Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, or Cheerios. (Rice Krispies were our favorite because the commercials featured Snap, Crackle, and Pop, the Keebler Elf's ne'er-do-well nephews.) Our "treat" cereal was Raisin Bran. My mom wouldn't buy anything containing artificial colors or flavors, or any added sugar. She did, however, allow us to add our own sugar, so when she wasn't looking we would heap sugar on our bowl of Shredded Wheat until the cereal was no longer visible. I think she knew.

Eventually, Mom softened her stance on cereals enough to allow Honey-Nut Cheerios and Frosted Flakes. There was much rejoicing.

My point is not to point out how my mother deprived me of a childhood by refusing to buy Cookie Crisp, it is to explain why I never developed a taste for "kid" cereals. I didn't taste Froot Loops until I was married, as I'm sure the Lord inended. I have never eaten a Coco Puff. I have only ever eaten one freeze-dried marshmallow, and I only did that after I learned Sven's passionate feelings toward them.

Sven's cereal background is vastly different from mine. His father worked in the food service industry, helping to develop new recipes and foods to market. He was instrumental in the creation of "Chex Mix." He also developed the freeze-dried marshmallow, which led to Lucky Charms cereal, Sven's favorite cereal. Sven vastly prefers kid cereals to any of the grown-up varieties. Some of his favorites are Froot Loops, Count Chocula, Fruity Pebbles, and Hershey's Bowl of Miniature Candy Bars That You Just Eat.

The early days of our marriage Sven bought his and I bought mine. That meant Sven bought a box of Lucky Charms and I bought a box each of Raisin Bran, Grape Nuts, Shredded Wheat, and Honey-Nut Cheerios. I would eat a bowl of each, then wait the required 12 months to throw the opened boxes away before I bought more.

Is it any wonder that I'm not allowed to pick the cereal anymore?

Still, I couldn't have the only cereal in our house to be Froot Loops.

"What about Rice Krispies?" I offered to Sven.

"That's not a food, it's an ingredient," he snapped. What about Cookie Crunch?"

We got Cheerios. To date, I am the only person in the house who has eaten any cereal.

Good thing we didn't get something no one else likes...

Sven's Quest For Glory

For the secondary music teacher in Texas, there is no quest greater than Contest. (We always say Contest with a capital "C.") Once a year, our ensemble is judged on prepared performance and sight reading, earning a score from I (Awesome!) to a V (Seriously, what is it you do? Because you don't teach music.). The rules are strict, the standards are high, and every director, no matter how experienced, quails before the challenge, but they do it every year, some because they are required to, but most because of the thrill of competition.

I confess that I have a problem with Contest. Before Princess was born, I taught secondary level choir for several years. I took students to Contest almost every year, and we generally did well (I's and II's, mostly). However, the attempt to objectify and quantify something very subjective and intensely personal, like music, does not sit well with me. I recognize that we have to do something to hold our profession accountable and make sure curriculum is being taught, so to Contest we go, but I still don't like it.

Sven, on the other hand, has, in my opinion, a dream situation. He's an assistant band director, which means he's responsible for the secondary ensemble, or "non-varsity" group. (A third group is "sub-non-varsity." We're all about official terms here.) The second group can go, but doesn't have to. It's up to the directors to make that call. Early in the school year, it began, as it always does:

"I don't think my band is going to make it to Contest this year."

"I have no trumpets. No trumpets. There's no way we can go to Contest this year."

"I can't find music for Contest this year. I guess I'll have to write my own."

My response, as always, is a hopeful, "So maybe you won't go to Contest this year?"

Ha. Let me repeat: Ha. Because Sven ALWAYS goes to Contest. In his professional life, it is his reason for being. He always goes. He always does okay. This year, though, there have been several signs that perhaps he shouldn't go:

1. His best players have been pulled to fill out the top band, as usual
2. Several kids failed classes who usually don't, making them unable to participate
3. His mother is in the hospital, improving but still ill, and he's the one who makes decisions for her
4. We haven't done our taxes yet
5. He is still rewriting some of the music for his players, some of whom he has pulled from the beginning band
6. The contest is in Jasper, a 3-hour school bus ride away. Blech.
7. The contest is tomorrow. April 1. April Fool's Day.

Sven was able to ignore all of these signs and perservere, as he always does. However, last night he received a phone call. I watched his face go from a smile to solemnity. I thought, "It's his mom. She's taken a turn for the worse." He continued to listen, his expression clouding more and more.

"Thanks," he said, hanging up. He looked at me, his face grave, and said this:

"A fat kid fell on my baritone player."

Apparently, in PE yesterday, his lone baritone player was getting a drink of water when a much larger student stumbled out of bounds and fell on him, forcing him into the water fountain and cutting his head quite severely. It seems that the student will be okay, but stitches were necessary and the cut made it necessary to cover an eye. No baritone player for contest.

Sven's going anyway. He's pulling a 6th grader up to take the wounded baritone player's place. I've told him this will either be a historic triumph (perservering against all odds) or a horrible cautionary tale (ignoring the signs).

I'll let you know Thursday which one it is. Either way, I think Rob Pattinson should play Sven in the movie.