Merry Christmas!

The Christmas preparations have really taken their toll on my available blogging time. But here it is, Christmas Eve eve, probably the busiest day of the holiday season for me. Middle Monkey has school today, but the other two Catholic school simeons have the day off. They shall be my helpers today! Today is the traditional clean-the-house challenge. I try to put it into a religious perspective. The mess in the house represents our sinful nature and how we can lose focus on the final ultimate prize of salvation. So that stack of papers left on the dining room table is a sin which must be cleaned away in preparation for the Savior's birth. O.K. The Pope may think I'm off my rocker, but it's the only way that I can have a happy attitude about a job which is pure drudgery. I was even in a good mood at the grocery store today. The place was packed with people who thought they were going to beat the Christmas food shopping rush. There were women everywhere who looked like they had just fallen out of bed and headed straight for the produce aisle. (I was one of them.) And if the three thousand or so of us who were inspecting fruit and lettuces were the ones who avoided the rush, I hate to see what the place is going to look like later this afternoon, or even tomorrow. But, like the comraderie that forms in the trenches of war, all of us had smiles on our faces and were laughing and talking to each other about all the work we have ahead of us over the next 36 hours or so. I was even pleased to come across my mother-in-law in the dairy section, and I spared her the walk home by driving her once we both battled through checkout lanes.
But I am a very happy camper. I love this time of year. The Christmas tree is almost decorated and good friends are coming tomorrow to share "La Vigilia", the traditional Italian Christmas Eve meal of fish that I will make. We'll go to church together, too. This is the part of Christmas that I love. Nevermind the presents. It's the gathering with loved ones and sharing meals and laughter. We celebrate the wonderful gift that God gave to us in Jesus Christ. Share His love today and throughout the entire year!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Here Kitty, Kitty!

Oh, yeah. Cute as a button. Who can resist a soft, fluffy kitten? Meet Lily who now belongs to Baby Monkey. Regular readers to this blog know that Baby Monkey was dealt an emotional blow when Clancey, his 20-year-old cat, died just before Thanksgiving. I thought Baby would be in mourning for quite some time, but about two weeks after his beloved pet's passing he asked me, "When can we get another cat?"
"Don't you think it's a bit soon? Has it been a respectful amount of time?" I asked my youngest son.
"Mom, it's a cat, you know. It' s not like replacing a person." He had a point. Besides, I am alone in the house during the day, and believe it or not, I get a little lonely without even a cat to talk to. (Kong will attest to the fact that I like to talk.)
So about a week ago, Baby Monkey and I found this little cutie at a cat shelter. She was found under a porch with her siblings, alone and frightened, no mother to be found. I feel we've done a good deed by rescuing her and providing her with a "Forever Home", as the shelter likes to say. Baby Monkey is completely taken with her. She is gradually getting used to her new environment, and it's his responsibility to feed her, clean her litter box and generally take care of her. He's even set up housekeeping in the back room downstairs, sleeping on the sofa bed to make sure that she wants for nothing in the middle of the night. His devotion is actually quite sweet. He reminds me of Coco the Gorilla who was famous for learning sign language and being able to communicate with her scientist/trainer. Coco was given a kitten at one point. It was amazing to see such a large creature be so tender and loving with her tiny pet. It's the same with Baby Monkey. He has enormous hands and stands 6 feet tall on size 13 shoes. But he's very gentle and considerate of his little kitten's fragility. For example, Baby Monkey is careful to set Lily in a safe place before he picks up a broom handle and chases the Monkey Prince through the house. There must be hope for him.

O, Christmas Tree

Let me just say this. I like Christmas. I really do. I especially like it since the year we scaled back all our gift giving to only those people living in our house. It certainly cut down on all the holiday stress. But I do like Christmas! However, there's one task that I just don't like, and that's tree hunting.

I live in Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania is a very, very large tree farm. From the banks of the Delaware River to the shores of Lake Erie there are trees. In fact, the very word "Pennsylvania" means Penn's Woods, combining the name of our tolerant Quaker founder with the forest that was his personal property, a gift from an English king. To this day, except for dots of civilization like Philadelphia and Pittsburgh (I'm using the term "civilization" loosely in reference to Pittsburgh), the entire commonwealth is a vast woodland, and a good portion of that woodland is evergreen. So, it's not at all unusual for Pennsylvanians to have live Christmas trees in their home, and it's also not uncommon for Pennsylvanians to have actually chopped down their Christmas trees with their very own hands. And I do love the smell of a fresh tree, and it certainly does look splendid when it's standing there all decked out in holiday finery. What I don't like is the spectacle that goes along with Christmas tree hunting and chopping.

For anyone who does not live in a tree-cutting area of this great country, I want to specify that at least in our neck of Penn's Woods, people don't just go outside with an axe and begin cutting down any old tree they see. Most of Pennsylvania is privately owned, and the law frowns on tree stealing. And if your local culture does not include Christmas tree cutting, then you may have an idyllic picture in your head of snow covered forests, brisk cold air, and smiling, jingle-bell-singing families traipsing into the woods together for family bonding. Well, it's not really like that, at least not when you live with monkeys.

Apparently I was not invited to the "tradition development meeting" on Monkey Island. No one told me that this yearly quest for the perfect tree had become something that cannot be altered. We MUST awaken very early on a cold December morning. We MUST go to breakfast at a diner (which I do enjoy, by the way), and then we MUST find a suitable Christmas tree farm, walk through the rows of tree and argue about which one is perfect. While this goes on, the three monkeys must run through the trees, hurling snow and insults at each other, not a concern at all for trees. In fact, they probably don't even notice trees.

This year was no different. After internet research was done, likely candidate tree farms were identified in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Kong announced the evening before that he expected us to be conscious and ready to go by 7:15 a.m. the following morning. At approximately 8:30 a.m. the next day, we pulled out of the driveway headed for the traditional diner breakfast. The monkeys were bleary-eyed, as most teenage monkeys are at that hour of the morning -- or indeed, at any hour before noon. This year, a twist was added to our adventure. We all traveled in the same car. You see, back in 1998, Kong, ever the accountant, decided to save five cents by purchasing a minivan without a roof rack. (I defy you to find a minivan without a roof rack.) So year after year, because there was not enough room in our minivan to carry a tree and all children in seatbelted safety, we'd take both the minivan and the car. In that way, when the perfect tree was procured, we could cram it into the van, and then pile people into the car to follow. But by the summer of 2005, I had purchased two kayaks, and one really must have a roof rack for kayak transport. So this year, with a custom Yakima rack on the minivan, we drove in family togetherness, listening to holiday music and anticipating the real reason the monkeys and I go on this hunt, which is the diner breakfast.

Diners are a wonderful thing, especially at breakfast time. Kong and I share a love of diners. I'd rather go to a diner for breakfast than a Michelin five-star restaurant for dinner. And Pennsylvania, along with being a vast woodland, is also a diner Mecca. We've been known to drive the width and length of the commonwealth in search of diner fare. Kong has skidded to screeching halts at the site of an unexpected stainless steel gleam of a Silk City classic. The monkeys love giant omelettes, great stacks of fluffy pancakes with gobs of butter, and even that Philly classic, scrapple. The only reason that I go on this yearly expedition is because there's a diner breakfast involved. This year was no different, except we ended up at a chain diner, which is, in fact, a mutually exclusive term. The place was o.k. It had a diner theme, but it wasn't the real thing. What was all too real was the monkey floor show that we brought with us.

Lately, meal times have been a chaos of teasing and creative name calling. It has the potential to be funny, but it's gotten stale. Baby Monkey calls the Monkey Prince fat. Monkey Prince declares that Baby Monkey has no friends and needs a haircut. Baby Monkey responds, "Cut your throat." And on and on it goes. The Monkey in the Middle usually joins in by laughing at the two biological monkeys, who seem to get encouragement from this. Kong and I just sit with weary looks on our faces. We're long past the point of caring if people think we're horrible parents. Eventually the monkeys will move away, and we can move about in public again.

Breakfast went on for the better part of an hour, but once it was over, I realized I now had to deal with the actual tree search. We drove and drove and drove through miles of trees, looking for a tree farm. We eventually found the farm that Kong had researched on the internet and found that we had to park on one side of a busy road, then cross in front of a flashing police SUV which blocked our view of speeding cars, and climb a nearly perfectly vertical hill, past an impressive display of over-priced, pre-cut trees from other tree farms to reach the field of trees. Short trees. Most of them were seedlings. To be sure, there were some lovely 4 and 5 foot beauties, and if you like small trees, this would be the place for you. But we have 10 foot ceilings in our house, and Kong is proud of the size of his tree. Each year it must scrape the ceiling, and if he has to cut off part of the tree to make it fit in the house, then so much the better. Nothing pleases him more than to hear visitors exclaim, "Wow! You have a big tree!" The little trees in this field were not making the grade. And even though we could clearly see over all the trees to the very ends of the property, Kong insisted that we must walk the entire acreage, checking for some 9-foot conifer that might be hidden behind a 4-foot cousin. Never mind the laws of physics. He pointed out that in the distance there were large trees. "Dear, those are on the property line. They're 20 feet tall and they aren't part of the crop." "Who the hell plants trees in a tree field to mark the end of a tree field?" He had a point, I suppose.

While this was all going on, the monkey boys were running through the field acting like monkeys. Kong suggested that we try another farm. Ugh. NO!!! Even the monkey boys did not want to go any further. But no short tree for Kong! In the pre-cut section we had passed on our way to the seedling field were many tall trees, exactly the same stinking trees that some roadside guy was selling at half the price in parking lots an hour closer to home. Undeterred, we now embarked on the search through the pre-cut trees. The boys ran away, we knew not where, and I didn't care. Kong, now searching through tall trees, was a voice unseen, as he called out to me, "Look at this one! How about this one! What do you think of this!" I'll tell you what I think. Take one. Any one. Because we'll just cover it with lights and ornaments, and it will look like every Christmas tree we've had for the past 20 years. At one point, he found one that he seemed to think was perfect, but he was afraid that he might be missing a more perfect specimen in an area that he had not yet searched. He instructed me to stand next to his perfect tree while he went off to check out the other identical trees. I suppose he expected me to engage in a fight to the death if someone else also considered his tree to be perfect. I stood there, unenthusiastic, and watched another family looking at trees nearby. They had a springer spaniel with them. A male springer spaniel. At least I'm pretty sure a female spaniel would not have lifted its leg to pee on a Christmas tree.

As I leaned toward the tree I was guarding, sniffing the air to see if this family and their dog had considered "our" tree, Kong called out to me. "There's a good one over here." He came running back to guard the tree himself while I walked off about 10 feet to look at yet another tree. It looked exactly the same as the first tree. In fact, it looked exactly the same as every tree there, but since it was a safe distance from the spaniel, I decided it was more perfect than the other perfect tree. Kong went in search of one of the tree technicians to tie up our tree and to empty our bank account to complete the purchase. There was still no sign of the monkeys who missed out on this moment of family bonding. But Kong seemed happy.

Let Your Light So Shine . . .

An update on Middle Monkey's hand: Nothing is broken! He just has to buddy tape his pinky to the next finger for a while until the strain heals, apply ice and take ibuprofen. It looks like his music career has not come to an end.
_______________________________________

Today I'd like to post about monkeys and their use of electricity. Being simple creatures, they do not understand the concept of pay-as-you-go. In fact, they don't much understand the concept of "pay". They know that they want money. But as to the finer points of earning and spending it wisely, they are clueless. They take many of our modern conveniences for granted. I'm sure that they believe that electricity, water and heat are all free. After all, these things conveniently appear at the flick of a switch or turn of a handle.

My morning routine does not follow a June Cleaver time table. I'm sure that June rose before the sun, formed her hair into an attractive boufant, donned her heels and pearls and hurried down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast and bag lunches before her family grunted through their last snores of the night. (I personally think that June never slept, or if she did, she slept standing in a broom closet in the kitchen.) My schedule, however, often finds me at the computer working late hours. I often don't get to sleep until well after midnight, and most nights it's more likely to be 1:00 a.m. before I finally am able to thud into unconsciousness. The first monkey gets up around 5:45 for his 6:30 departure for school. After that, Kong gets up, then the Monkey Prince at 6:18, and lastly the Middle Monkey. I have boys who know how to cook or at least, how to pour cereal into a bowl. Kong is useless in the kitchen, but after 21 years of marriage, he can complain all he wants about my not having a steaming plate of bacon and eggs for him each morning. I know he tells everyone in the office that I don't make him breakfast, and that's perfectly true. However, he neglects to say how many times I've made breakfast only to have him turn it down saying that he doesn't have time to eat. Somewhere around year 4 of marriage I decided that I wasn't going to play hit-or-miss breakfast with him. Besides, he doesn't need the added cholesterol in his diet, and I need the sleep. (See, honey, I'm only thinking of our health!) Add to this picture that there are four man-sized monkey-males using two bathrooms over the course of an hour or so. It's a jungle beyond my bedroom door, and I'm not going out there! I get up around 7:15 when the last one leaves.

As I've mentioned before, I am blessed to have a work-from-home job. My commute is a simple walk downstairs to my computer station. Pajamas are perfectly acceptable office attire, and I have no office mates to complain about my not brushing my teeth until after I've had a cup or two of coffee in the morning. But I do not roll out of bed and go straight to work. Each day I must patrol the island to survey the damage left by the monkeys' early morning preparations. Bathroom sinks and floors are splashed with water. Wet towels are left piled on the radiator . (I know that's you, Kong!) and dishes are piled on the counter above the dishwasher where the monkeys assume that simple osmosis will cause the dishes to be absorbed through the formica and deposited into the dishwasher to be cleaned.

But the very first damage control that I have to perform is the electrical stand-down. Every glowing electric-powered item in the house is left on: bathroom lights, bedroom lights, hallway lights, kitchen lights, living room lights, dining room lights, family room lights, televisions, radios. If a boy or man passed by it, it was turned on. Perhaps they can't resist the magic buttons and switches that make light and sound appear. I can't help but feel guilty that I taught them to do this by providing them with toddler toys that squeeked, lit up, and danced about with the push of a button. It might be the result of baby conditioning. Those toys should carry warning labels! "This seemingly harmless educational toy may cause your electric bill to skyrocket in years to come."

What really aggravates me is the lighting. I have to peer into a room and examine lampshades each morning. Are they glowing? Is that a bit of brightness coming from the top of the lampshade? The rooms are flooded with morning sunshine. Window blinds are open and God's glorious gift of warming sunlight streams in to show us the paths which we must walk throughout the coming day. What 75 watt bulb can compare to that? There is no puddle of light on the floor or soft glow surrounding the floor lamp in the family room. It's meager offering is overpowered by the brilliance of natural, and yes, FREE illumination. Yet there stands the lamp, valiantly trying to strain against the growing sunlight that rises out of the east with the passing of each morning-minute. And the stinking lamp is costing me money! This scenario is played out in each room of the house as I walk through snapping off lights, switching off television sets, and shutting down the Monkey Prince's continuous connection to talk radio.

Try as I might, I cannot seem to change the monkey habit. I think the clicking noise of on/off switches is too attractive to their simple sensibilities. They must, MUST turn the knob, push the button, flick the switch. They can't help it. What puzzles me, however, is why they never try to repeat the process. They like to see the light go on, but it never occurs to them that they might get the same pleasure from switching the light OFF. Or maybe they just get bored easily. I think that's it! They see it once, and that's the big event for them. After that, they walk around oblivious until they walk out the door. My only comfort is that someday the monkeys will move on to islands of their own. But I want to be there the first time one of them opens an electric bill.

That hurts!

I bet you're wondering if we have any modern conveniences on Monkey Island. You want to know if there's any modern technology or civilization here, or are we completely isolated. Well, actually, we do have technology. Boy monkeys tend to get hurt, so at the very least, we have to have at least one vet and an x-ray machine.
Today our Monkey in the Middle informed me that his pinky hurt. In fact, it's been hurting for two weeks. He and his monkey friends were playing basketball and he "did something to it". Of course, not once in two weeks did he mention this to me, the caretaker, who would have been sure to provide him with prompt medical attention. So today he got out of school early and went to see the doctor. There's a bit more to the deal. Middle Monkey is an accomplished violinist. He plays in a chamber group at a respected music school, too. What did his director tell him just after he was selected as one of the best of the best for this chamber group? "Don't get hurt!" Aarrrgh. Never say anything like that to a teenage boy. It's just an invitation to visit the emergency room!
So now we wait to find out if he's broken anything. Don't try to spot the break on the x-ray above. That's for illustration purposes only. That's a completely normal hand. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play doctor??

Monkey in the Middle

Before getting started on the last monkey introduction, I need to take care of some business. My husband, the Ape King, has requested that he be referred to as "Kong" in this blog. His request has been granted, and is noted in the banner at the top of this page. (And now you probably have a good handle on the parental sense of humor on Monkey Island.)

Today I introduce the Monkey in the Middle. While he is the middle child according to age, he came to the island last, and so I have been posting introductions in the order of appearance. Middle Monkey has been on the island since August of 2003. Since we did not give birth to him and he did not live with us through his childhood, I have no endearing stories of his toddler antics to tell. But that should not be a problem, since teenagers engage in so many antics that I should have no problem coming up with good stories for this blog.
Middle Monkey was born in South Korea, but he came to the United States with his parents when he was just a baby. He lived here with his family until June of 2001. His father, a very highly respected church minister, completed his doctorate studies here, and the entire family returned to South Korea. There, the respected minister now serves as a church pastor. Unfortunately, Middle Monkey's adjustment to life in South Korea was very difficult, especially in the area of education. Even though he is a Korean citizen, he was raised in the U.S. and was certainly very American in his ways. I would also like to say that I am as patriotic as the next guy, but folks, the U.S. is sorely lacking in it's public education system when compared to so many other countries in the world. South Korea's educational system is really up there, gang. Their children attend school for many more hours, study subjects at earlier ages, and they generally are expected to meet higher standards than our kids would even consider. Of course there is good and bad in that. Those children who do well, do very well. Those who are average are probably exceptional students by American standards. However, there's a great deal of stress that comes with those high expectations, and there is very little time left for unstructured activity. Which system is better, the Korean or the American? I don't know. We certainly have plenty of room for improvement here. I think we'd all do well to expect more from our children, especially our teenagers, who seem too often these days to have an over-developed sense of entitlement with an underdeveloped sense of responsibility or work ethic. These children have parents with equally overdeveloped senses of entitlement, or as I refer to them, "My-child-does-no-wrong" parents. ::: I'm entitled to my soap box, folks! ::: On the other hand, it seems to me that individuality is highly prized in the U.S., and I think that's a very, very good thing.
But what does this all mean for the Monkey in the Middle? Well, he spent two years in South Korea trying to step into a very rigorous, demanding educational system that was completely foreign to him. In addition, children his age had already been studying subjects like Chinese language and Korean history, subjects which he did not cover in the U.S. He was behind from the moment he started. And there wasn't much in the way of accommodation for new international students at his Korean school. His grades were poor. His teachers kept him after school. Corporal punishment was applied, as well. It was not a good thing. He had already completed fifth grade in the United States, and he had been one of the top students in his school. In Korea he had to repeat a grade, spent endless hours trying to catch up to his classmates, and he was just not making the grade, literally.
That's when I received a phone call from his mother in Korea. You see, Middle Monkey had been one of my cub scouts back here in the United States. From third grade through fifth grade I was his den leader. I became friends with his mother, an outgoing, charming woman. We had often talked about our cultures and our children. We connected as mothers do when they have concerns about their children. She was always very grateful to me for volunteering to be a cub scout leader for her son and for all the other boys that were in our den. We went camping, learned how to be good citizens, how to be helpful to our neighbors, etc. She wrote me the nicest card at the end of one scouting year thanking me for providing her son with the American experience that she and her husband could not provide. I was very touched. When they returned to Korea, I was genuinely sad. We kept in touch via email, though.
And so in February of 2003 the phone rang. I remember looking out of the window when I picked up the phone. It was a beautiful clear day, and there was snow on the ground. I recognized her voice immediately, despite the echo of the international connection and the nearly two years that had passed since I had spoken with her. We talked about the weather and the children for a few minutes. She told me that her son was not doing well in school. Before she could even ask us if my husband and I would allow him to come and live with us, I told her, "What can we do for him? Do you think he could come back to live here and go to school?" She told me that she wanted to ask me that and was very glad that I had suggested it first, but she would not accept my offer right away. She correctly told me that my husband and I should talk about such an important thing and give it good consideration, which of course we did. But I have to tell you, the decision was made very quickly when my husband and I spoke about it. Probably within three minutes we both decided that our home was open to another child. We did continue to talk about the pros and cons, but never once did we change our decision. The next morning, I went to my church. I wanted to sit in the sanctuary in front of the tabernacle and just think. My thoughts became prayers. As a Catholic, I had vowed to accept children willingly from God. But in my case, that was more easily said than physically done. But sitting in the church, I realized there are more ways to accept children into our lives than to give birth to them. I knew that there was a child in Korea who needed something that we could provide, and that was the right thing to do. I looked over at Mary's statue and just smiled. I had a mother-to-mother moment.
Now I don't want to sound like some saint. Believe me, taking a child into your home in a situation like this does not compare to what others have done. People who foster children with emotional, physical or developmental issues have a very, very special calling. Others have taken many, many children into their homes. We brought in one Korean boy, an excellent student with wonderful parents who help us with decision making and are as involved in their son's life as they can be. I feel like this was the least we could do, and there are plenty of times when I feel guilty for not doing more for others.
So our Middle Monkey came to live with us. What's another teenage boy, anyway? What's one more boy with his head in the refrigerator looking for food? There was a period of adjustment, of course. We adjusted sleeping arrangements in our three-bedroom house. We have small rooms, but we also have high ceilings. So we just started to stack the bodies up. Baby Monkey and Middle Monkey took the larger room, and we got out the old bunk beds that Baby had once shared with the Monkey Prince. The Prince was able to keep his own private cage, even though it was the smallest bedroom. One might assume that Baby Monkey and Middle Monkey would form a close bond. They had been in the same grade together in elementary school and had been den mates in cub scouts. But, now he had to share a room where before he had one to himself. And there was also an element of competitiveness between two boys of the same age in the same grade, even though they now attended different schools. Instead, it appeared that the Middle Monkey preferred the company of the charismatic Monkey Prince. Middle Monkey is the older of two children in his Korean family, but here, he is a middle child. He has a big brother here, and even I have to admit that the big brother is a heck of a lot of fun. And the princeling never seems to be threatened by anyone. He's his own man. I can't say that was the same between the Baby and Middle monkeys. Where the Prince is accepted as the alpha male, the younger have their moments trying to establish dominance.
All of this happened at the beginning of August 2003. Middle Monkey was to begin eighth grade in September, and thinking that it would be a simple process to have him registered at school, we went in to meet the counselors. Throughout that summer, I had been in contact with the school district. We had a court date to establish legal guardianship, paperwork was in order, we were all set to go. That is until I met with the School Counselor from Hell. She took one look at school records that were presented from Korea and said, "I can't read this."
"Of course you can't read it. It's in Korean. I don't suppose you know Korean?"
"Why would I know Korean?"
"I didn't expect you to know Korean. I'm sorry."
"When did he complete seventh grade?" she asked.
"Well, actually he is just a couple of months short of finishing seventh grade. The Korean school year begins in the winter, you see, and it continues . . . " I tried to explain. I also wanted to explain that in seventh grade in Korea, he was already studying math and science courses that are not offered to our district students until senior high school. But I didn't get the chance.
She rudely cut me off and said, "Well, if he didn't finish seventh grade, then he has to start seventh grade all over again here."
"No. I discussed this with the school district representative some weeks ago and with the principal here, who just happened to have been this boy's fourth grade teacher. They have approved him starting eighth grade," I explained patiently.
"Well, they don't know what they're talking about. We just can't have social promotions in this school. And besides, I have no idea if their school system is up to our standards." What a silly, ridiculous woman!
"What social promotion? I'm not talking about social promotion. He's capable of doing eighth grade work. He needs to be placed in eighth grade. And let me assure you, school in Korea does not even compare to what we do here. Time spent in the classroom alone is year-round, six days a week," I said to her.
And then she said it. "You know, there are a lot of Koreans in this community, and they all think their kids are smarter than everyone else's. He's been over there for two years, and he's missed out on an education here in this district. He's behind, as far as I'm concerned." I couldn't believe she said that! Yep. We do have a lot of Korean families in our school district, and you know what? Most of their kids ARE more committed to studying and working hard. They don't watch endless hours of t.v. They don't zone out on video games. They don't talk back to their parents. And their parents focus on their children, their families, and their personal character. They work hard, because they know that their education is important. They work hard because they know they have so many opportunities here, and education is the key to making the most of those opportunities. These were all familiar themes to me, a second-generation American whose parents and grandparents held the very same hopes and dreams for their new family in America. How dare this woman!
I asked her, "And with so many Korean families in this school district, one might think that you'd take the time to find out about their culture and their traditions. You should make the effort to learn about them, because you are here to serve these children."
She actually continued to put her foot in her mouth by remarking that I was just trying to get a free education for a foreigner. I told her that since I had two boys of my own in Catholic school yet continued to pay school taxes in our township, the school district was still "one up" on the situation. I also told her that I was done talking to her, and that she needed to get the principal involved right away. Five minutes later, the principal let us know how pleased he was to see his former student again, and of course, he would be in eighth grade. The counselor then insisted that "all Korean students" must be tested for English skills. I asked her why? This boy had attended school in this district from kindergarten through fifth grade. The district was in possession of his school records. He was at the top of his class for each of those years. I can tell you, gentle reader, that he speaks English better than she does! But, we decided to indulge her anyway. He tested for English as a second language and passed with flying colors, of course. And two weeks after he began eighth grade, all of his teachers in his general tracked classes recommended that he be moved to honors classes. And I told him to never, ever go to that evil school counselor again for anything!
I have to say that was a real turning point for us in our new relationship. When my middle child saw me go to bat for him, to fight for his proper place and for the respect due him, he understood that I took his living with us seriously. He knew that I was going to be there for him.
Now don't get visions of us walking into the sunset of a perfect world. Of course things come up. He's an American kid, after all. He tries to get away with things from time to time. And then we have it out, the same as we would with the Monkey Prince or Baby Monkey. I don't even think about there being a difference, except at the end of the school year when I put him on the plane and he returns to his parents to visit for a few weeks. I feel real sadness when he leaves and real joy when he returns. The house is just not the same without three boys tumbling around, teasing each other, and laughing. It's a pretty cool thing.
Now that I've posted all the basic introductions, let the fun begin! I can now turn my attention to the day-to-day happenings on Monkey Island. Just wait! And come back often!

The Baby Monkey

First of all, let me say this: I know that my boys are going to come to this blog, and as boys are wont to do, they will apply a ruler to see whose introductory blog post is longer. However, I just don't think I have it in me to sit and type such long posts on a daily basis. You kids will just have to get over it if I don't alot the exact number of inches to each of you.
I could also sit here and write out a long description about the Baby Monkey, but sometimes actions speak louder than words. Let me tell you what happened last night just around bedtime. The Monkey Prince went upstairs to his freshly cleaned cage, which by the way he cleaned himself, and he better get that pile of trash out of the hallway or I'm gonna sweep it back where it came from. I'm sorry. Where was I? Oh, yeah! Monkey Prince went into his cage and discovered that all of the many colored lights that he uses to decorate his world were unplugged, and the extension cords were missing. This is a big deal to him. He has quite an assortment of little gee-gaw type lights, rope lights, lava lamps, etc. His usually glowing room was dark. He was shocked. Of course, he immediately accused Baby Monkey, as he is the usual culprit of such pranks. The Monkey Prince, who is also a duct tape engineer, took a roll of tape from his vast inventory and mounted a counter-attack. I heard the familiar ripping sound of long lengths of duct tape being pulled off a roll. I followed the sound to the Baby Monkey's room and found the Monkey Prince taping Baby Monkey's bunk bed. I watched for a moment as the Prince wrapped duct tape across the entire length of the bunk from the ladder to the foot board, back and forth, back and forth. He looked up at me and flashed a wicked grin. I know that a good mother would have said, "Stop that immediately." OK. Well, I love a good practical joke. All I said was, "That will never do. You have to go up and down with the tape, as well. He can still get into his bed." As I walked back along the hallway to my own room to close the door and shut out the sounds from Monkey Island for the night, the father of the monkeys called upstairs to me, "You know, I can hear you giggling." There was a very definite why-don't-you-grow-up tone in his voice.
But back to the Baby Monkey. This is supposed to be his introductory post, after all. There he is with the giant container of cheese balls. That's my baby. My baby is now 15 years old, stands about 6'1" and wears size 13 shoes. He's a slim 154 pounds, and he's still growing. He also has enormous hands. His fingers look like E.T. fingers, yet they are quite graceful and enable him to reach to the bottom of giant cheese ball barrels. Unfortunately, Baby Monkey inherited my lousy eyesight and his father's crooked teeth. He now has the most beautiful straight teeth (Thank you, Dr. Malerman!), and eventually we'll get him contacts. As you may have noticed, he's wearing a boy scout shirt in the photo. He's going to be an Eagle Scout someday soon. I hope he learns to tuck in his shirt before then. This kid loves the outdoors, and I'm so glad. If there is one thing I love to do, it's spending time in the woods. My husband hates doing that. The Monkey Prince isn't into it, either. But Baby Monkey loves it, and he's become my outdoor buddy and traveling companion. He and I paddle kayaks together and go camping together. In the summer of 2004 we spent twelve days together on a road trip from Philadelphia to New Mexico. Let me tell you this. Traveling with this kid has got to be the best time I've ever had in my life. My mind goes back to that trip at least once a day. I know most parents dread being in a car with their kids, but not me. My kids were raised on "Dad's Stupid Road Trips". Since the time they were very small, we'd pack up the minivan and take off down back roads to explore and visit odd roadside attractions. A football field-sized swimming pool? We've seen it. Mysterious roads where water runs uphill? We've seen it. Giant coffee pots, a shipwreck on the side of a mountain, a huge elephant on the Jersey shore. Been there. And I can't forget diners. Yeah, baby! There's nothing like a good diner! My kids were raised on these sorts of trips. Never have they uttered, "Are we there yet?" "Dad's Stupid Road Trips" have gone down in family legend.
So in the summer of 2004, I decided to mount "Mom's Stupid Road Trip". The Monkey Prince was working at a summer camp as a counselor. My husband was planning to compete in a masters national track meet that summer and so had limited vacation time available. Our foster monkey had gone home to visit his family in South Korea. This left just Baby Monkey and me home alone. It didn't take long to think of hitting the highway and exploring the country. I had never been further west than Dallas, Texas before, and I always wanted to see the western part of the U.S. Along the way we camped, stayed in roadside motels, and visited friends. We even visited the mother of all roadside attractions, the Cadillac Ranch. But the greatest memory of all was spending the night in the Sangre de Cristo mountains in Cimarron Canyon. I've spent all my life living near a very large eastern city. I'm used to being constantly surrounded by people, sound and light, and I'm used to living at sea level. But out there is sky. I mean, real sky. It's like a dark, dark sparkling blanket of stars, and it feels like you can just reach up and touch them. Here I was with my 14 year old, looking up at this amazing sky, both of us sharing in the awe. What a shame that most parents and their teenagers are at odds with each other, and that parents think that's normal. It's common, but I don't think it's normal. I'm truly blessed that my kids and I enjoy spending time with each other. Now, don't think that we are inseparable or that we never fight or get on each other's nerves. We certainly do. But we recover from those times and always re-form into our little family circle. Thank you, God, for that.
O.K. There I go again, off-topic. Back to Baby Monkey. Anyone who is the youngest in a family (like I am), knows something about my baby. It's like always being at the back of the line. All the older ones do everything first, and they get a lot of attention for it. The youngest is the member of the family who most often declares, "It's not fair!" Baby Monkey is no exception. And because I'm the grown-up and know that in the long run, we all get the same opportunities, just at different times, I tend not to indulge him. Life's not fair. Deal with it. You'll get there if you make an effort. He really hates when I do that. Oh, well.
I have one more story to tell about Baby Monkey. This will complete the picture, I think. In 1986 I brought a kitten home. On the Monday before Thanksgiving we had to finally put her down. She would have been 20 years old this January. Cats tend to choose the people they like. Try as we might, we can never make a cat like us if it is not so inclined. So here was this cat who came to live with us before our children were born. And for some reason, she chose Baby Monkey to be her special person. Whether or not the rest of us existed was of no concern to this cat. But she slept in Baby Monkey's bed, crawled up next to him when he watched t.v., and just generally wanted to be with him whenever he was in the house. Her last weekend was pretty hard for my baby. The poor cat just decided she was done. She stopped eating and drinking, and just laid down to die. She basically just fell asleep, and we thought that we'd just let her pass through a peaceful natural death. Unfortunately, it didn't work out quite that way. For two days she was very quiet and peaceful. But by the third day, Sunday, she woke up and seemed very agitated. We tried to find a vet to put her down, but no one was available. But my youngest child sat with this poor old cat all day and all night, petting her and trying to keep her comfortable. The next day, he and I brought her to the vet. We brought her body back home to bury in our yard. He was adamant that he be the one to bury her. I watched my son go to the back yard and dig a grave for his beloved pet, the only pet he ever had. It was raining. Tears and rain fell on his face. I was very proud of him for being so patient and kind to this little animal.
So that's my Baby Monkey. Perhaps this posting was as long as the Prince's. I'm sure I'll hear later whether the word count was equal or not. Get over it.

The Monkey Prince

There he is. My eldest monkey, or as I like to refer to him, the Monkey Prince. He's 17 years old. Doesn't he have nice eyes? I just found this photo of him on MySpace. I'd link the URL, but the language he uses burned my eyes when I read it. Oh! The pain!
Regardless, I have to say, the child has an incredible sense of humor. He gets it from me, I'm sure. He also gets his amazing good looks from me. He's very strange, though. Very, very strange. My husband tells me that the eldest monkey gets his strange personality from me, as well. Well, perhaps this is very true.
A blog war is about to begin, I'm afraid. The Monkey Prince told me that I could not post comments on his MySpace blog. He must have thought there was some Star Wars type security attached. It didn't take me long to figure it out. I've posted a comment on his site. Perhaps it will be only a matter of time before he and his friends try to insert their comments here. But that's o.k. I love to hear the opinions of young people. I especially love to hear from my sweet son's friends. Anyone who recognizes him as the unique, talented individual that he is has got to be a wonderful person, too. But then, I've never met anyone who could hate that child.
So let me give a brief history of the Monkey Prince. He was born on April 13, 1988. This is a significant date as his father is a C.P.A. April 13 is NOT the day to try to call a C.P.A. away from his desk to attend to the birth of a child. Yet, he did come to my side eventually. He came home to take me to the hospital, ran about the house, and then went and sat in the car in the driveway. He honked the horn for me to hurry up. Where was I? Sitting in the house trying to get my shoes on my feet -- in labor, with 9 months worth of baby crammed inside of me! Yet somehow the pain tore my focus away from the anger I felt toward my husband, and by 6:58 a.m. there was my beautiful little son in my arms. His father, who had barely uttered a word throughout the entire delivery, suddenly sprang to life upon hearing that he had a son. I remember clearly the doctor looking directly at me and asking, "What's his name." Not a heartbeat passed before I heard my husband declare, "He's Charles Patrick IV". The fourth??? This from the man who said he'd never name a child Charles. The fourth? But the look on my husband's face was unbelievable. Such happiness! Such a glow! How could I argue with that? I only insisted that we use the name Patrick for our little monkey princeling. Naming four people in generational succession seemed to me to be a testament to male ego. But at that point, I was too tired to argue.
So there he was, my little monkey prince. He opened his eyes, and there they were. Those clear, clear blue eyes, ringed with a darker shade of blue. Nurses came from all over the ward to see his eyes. He was so very beautiful. People looked through the window of the nursery, pointed at him and remarked that he was the most beautiful child they had ever seen. Such an angel! And such a good baby he was! He only cried when he wanted to eat. He pulled people into his charismatic circle from the moment he was born. Such promise comes into the world with the firstborn. New parents don't know what to expect. They think their child will be beautiful, smart, successful, loved by everyone. Who wouldn't gaze upon the child and feel grateful to God for this wonderful gift.
Ahh, but before long, we were living in the real world. We had 13 months of unbroken heaven-on-earth. Monkey Island appeared to be a paradise. But then, the Monkey Prince turned into a tantrum-throwing maniac. I don't know why. He was never dropped on his head or anything. Well, there was that time in the pool when Uncle George carried the child on his shoulders while making a whirlpool. He had no idea that the boy had thrown himself backwards and had his head underwater. We called attention to that fact very quickly, but perhaps some brain damage occurred. We may never know.
Whatever happened at 13 months of age, the child decided that his will be done. And only his will. Constant screaming and full-fledged tantrums erupted from this little angel. Thus he began to develop the first jungle noise verbalizations. Into this world, came our second monkey princeling in May of 1990. I will certainly write more about him in the next post. But from the first Monkey Prince's perspective, the arrival of his little brother was a wonderful thing. He loved his baby brother. He wanted him in the crib with him. He talked to him, cooed to him, and a little later was happy to help feed his little brother from a spoon. But now there were two little monkeys on the island, and the monkey behavior came fully into play once the baby became mobile. The eldest monkey gradually left his tantrums behind, and substituted more creative activities. I have to admit that I have some very funny memories. One of my favorites was the time I walked into the nursery to check on what I thought were two napping toddlers. I opened the door to see the eldest monkey drawing happy faces on the baby monkey's bald little head -- with an indelible laundry marker. I don't think I was thrilled at the time, but we certainly laugh about it today.
Gradually the Monkey Prince grew into an interesting character. He learned to read by the age of 3 and was awarded a scholarship to a private kindergarten. We were sure he was the most wonderful child to ever be born to two mortal human beings. With complete confidence we looked into the future and saw him graduating at the top of his class, everyone in the crowd jumping to their feet in standing ovation at commencement. Ha! I now take comfort in the fact that Albert Einstein and Bill Gates were horrible students. Everyone loved the Monkey Prince, everyone but his teachers, that is. At the local public school, his first grade teacher once called me in for a conference in response to a booklet Monkey Prince had prepared entitled "My Family". He had drawn each of his family members and written short sentences about our interactions. The first few pages showed us playing games together, having dinners together, singing songs together. There was a drawing of me baking cookies for the family, a wide smile on my stick figure face. I was so pleased! The Waltons looked positively dysfunctional compared to us! But then I turned to the very last page. There was a picture of my husband. A grand stick figure of a man, drawn sitting at his computer, a wide balloon floating over his head, and inside the balloon our son had written with his best first-grade spelling skills the word that his father often spoke while seated at the computer: "BICH!" Perhaps everything would have been o.k. if I hadn't laughed so loudly. I mean, c'mon! It was funny! I mean, it was really, really, really funny! The teacher was not pleased, however. She suggested family counseling. Now, don't get me wrong! I wasn't pleased that our little princeling had picked up and used Kong's angry expletive. We did address that at home. I just thought a teacher conference about it was over-the-top.
It got only more interesting as the years went on. There were teacher conferences because the Monkey Prince would not sit still in class, he didn't do his homework, he laughed too loudly, walked too quickly, played with items on the science cart next to his desk, etc., etc. In those days, teachers could just blurt out, "Your child needs to be on Ritalin." And if you said, "No, thank you," then the principal and school district psychologist would call you to special conferences and say, "Your child needs to be on Ritalin." Finally I said, "My child needs to be in Catholic school."
Off the Monkey Prince went to our local parish school. He was so adorable in his uniform. I'm quite sure there were plenty of teachers at the Catholic school who wouldn't have minded seeing the Monkey Prince on a Ritalin intravenous drip, too. But, they were accepting of our decision not to medicate. They didn't take any crap from anyone either. The Monkey Prince seemed to do better, although he still rarely completed homework unless influences external to his own mind were exerted upon him.
Let me say this about my firstborn son. He's remarkable. He's a genius, I think. He's unbelievably talented and has such an imagination! I save his stories, the poems he's written, the pictures he's drawn, the fantastic cartoons he invents. I'm confident that he makes wise and moral decisions about 98 percent of the time. He's far better than I am at seeing the good in people. I can't tell you how much I admire him for seeing the dignity in other human beings. I often have a hard time doing that. But my eldest son rarely says anything even remotely negative about anyone. I would also like to make this announcement: In his 12th year of school, the Monkey Prince has finally, yes finally made it to the honor roll! Second honors! I absolutely screamed when I heard it! I'm so happy that I don't even mind having to wait this long.
I hope you've stayed with me this long. I promise that once I get through these first few posts introducing you to my monkeys, I'll be more brief. Please come back soon for the next message cast from the shores of Monkey Island.

Trapped on Monkey Island

When I was growing up in South Jersey, I looked forward to the one day each year when our elementary school class would visit the Philadelphia Zoo. Back in those far off days of the late-1960's the Phildelphia Zoo had an exhibit called Monkey Island. It was situated in a kind of circular pit where a concrete "island" rose up surrounded by a "moat". On the island lived what seemed to be a hundred little monkeys who swung on what was probably meant to be children's playground equipment. It certainly was not the natural habitat-type setting that you see nowadays. But back before environmentalism and PETA, this was a very popular exhibit. It was the highlight of the zoo trip for me. I loved standing at the top of that pit, watching the little monkeys swinging and playing all over monkey island. They were so cute! How I wished I could go down onto that island and play with them!

Flash forward 35 years. Guess what. I'm now stranded on monkey island.

You see, I have three teen-aged boys. They are 17, 16 and 15 years old. No, no, no. I did not give birth to all of them; just the eldest and the youngest. The middle child came to live on Monkey Island about two years ago, but I'll save that story for a post some other day. The point is, three boys that close in age tend to continuously engage in monkey behavior. They roll on the floor together. They bounce on the furniture. They throw things at each other. They make weird jungle noises. They also don't always have fully developed decision-making skills. They tend to be cute, and their antics may cause you to laugh. It's fun to play with them, but too much of a good thing can get on anyone's nerves.

In romantic tales of adventure, we sometimes read of people being stranded on islands for many years. They send out messages in bottles hoping for rescue. This blog is my electronic message in a bottle. Please come back to find the messages I toss into the sea from time to time. At this point, I've been stranded on this island for nearly 18 years. Any contact with real humans, even via electronic means, is welcome. For now, I will be off to another part of the island where I hear the screech of three 6-foot monkeys playing video games. If I don't go back there and attempt to keep them under control, they may destroy something.

















Here's a photo of a monkey island from a zoo in Seattle, Washington. It's not exactly like Philly's old monkey island, but I can't find a photo of that. If anyone has an old photo of the Philadelphia Zoo's monkey island circa 1970, I'd love to see it!