Drinking, smoking, drugging, having sex--American teens are doing less of this stuff than ever before. (No, really, it's true; check it out: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/02/02/the-kids-are-more-than-all-right/ ) As a mom of teenaged boys, I'm happy about this.
As a former teenager, I'm pissed as hell.
As a teen, I didn't drink. Didn't smoke. Didn't do drugs. Didn't have sex. Didn't even swear. And of course I was a total dweeb and wildly unpopular, which just went with the Good Girl territory. Standard issue back then: Girl Who Doesn't = Girl Who Isn't. But I soldiered on, knowing I'd be better off some day. And fine, I am, I guess; one can recover and live a satisfied, productive life even if one never got to hang with the cool kids. Except now I discover that teens today can be good AND normal. Good AND popular. Good AND cool, even. Good grief. Life is so unfair.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Beautiful Boots
Hugh asked for, and received, cowboy boots for his 17th birthday. I've never spent so much on a single pair of footwear, but even if he lost the danged things tomorrow, I'd consider it a smart purchase. He's been so happy. I think he may wear the boots in bed. And I completely understand--I have a pair of black leather boots that I wear as often as I can. I put them on, and somehow, the day becomes better.
But it's not just that he's enjoying the boots so much. It's that I'm enjoying him in them. There's something about cowboy boots--I imagine it's the heels combined with the stiff uppers--that makes a fellow walk differently. The walk morphs into a swagger; all the random intensity and staccato energy of a teenaged boy somehow slows and smooths, takes liquid form. God, he is so beautiful.
The boots have also brought me intense enjoyment by catapulting back into memories of Hugh's last pair of cowboy boots.
We were living in England and Hugh had just turned 5. It wasn't an easy time for him; turning 5 meant not only the rigors of school (far less play-focused than its American counterpart, English early primary schools actually expect a five-year-old boy to sit in a desk for hours at a time) but also more intense peer pressure, the gradual coming to grips with the at least outward conformity required for a successful negotiation of the quagmire that is one's childhood. Hugh, like most little boys, loved to dress up--but he particularly loved wearing dresses and high heels, a preference that by the age of 5 was distinctly problematic in XY-chromosome circles. At this crucial point, a pair of black leather cowboy boots--proper riding boots with chunky heels--and a Scottish kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan came to the rescue.
The boot were a birthday gift from my sister-in-law, who joined us on holiday in Scotland. The kilt? Well, we were in Scotland. Scotland has kilts. In short order, so did Hugh. That kilt and those cowboy boots became his standard uniform--a dress and heels he could wear in public, even at the ripe old age of 5. God, he was so beautiful.
But it's not just that he's enjoying the boots so much. It's that I'm enjoying him in them. There's something about cowboy boots--I imagine it's the heels combined with the stiff uppers--that makes a fellow walk differently. The walk morphs into a swagger; all the random intensity and staccato energy of a teenaged boy somehow slows and smooths, takes liquid form. God, he is so beautiful.
The boots have also brought me intense enjoyment by catapulting back into memories of Hugh's last pair of cowboy boots.
We were living in England and Hugh had just turned 5. It wasn't an easy time for him; turning 5 meant not only the rigors of school (far less play-focused than its American counterpart, English early primary schools actually expect a five-year-old boy to sit in a desk for hours at a time) but also more intense peer pressure, the gradual coming to grips with the at least outward conformity required for a successful negotiation of the quagmire that is one's childhood. Hugh, like most little boys, loved to dress up--but he particularly loved wearing dresses and high heels, a preference that by the age of 5 was distinctly problematic in XY-chromosome circles. At this crucial point, a pair of black leather cowboy boots--proper riding boots with chunky heels--and a Scottish kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan came to the rescue.
The boot were a birthday gift from my sister-in-law, who joined us on holiday in Scotland. The kilt? Well, we were in Scotland. Scotland has kilts. In short order, so did Hugh. That kilt and those cowboy boots became his standard uniform--a dress and heels he could wear in public, even at the ripe old age of 5. God, he was so beautiful.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Growing Old at Mardi Gras
Samuel Johnson famously said, "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." The south Louisiana feminist version would be, "When a woman is sick of Mardi Gras, she is friggin'' old." And evidently I am. Old. Friggin' old.
This year, for the first time since I moved down here 24 years ago (with the exception of four years in England), I am not going down to New Orleans nor have I attended any--not a single one-- of the now many Baton Rouge Mardi Gras parades on offer. Now, granted, there are many folks down here who never attend any Mardi Gras parades. We call those folks boring. And anti-social. And just plain pitiful. I mean, geez louise, why live down here if you don't do Mardi Gras? Why endure the petty parochialism and the horrific public schools and the godawful heat and the fire ants and the neanderthal politicians and the gargantuan roaches and the all-consuming humidity and the stinging caterpillars and the searing, burning, still livid legacy of Jim Crow, if you don't at least enjoy Mardi Gras?
Um. Because you're tired? Because you've had a cold for three weeks and your throat is still sore and your ears hurt and you're still struggling with copious quantities of snot? Or maybe, because you are, let's face it, just fuckin' old.
Maybe not. Maybe next year I'll be all fired up, ready once again to brave the neutral grounds (known in other places as "the medians," the ground between the traffic lanes) of New Orleans and drink beer at 10 am and jump up and down and yell "Throw me somethin', Mister!" and stagger home with a vast treasure of plastic beads and stuffed animals and raunchy souvenirs. This year, tho', I'm happy to snuggle down in the sofa and stream "Friday Night Lights" on HDTV and drink white wine and eat the fish my husband has lovingly prepared. Which sounds ok. Good. Normal. Healthy.
Except IT'S MARDI GRAS! It is not the time for Good or Normal or Healthy. 'Tis the time to break the rules, throw off the traces, violate the boundaries, turn the world topsy turvy.
Next year. Maybe.
This year, for the first time since I moved down here 24 years ago (with the exception of four years in England), I am not going down to New Orleans nor have I attended any--not a single one-- of the now many Baton Rouge Mardi Gras parades on offer. Now, granted, there are many folks down here who never attend any Mardi Gras parades. We call those folks boring. And anti-social. And just plain pitiful. I mean, geez louise, why live down here if you don't do Mardi Gras? Why endure the petty parochialism and the horrific public schools and the godawful heat and the fire ants and the neanderthal politicians and the gargantuan roaches and the all-consuming humidity and the stinging caterpillars and the searing, burning, still livid legacy of Jim Crow, if you don't at least enjoy Mardi Gras?
Um. Because you're tired? Because you've had a cold for three weeks and your throat is still sore and your ears hurt and you're still struggling with copious quantities of snot? Or maybe, because you are, let's face it, just fuckin' old.
Maybe not. Maybe next year I'll be all fired up, ready once again to brave the neutral grounds (known in other places as "the medians," the ground between the traffic lanes) of New Orleans and drink beer at 10 am and jump up and down and yell "Throw me somethin', Mister!" and stagger home with a vast treasure of plastic beads and stuffed animals and raunchy souvenirs. This year, tho', I'm happy to snuggle down in the sofa and stream "Friday Night Lights" on HDTV and drink white wine and eat the fish my husband has lovingly prepared. Which sounds ok. Good. Normal. Healthy.
Except IT'S MARDI GRAS! It is not the time for Good or Normal or Healthy. 'Tis the time to break the rules, throw off the traces, violate the boundaries, turn the world topsy turvy.
Next year. Maybe.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A love poem
Keith always tells me I'm not romantic.
Every Valentine's Day he gives me a beautiful homemade card with a carefully selected love poem. And, yes, it's true, most Valentine's Days I come up with nothing. But the thing is, I always intend to. I always have plans. They just never quite work.
Like this year. Despite my truly awesome head cold, I leave work and stop by the funky little shop on Government Street that has great cards. But, go figure, this year the selection isn't so hot. OK. I will make this work. So after about 30 minutes of reading every card on offer and deliberating with great care, I choose one--it's good, it's fine, and I know how to spice it up--and then I discover I have no cash. And no, they won't take a credit card.
I go home. Nose is too runny, chest is too congested, head is too achey, cough is too racking to return to the damn shop. No, I will write a poem. I will make my own card.
Well, it never got onto a card. But here's the poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm coughing up loogies,
But I still love you.
You're the chicken bone for my hungry dog,
the litter for my kitty.
You say that you still want me
Even when I'm feeling shitty.
You're the saline in my Neti pot,
the Kleenex for my nose,
the compress for my feverish head--
that's what love is, I suppose.
Ok. Not a Shakespearean sonnet. But don't tell me I'm not romantic.
Every Valentine's Day he gives me a beautiful homemade card with a carefully selected love poem. And, yes, it's true, most Valentine's Days I come up with nothing. But the thing is, I always intend to. I always have plans. They just never quite work.
Like this year. Despite my truly awesome head cold, I leave work and stop by the funky little shop on Government Street that has great cards. But, go figure, this year the selection isn't so hot. OK. I will make this work. So after about 30 minutes of reading every card on offer and deliberating with great care, I choose one--it's good, it's fine, and I know how to spice it up--and then I discover I have no cash. And no, they won't take a credit card.
I go home. Nose is too runny, chest is too congested, head is too achey, cough is too racking to return to the damn shop. No, I will write a poem. I will make my own card.
Well, it never got onto a card. But here's the poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm coughing up loogies,
But I still love you.
You're the chicken bone for my hungry dog,
the litter for my kitty.
You say that you still want me
Even when I'm feeling shitty.
You're the saline in my Neti pot,
the Kleenex for my nose,
the compress for my feverish head--
that's what love is, I suppose.
Ok. Not a Shakespearean sonnet. But don't tell me I'm not romantic.
Choosing Y
I'm typing with great hesitancy because there's enough of a third-grader left in me to believe that if I acknowledge the wondrous thing that seems to be happening, I will jinx it and the wonderful will all go away. But--into the breach she leaps, quietly [I'm whispering now]: We've just concluded our third conflict-free weekend in a row with 16-year-old Hugh. Yes, that's right. No arguments, no shrieking, no swearing, no slamming doors, not even any eye-rolling. How weird and wonderful is that?
The cynical me thinks, "yeah, it's just because you've been sick and so too doggone weary to fight." But that's not it because the point is, the sharp-skewering-eureka point is, that Hugh has not picked a fight. Which counts as a totally "holy cow!" development.
I imagine it's just serendipity, the right alignment of hormones and school successes and driving privileges and what Keith made for dinner. But I would like to believe, in fact I am going to believe until facts intrude and force me to believe otherwise (just hate those damn facts), that we, Keith and I, that we did this. At least in part. Because, you see, these good weekends follow a somewhat epic clash with Hugh's boarding school authorities. (Ok ok, maybe not epic, maybe not even supermarket paperback, still, this is our life, you know, so it does seem to matter.)
School. Such a strange thing, really. You have a baby and you obsess like mad over every little detail and then the baby is 5 and whoop, total strangers have control of him for most of the day. You can assiduously investigate various school options and agonize over private vs. public and spend huge chunks of your life touring facilities and reading brochures and interviewing principals--but in the end, he spends most of the day in the hands of individuals that you do not know and that you have no say in selecting. And you have to trust them, support them, back them up. . .particularly when you have a kid who tends to lie, so of course you believe the teachers and you align yourself with The Authorities and you lecture your kid about respect and consequences and obeying the rules even when he doesn’t think they make sense.
But sometimes you confront a situation in which your gut, your heart, your instinct, all cry out: something just seems awry. I’ve been in that situation, and made the wrong choice. When Hugh was 7, his classroom teacher became seriously ill and for three months he was in the hands of a substitute. Hugh's behaviour and academic work deteriorated immediately and I knew, no, I felt something was wrong, but I stuck with my head, ignored my heart, supported The Authorities, did as I was told—and hurt Hugh. The sub, from her first day, labeled Hugh as Bad and treated him as such--and "documented" it with vindictive glee in a little notebook that the regular teacher, horrified, discovered after she returned. And I let it happen.
"Err on the side of love.” I don’t know where I heard that, but it’s become my mantra. So now, here we are, several years later and the school says X and Hugh says Y, and everything I know and feel says only Y makes any sense--despite the record, the history, the apparent evidence.
Err on the side of love. We chose Y. At least, if I screw up my kid, it will be because I believed in him too much, trusted him too much, gave him too much of my heart and my soul. Not because I didn’t.
The cynical me thinks, "yeah, it's just because you've been sick and so too doggone weary to fight." But that's not it because the point is, the sharp-skewering-eureka point is, that Hugh has not picked a fight. Which counts as a totally "holy cow!" development.
I imagine it's just serendipity, the right alignment of hormones and school successes and driving privileges and what Keith made for dinner. But I would like to believe, in fact I am going to believe until facts intrude and force me to believe otherwise (just hate those damn facts), that we, Keith and I, that we did this. At least in part. Because, you see, these good weekends follow a somewhat epic clash with Hugh's boarding school authorities. (Ok ok, maybe not epic, maybe not even supermarket paperback, still, this is our life, you know, so it does seem to matter.)
School. Such a strange thing, really. You have a baby and you obsess like mad over every little detail and then the baby is 5 and whoop, total strangers have control of him for most of the day. You can assiduously investigate various school options and agonize over private vs. public and spend huge chunks of your life touring facilities and reading brochures and interviewing principals--but in the end, he spends most of the day in the hands of individuals that you do not know and that you have no say in selecting. And you have to trust them, support them, back them up. . .particularly when you have a kid who tends to lie, so of course you believe the teachers and you align yourself with The Authorities and you lecture your kid about respect and consequences and obeying the rules even when he doesn’t think they make sense.
But sometimes you confront a situation in which your gut, your heart, your instinct, all cry out: something just seems awry. I’ve been in that situation, and made the wrong choice. When Hugh was 7, his classroom teacher became seriously ill and for three months he was in the hands of a substitute. Hugh's behaviour and academic work deteriorated immediately and I knew, no, I felt something was wrong, but I stuck with my head, ignored my heart, supported The Authorities, did as I was told—and hurt Hugh. The sub, from her first day, labeled Hugh as Bad and treated him as such--and "documented" it with vindictive glee in a little notebook that the regular teacher, horrified, discovered after she returned. And I let it happen.
"Err on the side of love.” I don’t know where I heard that, but it’s become my mantra. So now, here we are, several years later and the school says X and Hugh says Y, and everything I know and feel says only Y makes any sense--despite the record, the history, the apparent evidence.
Err on the side of love. We chose Y. At least, if I screw up my kid, it will be because I believed in him too much, trusted him too much, gave him too much of my heart and my soul. Not because I didn’t.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Feverish Longing
Sick. Sick of being sick. Vast quantities of snot. A truly impressive cough, conjuring up images of tuberculosis-doomed Victorian invalids. Plugged-up ears. A raw throat. A dull head.
But no temperature (tho' of course one does have a temperature, just a normal one). So not really sick. Without fever, one must keep on working. One longs for a fever.
But no temperature (tho' of course one does have a temperature, just a normal one). So not really sick. Without fever, one must keep on working. One longs for a fever.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Losing
Here it comes.
I can feel the shift in air pressure, the slight sense of movement beneath my feet, something akilter, something sliding, slippiing, giving way.
I know what' s happening. I'm intimately acquainted with the process. This should all be old hat, routine, no big deal.
So I do what I know needs to be done. I make sure I'm eating right. I set up an exercise routine. I resume my church attendance. I email old friends. I call my sister. I re-read my best-loved books. I make love to my husband. Carefully, consciously, mindfully, I erect the barricades, shore up the defences, solidify the walls.
But it's all pointless. I do know that. How could I not know that? Depression doesn't mount a frontal assault. It's not an attacking army. It's more like a poisonous gas; it floats over and gently, insidiously, unstoppably wends its way down; it curls up in the junctures; it lingers; it accumulates; it deadens.
It wins.
I can feel the shift in air pressure, the slight sense of movement beneath my feet, something akilter, something sliding, slippiing, giving way.
I know what' s happening. I'm intimately acquainted with the process. This should all be old hat, routine, no big deal.
So I do what I know needs to be done. I make sure I'm eating right. I set up an exercise routine. I resume my church attendance. I email old friends. I call my sister. I re-read my best-loved books. I make love to my husband. Carefully, consciously, mindfully, I erect the barricades, shore up the defences, solidify the walls.
But it's all pointless. I do know that. How could I not know that? Depression doesn't mount a frontal assault. It's not an attacking army. It's more like a poisonous gas; it floats over and gently, insidiously, unstoppably wends its way down; it curls up in the junctures; it lingers; it accumulates; it deadens.
It wins.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Lousy 50s
Head's been itching for three days. Driving me crazy, stark raving looneytunes insanely bonkers.
And of course I'm thinking, "head lice."
Don't be a dope, I tell myself. Women in their 50s do not get head lice. But of course they do. Why not? What do the lice care? A head's a head to a louse. I really doubt that lice find the sign of grey roots a turn-off. Yet somehow it seems like the only adults I know who've had head lice contracted it from their grade-school-aged children. But, really, what do I know? Maybe retirement homes are teeming with head lice and they're just not talking about it. I mean, why would they? It's not like the home head nurse can call you up and tell you to pick up your elderly father, douse his head with chemicals, search his hair with a nit comb, and keep him from contact with other elderly folks for the next 48 hours. Or maybe she can. What do I know?
All I know is my head really really itches and the last time it felt this way was many many years ago when Owen had a bad case of head lice that we didn't detect for ages because his hair was so thick, and by the time we did detect it, the lice had colonized me and Hugh as well. That was our first encounter with the dreaded louse. Many more were to come, especially once we moved to England. The Manchester Health Authority, concerned by the health risks posed by overuse of head lice-eradicating shampoos, had banned their sale and instead mounted a massive campaign in schools and community centers to teach parents to nit-comb their kids' hair every night. Every time I picked up or dropped off a child I had to run the gauntlet of posters featuring giant-sized lice and the cheery slogan, "All It Takes Is A Comb!" Right. And in the event of nuclear war, just make sure you've got a lot of duct tape and all will be well.
The campaign, needless to say, was a tremendous failure. All It Takes, actually, is one parent who's too sick//busy/ overwhelmed/ distracted/ drunk/ stoned/ ignorant /depressed, and one non-nitcombed kid, and you rapidly have yourself a whole lotta lice. By our third year in the city, the Health Authority had admitted defeat and lice-killing shampoos were back in the chemists' (aka drugstores). Which put an end to my short but successful career as a Nit-Rid shampoo smuggler (trading on my connections back in the U.S. where of course it's one's God-given right as a Free American to pour lethal brain-destroying chemicals on one's offspring as often as one wants to).
I think I finally threw out our massive collection of nit combs a few years ago and I remember I actually felt a wee bit nostalgic as I did so. The thing is, while the lice were disgusting and my throat still constricts just thinking about the horrid smell of that shampoo, the nitcombing routine wasn't all that bad. I'd get 20 or even 30 minutes with each boy, sitting on my lap, as I went through his hair, strand by strand. That closeness, that physical expression of our relationship, was already so rare by the time the boys were only 7 or 8 so, weirdly, I actually didn't mind our nit-picking sessions. And since, by the time I threw away those combs, the boys were well into their teens and had prohibited all physical contact except in cases of extreme emergency, I don't think the nostalgia was completely mad.
And now I have no nit comb. My head itches. I'm in my 50s. And I'm lousy.
And of course I'm thinking, "head lice."
Don't be a dope, I tell myself. Women in their 50s do not get head lice. But of course they do. Why not? What do the lice care? A head's a head to a louse. I really doubt that lice find the sign of grey roots a turn-off. Yet somehow it seems like the only adults I know who've had head lice contracted it from their grade-school-aged children. But, really, what do I know? Maybe retirement homes are teeming with head lice and they're just not talking about it. I mean, why would they? It's not like the home head nurse can call you up and tell you to pick up your elderly father, douse his head with chemicals, search his hair with a nit comb, and keep him from contact with other elderly folks for the next 48 hours. Or maybe she can. What do I know?
All I know is my head really really itches and the last time it felt this way was many many years ago when Owen had a bad case of head lice that we didn't detect for ages because his hair was so thick, and by the time we did detect it, the lice had colonized me and Hugh as well. That was our first encounter with the dreaded louse. Many more were to come, especially once we moved to England. The Manchester Health Authority, concerned by the health risks posed by overuse of head lice-eradicating shampoos, had banned their sale and instead mounted a massive campaign in schools and community centers to teach parents to nit-comb their kids' hair every night. Every time I picked up or dropped off a child I had to run the gauntlet of posters featuring giant-sized lice and the cheery slogan, "All It Takes Is A Comb!" Right. And in the event of nuclear war, just make sure you've got a lot of duct tape and all will be well.
The campaign, needless to say, was a tremendous failure. All It Takes, actually, is one parent who's too sick//busy/ overwhelmed/ distracted/ drunk/ stoned/ ignorant /depressed, and one non-nitcombed kid, and you rapidly have yourself a whole lotta lice. By our third year in the city, the Health Authority had admitted defeat and lice-killing shampoos were back in the chemists' (aka drugstores). Which put an end to my short but successful career as a Nit-Rid shampoo smuggler (trading on my connections back in the U.S. where of course it's one's God-given right as a Free American to pour lethal brain-destroying chemicals on one's offspring as often as one wants to).
I think I finally threw out our massive collection of nit combs a few years ago and I remember I actually felt a wee bit nostalgic as I did so. The thing is, while the lice were disgusting and my throat still constricts just thinking about the horrid smell of that shampoo, the nitcombing routine wasn't all that bad. I'd get 20 or even 30 minutes with each boy, sitting on my lap, as I went through his hair, strand by strand. That closeness, that physical expression of our relationship, was already so rare by the time the boys were only 7 or 8 so, weirdly, I actually didn't mind our nit-picking sessions. And since, by the time I threw away those combs, the boys were well into their teens and had prohibited all physical contact except in cases of extreme emergency, I don't think the nostalgia was completely mad.
And now I have no nit comb. My head itches. I'm in my 50s. And I'm lousy.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Crime and Punishment
The big story in Baton Rouge this week is the arrest of a high school girl, who stole the identities of almost 200 of her fellow students, filed fraudulent tax returns, and received rebate checks worth tens of thousands of dollars. Much angst about the breach of confidentiality, school policies, the security of important documents, etc. and of course rightfully so. And of course the girl's actions were wrong, completely and totally. But still-- I have to admit I'm impressed by this kid. She's still a teenager and she's figured out the public school computer system and the U.S. tax system?! Golly, get her on the right road and she can go anywhere.
It all reminds me of Hugh in the second grade. The school then had a strict policy: whenever a student didn't complete the assigned homework, that student's parent received a phone call. The school secretary and I were soon on a first-name basis, as she was calling me every morning. I was so confused. Every night I'd sit down with Hugh, look over his daily homework assignment sheet, and then spend a tortured hour forcing him to do the pointless but required worksheets. But then the next morning, yet another phone call about everything he was missing. Finally, when Hugh received the dubious distinction of being the kid with the most missed homework in the entire school, the principal, teacher, Keith, Hugh, and I had a meeting. Utterly frustrated, I pulled out Hugh's last homework sheet and went down the list--did it, did it, did it. His teacher grabbed the piece of paper, examined it carefully, and then turned to Hugh with a look somewhere between horror and admiration. Turns out the kid was running a scam. Every day the teacher required the kids to write out their homework list and every day she checked Hugh's. So he swiped a bunch of blank homework sheets and every day after the homework sheet check, he'd fill out a different sheet, with far fewer assignments, and that was what he brought home to me. As the adults in that conference room gradually figured out what was going on, Keith muttered, "Good lord, the kid's discovered double entry bookkeeping."
Driving home that morning, we took comfort in the fact that if Hugh was headed toward a life on the wrong side of the law, at least it would be white-collar crime. "Minimum-security prison," said Keith, in a tone of relief.
It all reminds me of Hugh in the second grade. The school then had a strict policy: whenever a student didn't complete the assigned homework, that student's parent received a phone call. The school secretary and I were soon on a first-name basis, as she was calling me every morning. I was so confused. Every night I'd sit down with Hugh, look over his daily homework assignment sheet, and then spend a tortured hour forcing him to do the pointless but required worksheets. But then the next morning, yet another phone call about everything he was missing. Finally, when Hugh received the dubious distinction of being the kid with the most missed homework in the entire school, the principal, teacher, Keith, Hugh, and I had a meeting. Utterly frustrated, I pulled out Hugh's last homework sheet and went down the list--did it, did it, did it. His teacher grabbed the piece of paper, examined it carefully, and then turned to Hugh with a look somewhere between horror and admiration. Turns out the kid was running a scam. Every day the teacher required the kids to write out their homework list and every day she checked Hugh's. So he swiped a bunch of blank homework sheets and every day after the homework sheet check, he'd fill out a different sheet, with far fewer assignments, and that was what he brought home to me. As the adults in that conference room gradually figured out what was going on, Keith muttered, "Good lord, the kid's discovered double entry bookkeeping."
Driving home that morning, we took comfort in the fact that if Hugh was headed toward a life on the wrong side of the law, at least it would be white-collar crime. "Minimum-security prison," said Keith, in a tone of relief.
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