Circle of Life

I haven't seen it since second grade.

At least I'm pretty sure it was second grade because my third grade teacher, Mr. Sam, was an abusive curmudgeon who literally picked me up by my head and moved me back to the end of the line when I budged.

Nothing good ever came out of his class.

And by fourth grade I was living in Germany and far, far away from Mexico. So I'm fairly certain it was second grade.

That was the year when our teacher, Mrs. Bivona, brought in the yellow, black and white striped monarch caterpillars. They chomped their way through milkweed leaf after milkweed leaf (they were hungry, hungry you know) until they turned into chrysalises. Every day we watched them, waiting for the moment when their little sleeping bags would wiggle and they would break free and land, wet and unable to fly, on the bottom of the insect jar. And they didn't disappoint.

So I was really glad this year when we went to the state fair and into the Butterfly House to find out that you could buy a monarch caterpillar complete with milkweed leaves. Caeden picked out a caterpillar and we brought him home to watch. Armed with his magnifying glass so that he could, "Look at the caterpillar closely," (his words) we watched that little worm climb to the top of the jar and hang down in the proverbial J shape.

Later that night we watched him spin a chrysallis around his body. Caeden and Avery were enthralled.

Every day for two weeks the kids would wake up and run out to the kitchen where the chrysalis hung and see if there was anything new.

Finally, he emerged. Unfortunately it was while we were all away for the day. But when we got home the kids were crazy with excitement. Butterflybutterflybutterfly!

The next morning we gently eased this little miracle from his jar to a flower in our yard. We watched him for a few hours while he stayed perched primly on that flower. We had some errands to run and by the time we got back home, the butterfly was gone.

"Butterfly fly away?" Avery asked.

"Yes honey. The butterfly is finding a new home," I told her.

That's what I want her to believe.

But it's probably just as likely that a bird swooped down and made a tasty meal out of our friend.

Cable Lust

My house is the Bermuda Triangle of cable.

I've never seen Project Runway.

I've heard of the Real Housewives of New Jersey, but don't know what all the hype is about.

I've been spared the Jon and Kate Plus 8 reality disaster.

But I'm not happy about it.

Every year a plucky new cable installer knocks on our front door and extols the virtues of digital television. Every year we try to explain that our house is where cable waves go to die. And yet we wind up opening our door and saying to the perennial, confident, not quite battle worn cable installer, "Do your worst."

After whizzing and whirring machines measure this or that wavelength, a shimmy is made up the power line, and various cords are tested, the cable guy inevitably returns to us, eyes round and head shaking back and forth, "I've never seen anything like it."

So you can imagine what a treat it was a couple weekends ago when my in-laws came over to babysit and we were wild and child-free in Minneapolis for a whole night. Not only would we get to go out to dinner without having to worry about our daughter climbing over the booth into the other patrons' laps, but we were also able to see a comedy act AND watch cable tv in the hotel room. A trifecta.

Dinner was divine. The comedy club was halfway funny, enough to put us in high spirits. But the cable. What is UP with cable tv?

The commercials are. Well. Weird.

That guy selling some sort of food chopper? He actually said, "You're gonna love my nuts." The guy with the super sharp knife? He cut a pineapple in midair. In slow motion. Okay, cool, but, seriously? Is that the selling point? Buy this knife for all of your midair pineapple cutting needs? Then there was the guy who said all of your car troubles could be handled with a paint pen. Keyed car? Paint pen. Runaway grocery cart? Paint pen. Won't start? Paint pen.

I don't know. Maybe we're not missing all that much after all.

Bumping up against stereotypes

Every day as I leave school, I pass a meditation center. In the front of the center is a small plot of foliage, a place where, I assume, members occasionally respite, meditate, and enjoy the simple pleasures of nature.

So was I wrong to do a double-take when I noticed a small, brown, bald man dressed in a bright orange robe of (what I think is) traditional Buddhist garb standing in the garden, not contemplating, but talking animatedly, arms flailing, with his cell phone pressed to his ear?