Datebook: December 22, 2009

December 1, 2009
Dear Bloomingdales:

First, I want to thank you for the prompt arrival of your new catalog, "Nifty-Gifty," which arrived today with the pronouncement that I have been promoted to the title of "Premier Insider." (Since this was printed in gold foil on the label, I had to assure my husband that this is in fact catchy promotional jargon that has no correlation with any credit purchasing). A ninety-nine page full color wheel advertisement certainly builds confidence in the sustainability of your corporation; therefore I was not surprised to note that you now offer a personal shopping service for free and that there is non-stop shopping for 24/7 on your dot-com address.

However, as a Premier Insider now, I feel I must mention that when I called the number you have advertised on forty-seven pages of Nifty-Gifty, no one could identify or locate Nifty Gifty No. 15 on page 27, (shhh... the Tory Burch platinum leather mini handbag with a gold-tone link strap, also in black, #2701, $250.00, that your marketing people so cleverly named "The Disco Bag that never misses a beat"). This seemed odd to me, as, well, you mailed me the catalogue and someone earned a great deal of money to select these 60 fabulous finds (although frankly, just as an aside, N-G No. 53 is just a trifle bit too cute: no woman wants a pink polka dot terry robe with a flounce -- it will get caught in too many doors).

After 25 minutes and after being offered a purple leather zipping Marc Jacobs bag in lieu of the disco dream, I was told I must want "catalog."

Well, I said, I called the number in the catalog.

"You have reached Bloomingdales.com," I was told.

"I'm sorry," I offered, and was promptly transferred to another line awaiting pick-up in an estimated 18.5 minutes.

I gave my information to the young woman who eventually came on line, and might I say I am glad I have been elevated to the higher ranking of Insider or she might have seemed a bit abrupt. She also had a bit of a problem locating the item. "This isn't the right item number," she finally informed me, and then waited for me to correct it.

"It's on page 27 in the new catalog that just came out today. In the Premier Insider edition. Perhaps in a regular edition, they have the right item number."

I heard her thumbing through papers and hitting computer keys.

"This is special order."

"Yes, yes. I know. My daughter is going to Nationals in Spokane in a month, and this will be perfect for three of her outfits. It is very special."

Keys stopped tapping, pages stopped flipping.

"This means I have to special order it and it will be shipped on the 15th of December."

"Oh. So it will be here in time for Christmas."

"I thought you said you needed it next month".

"I do, but I'm giving it as a Christmas present."

Still no key tapping.

"I'm giving her other things. In fact," I flip back a few pages, "I 'm thinking of the shoes on page 15..."

I wait for her to catch up, and then she announces the shoes are at Blooningdales.com and that she can transfer me.

"No, no. I'll just order the purse for now."

I hear keys tapping again and I relax.

"We need a daytime phone number where you can be reached 24 hours a day."

"I don't have a daytime number that I can be reached 24 hours a day. I have a number that I can be reached 12 hours a day, and a number that I can be reached 10 hours a day, and a number that I can be reached during the transitions."

"Can I have your cell phone number?"

I supply it, but I felt I should inform her I don't answer it at work, (I only look at text messages) and that I don't wear it on my hip at home. It sits in my purse that was not purchased at Bloomingdales.

"Someone will call you within 72 hours to give you the total billing price."

"Why can't you tell me now? It says in the catalog it is $250.00 and you are offering free shipping now, so that only leaves the tax."

"It's special order."

"But it's in the catalog and I can order online 24 hours a day."

"You can't get this through dot-com."

"But this is a 99 page advertisement that has the 1-800 call number and the Bloomingdales.com site on every other page."

Silence.

I try to frame it like a jeopardy contestant.

"How does that work?"

I buzz in again.

"Am I a Premier Insider?"

I hear tapping and I wait.

"Yes."

"And someone will call in 72 hours to tell me how much this will really cost, and I'll have it for Christmas."

"Yes. Your daughter will have it for Portland."

"No, that was 2005. Spokane is this year."

Tapping stops.

"Can I help you with any other shopping needs today?"

I start to correct her grammar and then realize she may be right after all.

So, in conclusion, Bloomingdales, I will be waiting by three phones to hear what charge I have actually placed on my credit card. Additionally, although you offer the disclaimer as the last line on the back cover -- "Bloomingdales is not responsible for typographical or pictorial errors" -- this does not include the address line where it lists me as the PREMIER INSIDER or current resident, does it?

With fondest regards and disco fever,

Mombo

Datebook: December 7, 2009

When your daughter moves away for college, but-it-is-really-to-skate, you can almost convince yourself it is what most parents experience when they have a graduating senior. That is, until it is winter or summer break and your child does not come home for more than five days.

Some people might become bitter; they might even feel resentment at all things ice-related. They might start drinking beverages at room temperature.

Since that would be pointless, I wait for the moments when my daughter has a block of time and then I drive the 160 miles roundtrip to spend a few hours talking and looking.

I say "looking" because I wish now I had taken more mind photographs as she grew up. Now, as we sit eating at the Nordstrom cafe, I watch the light play across her eyes and as she turns her head I see the soft line of her cheek against her raven hair. My breath catches as if trapped between doors. My eyes get that instant burning that usually occurs when I have tried to stop drinking soda and break after the third day to inhale a Diet Coke before the fizz goes down.

"Stop being a freak."

I blink as my daughter breaks the spell.

"I just like to look at you. All mothers like to look at their children."

She looks around the restaurant. "Oddly enough, no one else is crying over their Chicken Caesar Salad."

"No one cries openly over food."

"You used to. Remember when you would buy four eclairs on Saturday night and on Sunday morning there would only be two so you would cut them up into little pieces so it looked like a lot more."

"I was being a good mother. Do you realize that now they are thinking of charging parents who overfeed their children and it leads to obesity."?

"That's bullshine."

"I hate when you say that. It's not appropriate."

"Oh my god."

"And that's just as bad. What has happened to the diction of the young?"

"It was probably undeveloped as they were deprived whole chocolate donuts by their parents. Seriously, you take things too literally. 'Bullshine' isn't even a bad word, it just sounds like it so you make that leap. It's kind of the opposite of what you think. Just like when we say 'sick' we don't mean that hearing that makes us want to vomit in the toilet."

I look at her.

"So you are using oxymorons."

"Oh my god -- and when I say that, I mean with a little 'g', as in that is really ridiculous -- I'm not calling attention to the Big Guy in the Sky to send down a lightning bolt or anything."

I can't help it but I lean over just a bit because I am sure my Grandmother is going to reach through from the great beyond and pinch her little arm.

I try to organize my thoughts and points before I begin -- I think I have about seventy-two in the line-up when she holds up her hand.

"Mom, don't start. You have to lighten up a bit. Remember that man a few months ago who asked me if my name was Susie and said all Asian girls were good at skating."

"He also asked if you took biochem in the 9th grade."

"That's my point -- you laid him out for like five minutes. I'm pretty sure if he had an oriental carpet in his house he went home and put in linoleum.

"Now you're using hyperbole. I didn't give kids enough credit for perfecting literary terms."

"Oh my god."

I look at her. "So that means the opposite, you talk in opposites."

She looks at me, and then takes a sip of water. "Dining with you is always so much fun.

She could be playing Texas hold'em. I squint at her a bit, but then the sunlight coming through the main window catches the sheen of her hair and the way her lashes tangle together a bit on the outside. I start to get that soda-eye-burning sensation and just in time I see her close her eyes for a bit.

I'm pretty sure that was so I wouldn't see her roll her eyes. Or, would that be the opposite?

-Mombo

Datebook: December 1, 2009

Several years ago, my son made a simple request for Christmas. He wanted a golf ball. Not a pack of Top Flights, or one signed by Tiger Woods, but a plain, ordinary used golf ball. I don't remember what color Game Boy we gave him that year, but his real delight was in the dented, dimpled, golf ball that his aunt gave him.

I bring this up because this year, unlike any other, I am being asked not to give and therefore wrap certain items.

"Mom, we don't need all those little things you get to fill our stockings so we have more things to unwrap."

This caused a stubbed toe like reaction, as in, "ouch, that one keeps hurting for a bit."

I thought of the foiled chocolate coins from Wockenfuss, the willowy, gossamer angels, the perfumes, and body washes.

"We don't need any more washcloths the size of quarters that grow when they hit the water. We don't need underwear with reindeer cartoons on them. Or Chapstick that tastes like gingerbread men or eggnog."

"Really," I say, thinking what junior Ebenezer Scrooges I had raised. "What may I purchase for you then?"

"Mom, don't get all offended. We just don't need all those little things. We don't use them. You bought me a Yo-Yo last year -- a Yo-Yo! And a remote control helicopter the year before."

Exactly, I think. Exactly. So what is your point?

"We know you are trying to make it special for us, but seriously, it isn't necessary. I don't need any more slipper socks, razors, or Lifesaver books."

I could argue the point with them. Of course they need razors, and shaving cream, and the big packs of gum and mints.

"Mom, you got us Silly Putty three years ago."

"And how fun was that? We stretched the comics!" I see them exchange looks.

"Ahh," I say. "You mean you are too old for childish things."

Having been raised on Perry Mason reruns and L.A. Law, they suspect a trap. They sidestep.

"In this economy, we just think we should stick to the basics," my son offers in rhetoric.

What are the basics?

"Snowboard boots, jeans, and money," my son seemingly answers my silent query.

I turn to my daughter. She hesitates. She is not really a "basics" type of girl but she is taking one for the team.

"Boots", she agrees and then adds, "clothes, maybe a small David Yurman piece, and I saw a few things in the Spring Tory Burch line." Her brother gives her a look, and with that uncanny telepathy that exists between them and penguins from the South Pole she qualifies her reply, "I mean, you could get one or two of those things if you wanted."

I nod my head. We are to be "practical" this year.

I think back to the years that accompanied the Ho Ho Ho boxer underwear, and the fruitcake lip-gloss. Those were the years when new ice skates cost about $1,200.00 for boots and blades and were always due right after sectionals or in Mid-November. A practical approach would have been to wrap the skate box up and put it under the tree, but this was a tool of the trade, so to speak, for a competitive skater so I equated it to finding a new dishwasher under the mistletoe. I thought of the new bassoon mouthpiece, and the special order track shoes that were both ordered in Decembers but never played double duty under a Douglas fir.

Practical.

"So, you don't want your chocolate advent calendars this year?"

"We didn't say that. Those are traditions."

"I thought my stocking gifts were traditions?'

My daughter breaks the pack first. "They are. I like most of them. But, no more musical toothbrushes."

I nod in acquiescence.

"And what of the gifts Santa brings? Can he still do that, or is that not practical?"

Neither child looks at the other. They look straight ahead, perhaps staring into the formality of the future, or remembering the sweetness of the past.

"No," one starts, and the other finishes, "That will still be okay."

-Mombo

Datebook: November 23, 2009

Most of us have grown up being told we "can be whatever we want to be." We can aspire to be President, or "listen to our own drummer" (which seems to translate now into being in your forties, wearing a faded white tee-shirt, and living at home with the parents). We weren't damaged too much by this hype because the music industry took great pains to neutralize this message by letting us know we might have to "settle" for less. Hence, "Any Kind of Love is Better than No Love at All," "Love the One You're With", and of course the Meatloaf classic (before he signed to do the wireless ads) "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad."

As ice skating fans, we have learned to settle for two lines at the end of a weekly sports wrap-up, a replaying of a pairs face smash into the ice disaster that grabbed the highlight reels for a few days, or the drama of a rivalry that brought the hammer to the knee and tuned millions of viewers into skating detectives. Every four years, the oil to our perpetual lamp of hope is refilled by the hierarchy that unfolds at the winter Olympics; undisputed, the ladies free skate is the most watched event of ANY sporting event.

And so it shall be at this Olympic event.

The difference, as it is with the dollar, education, and auto production, is that the United States has a low probability of having a podium position at the end of the day. It has been decades before B. J. Thomas held a microphone, that the United States did not send a strong female contender or two for the Olympic gold.

This may be a trend we are getting used to. Other struggling organizations have tried creative marketing: zero percent down and 72 months to pay, Clunker Buy-Backs, Stimulus Cash.

In skating, we have known about the rise in gold value worldwide and we nodded and smiled because we have our ice dance offerings. Yes, two teams with the potential of Olympic gold.

Yet, this currency is not being accepted in the world of sports, or at least in the world of sports writing. Most continue to avoid putting pen to paper about this sport without balls (that's kind of catchy, might be a good book title!) and if they do, they do not hark the message from the past.

For example, Phil Hersh (Chicago Tribune) cannot now change the known lyrics to seemingly "hate the one they're stuck with," or "ice dancing is not better than any kind of skating at all," or "we don't recognize the 4th genre of ice skating."

In fact, Mr. Hersh recently, in a narcissistic move, provided both questions and answers for his recent blog in which he asked, "Will anyone but die-hard skating fans watching the Olympics get excited about the strong U.S. ice dance teams, Tanith Belbin-Ben Agosto and Meryl Davis-Charlie White, after both made the GP Final by winning two events apiece?"

His answer: "Only if they can be tricked by NBC announcers' hype into thinking that ice dancing is a sport susceptible to either fair judging or judging at all." And added that ice dancing is "no more a sport than ballet."

Phil, Phil, Phil…

Them's fighting words.

Fighting words cast upon an audience that has seemingly spent 200 dog years listening to lyrics for free dance programs.

It brings to mind, "I hope that I'm around, to watch them knock you down, you're a fool-hearted man."

And, "A mighty sucker punch came flying in from somewhere in the back…justice will be served, the battle will rage, this big dog will fight when you rattle his cage."

And my favorite: "But you're just a boy, you don't understand, how it feels to love a sport, someday you'll wish you were a better man." (Okay, I changed a word).

We grew up believing we could work hard to be whatever we wanted.

We passed that message on to our kids also. A few of "our" kids are going to the Olympics to compete in events that a few men have deemed "not a real sport."

When I shared Mr. Hersh's article with my own daughter, she summed it up by saying, "Wow, that's incredible. I guess that's why the newspaper industry is dying -- we don't have time for small minds anymore."

That's my girl.

-Mombo

November 16, 2009

Some have questioned how hard it must be to have your mother potentially write about your life every week.

"Is it intrusive?"

"Do you really say those things?"

"Don't tell her that I called."

It might seem odd --or overwhelming -- if not for the fact that for most of our childhoods, my brother and I have known that our mother is a Super Hero. Not in the secret make-believe, what's under the bed, Halloween-y costume way, or not in the fact that she makes the best cookies, grilled cheese, or spaghetti sauce, Betty Crocker kind of way. She doesn't.

I mean like the real deal -- like in the Incredibles, where the parents retired from crime fighting to raise the family and were trying to blend into regular society, but not really making it.

I'm not sure which is my first memory of my mom. In reality my first cognitive recognition is more of a smell: the smell of Joy perfume mixed with dog. I know that seems a juxtaposition of scents, but it works for her in a "going out in a fur coat with Nikes" type of outing, except my mother would never wear a fur coat. But I'm told smells don't really count, they are more of a trigger for flickering images that cling to thoughts like used dryer sheets. My first "real" memory is either my mom singing (which she also doesn't do well ) a song she made up or changed the words to or, watching her get dressed for work, which comes back full circle to the fact that my mom was a Super Hero.

So in this flashback, my mom is sitting at her makeup counter in the bathroom but instead of putting on a black dinner dress and pearls, she is winding her chest with a Velcro wrap in that color of blue that is only seen at Easter when the Robin's Egg candies appears in the grocery aisles. She is placing what I know now was a body wire in the twists and folds of the material. She takes the key to "the special box" and pulls out a shoulder and ankle holster, and loads one with a Sig Sauer and the other with a smaller caliber that looked a bit like it could only shoot fairy dust.

These MyTube videos play across my memory, mixing with the circumstances of our lives. My brother and I were never allowed to watch "Bambi," hit a Pinata with a stick, or have a toy gun. We saw Aladdin; had Pinatas with pull strings; and had bubble wands, books, and paintbrushes placed between our virgin trigger fingers.

My mother is not into needless violence.

The thing about former super heroes, especially crime fighters, is that they can never go by something "occurring" without stopping. They can't pretend they didn't see, or that they don't want to get involved, or that they don't have time for it. My brother and I were used to seeing helicopters land, surveillance teams gear up, case files spread out and endless court notices processed.

You must keep this in mind when you imagine the years of toddler soccer, gymnastics, T-ball, ballet, and playgroups. It's not as if my mother didn't try to appear normal -- she did -- but she could never stay in a conversation about the qualities of butter instead of margarine in baking flakey crusts. Someone would get a nosebleed and she would be off, unaware she was marking blood splatter patterns.

The hardest thing for a former super hero to do is be a skating mother. I say this because that profession typically tries to make sense of a world that has often been shaken up, as if it is actually a snow globe reality, and there is no "real" sense to be made.

This was where it was the hardest for her to keep her identity hidden. Once at a judging critique, before I learned the value of vagueness, I gave her a verbatim account of what I had been told.

"Let me see if I have this correct," my mom said quietly. "She didn't talk about your skating, your pattern, your costume, or your program. She talked about wearing 'over the boot woolies'?"

"Yes," I answered just as quietly, sensing perhaps there would be letters in the mail soon, amendments to constitutions, and by-law behoovements.

Although my brother and I suspected my mom's identity, we never discussed it openly, thus keeping her secret. If super heroes all have an Achilles Heel, then we were her Kryptonite. Not in the fact that we were bad for her, but in the fact that we are the point at which she weakens.

At Nationals three years ago, I had a horrific fall in practice. I knew I was not going to be getting up even before I hit the boards at warp speed. I had spotted my mother in the second tier seats at the start of our program run-through. I smiled and she blew me a kiss before I got into my starting pose. (This is much like our standard protocol at competitions where she then leaves her seat to walk the arena corridor while I skate and pretend I don't know she cannot watch. She is always back in her seat when I turn to bow to that side of the arena, so our subterfuge is successful.) I had seen my mother in the upper decks seconds before, but I was not surprised when she was the first person to get to me on the ice.

"You don't need to put that many revolutions into that spin," she told me as she triaged my body, "you only need three."

She had her cell phone in one hand and I was confident she was texting the Mayo Clinic while simultaneously ordering a private airbus.

"Mom, you have to be more careful! Someone might have seen you fly just then."

I saw her pale -- a typical superhero reaction to Kryptonite, and perhaps to her moment of careless disregard.

"She hit her head," my mom said to my coach (who had been forced to take the normal path to the side of the ice). "She's a bit confused."

That night I thought the only way I would be competing in that calendar year would be if they used technology similar to constructing a complete titanium hip in place of my bruised and damaged side. My mother, however, with a team of doctors, used electrodes and ice baths to afford some flexibility to my seemingly dangling limb. I competed the next day and although we fell from medal position, we finished in the top half.

"Sometimes you can't wear catchers' mitts on both hands. You have to throw some back occasionally," she told me.

So I could be upset when my mom tells the world 1) who I might have mentioned in passing was attractive, or 2) the size of all of my clothing, or 3) the fact that I am geographically challenged.

But I'm not. It's hard to fit in when you've been a Super Hero. I guess it is hard to forget what it felt like to wear that costume -- Lycra seems to have that memory yarn fit, after all.

She has allowed me to do the catching for most of my life, so occasionally, as in -- on occasion -- I toss her a few things she can write about.

Of course, as she's a former Super Hero, I've often suspected she reads minds.

My brother is convinced of it.


Daughter of Mombo

Datebook: November 2, 2009

This weekend I discovered a valuable tool in human comprehension.

By this, I mean the root cause analysis, the inner sanctum; yes, even the very core of our being.

It is found in the nooks and crannies of our iPods, iTouch, and iPhones.

With the possibility of downloading 8,000 to 36,000 songs, this might seem a daunting task to the casual listener. Most music box owners simply "dump" all of their CDs into the memory banks of the i-generation devices so they actually have all the fillers of the album taking up space with the number one hits -- much like "Satisfaction" from the Rolling Stones mixing with their less famous, less melodious "Losing My Touch." Slowly and selectively, however, we fill in with our special selections -- the ones that cost 99 cents with an iTunes-linked credit card -- these are the DNA markers of an individual's soul.

On my own iPod (2nd Generation, silver) I have an eclectic mix that could not be played by one radio station. I have all the classics: Joe Cocker, Elton John, Tom Jones, Bon Jovi, The Boss, Michael Bolton, Alabama, and of course, Milli Vanilli. Imbedded between the known, are the unknown, or special tracks. These include my daughter's Free Dance and Original Dance programs, and the songs that were "almost" skated to, songs from the past, and songs that hold fast to our thoughts for the future.

Okay, so I also have the new Mastercard song, "Super Freak" and the guaranteed eye-waterer, "In Color" and the song I generally have to reshuffle after the first two minutes, "Dance With My Father."

Some hard-core rockers have "In-Da-Godda-Da-Vida" holding steady for twenty-two minutes, some have the complete works of Metallica or KISS, while others cleave to Journey both with Steve Perry and without.

My husband doesn't have an iPod, but if he did it would be filled with ZZ Top, Percy Sledge, Al Green, and anything by Clint Eastwood. I know most of you would doubt there are songs by Clint, but he has dabbled in many things including some old cowboy tunes. (Probably).

I discovered my telescope into the musical soul simply by returning my daughter's car this weekend.

The trek started out on song 57, and wove through many of Beyonce's current hits, "Battlefield," Flo-Rida setting the woman's movement back to the days when Glen Campbell warbled about slapping around Tanya Tucker. But somewhere around track 97, a few songs found wings in my heart. "Wild Horses" by Alicia Keyes and Adam Levine, "My Sweet Song," "Trouble" wafted through my mind and made transformations of my former thoughts.

These were songs of joy, songs of loss, and songs of living -- through my daughter's life filters. I imagined it felt a bit like how my husband used to feel when he put away the clean clothes and came across her thong underwear; it was a personal glimpse into areas we don't get to view too often.

There are many charity auctions that offer center seats for concerts, lunch with a personality, or back stage passes. I think a better source of revenue and knowledge would be the opportunity to bid on someone's car for the day so you could listen to their iPod.

A little Barry Manilow here, a little Gloria Gaynor there, a bit of Abba by track 20, a "Devil Drives a Coupe Deville" on track 47, and you have an in-depth character analysis completed.

Some people have proffered that you can reach the same conclusions by ring tone tunes. I think this is flawed logic.

Most people don't even have the complete version of their ring tone downloaded.

And very few ring tones could make it to the big arena for a free dance.


-Mombo

Datebook: October 22 2009

As a mother it is hard to know when to stop, well, mothering.

With children now 20 and 21 it might seem a moot point to some. But life is not that easy. Fifty years ago when a young lad graduated from high school, he was considered a man, one capable of earning a living and supporting a family. Until 1972, when there was finally an equitable education act passed in Congress that offered financial aid to both males and females, young women were expected to "keep" house and raise families well before they reached twenty.

Most of us would shudder to think of our children, with two years left on their teenage timecards, buying a duplex and having baby showers planned in their honor.

Still, the lines of being able to "stand on your feet" have become blurred to the point of looking like a French impressionist's painting. And maybe this is helped by the fact that mothers really don't want to hand the keys over for keeps.

Okay, I've accepted that I am a type A personality. Okay, I'm a type A in a 40-point font typeset. But only a few people see that as a negative trait (or so I'm told).

When my daughter "moved" to Philadelphia to train at age 14, it required a round trip commute of 150 miles five times a week. In summers, she physically lived in various settings so she could be on the ice at 5:30 a.m. until 11:00 a.m. and then train at the gym, in ballet, and in ballroom for most of the afternoon. These were hard times for me -- the mother me. Not because I worried about what she would eat, or when she would go to bed. She always bypassed fries, Twinkies, and giant muffins for salads, protein, and fruit. I fretted that she would somehow move on a bit without me, that I would blink and she would find some new style that rendered her unfamiliar.

Some families worry about the new stepmom or the new stepfather in their children's lives. Skaters' moms worry about the coaches who become the most important being. Everything soon takes on a new cycle, as decisions big and small must be run-by the coach -- when to take vacations, can you take a vacation, can you have part of July 4th off, and can we go skiing for the day?

When my daughter selected a college, the choices were not made the typical way. She drew a 5-mile radius from her training rink and applied to the institutes of higher learning that fell within a 10-mile radius. When the acceptance letters came in, I did some "mothering" and guided her toward the small private Jesuit University. In truth, her freshman year she was prouder to wear her Team USA jacket than sport the Hawk sweatshirt.

Once my daughter decided to take some time off from competitions, she embraced the ideals of her school and I basked in the glow that all was good in the world.

This changed two weeks ago when my daughter called to tell me her Finance professor had lost the class set of midterms she had just taken. Well, not all the tests. Just the thirty tests from the students who had taken them on the scheduled date and time. The five students who had whined and asked to take it later had been more fortunate; the professor hadn't tossed theirs. Instead of being contrite, the professor told the 30 students he was forcing to take a re-test two weeks later to basically suck it up, it wasn't as if their mother had died or something.

Perhaps it was the mother reference.

I did try to fight it.

"Why don't you call the dean?" I asked my daughter. She just shook her head. "But you go to a school that preaches ethics," I advised her. "It's the one reason I wanted you to go there."

I am in the field of education. You cannot place one student at a disadvantage over another student; you must grade students equally, using equitable assessments. My daughter and cohorts were being forced to retake a new test, one proffered to be a harder test, while five could stand on their grades, and basically get the added benefit of having two weeks to focus on new material without the pressure of retaking a test in a class that uses 2 exams to calculate the grade for the semester.

It was inevitable that I would email the dean.

I probably mentioned my daughter's tuition was approximately the price of 8 months of ice-dance training. I am confident I pointed out the hypocrisy of a professor punishing students for his error by forcing them to study for another mid-term that he thought might in all probability be more difficult. I am pretty sure my tone implied "no one leaves Baby in the corner."

He wrote back. He advised me "This is the first I've heard of the matter. I'll look into it."

And that was the last I heard.

Today my daughter took exam. After the original exam she had called to tell me she had "aced it" and I could hear the pride in her voice as if she had completed 4 perfect patterns of the Killian.

Today I heard the disappointment in her voice. The disappointment was not just in the fact that her grade would probably be lower (certainly lower than the five or six kids who got version one) but disappointment in the fact that she discovered one of the biggest flaws of humankind: those that can abuse power often do.

As a mother it is hard to know when to stop "mothering."

Perhaps my letter to the Dean's mother will get better results.


-Mombo