Why, Yes, I Do Shake My Macarenas. Thank You For Asking.

I had baby boy #1 in a baby music class.  He liked it enough (on the plus side, there was dancing ... on the negative side, no snacks) but I hated it.  Hence, the "had" part of the previous statement.  I really did give it a shot but I really, really loathed this class.  Perhaps you will see why after this story.

The lady who taught it was more than slightly crazed.  Now hear me out before you get all judgmental about my judgmental-ness.  I think anyone who willingly wear sweatpants to work every day and sings

                "Bye, bye books.
               It's time to go away.
                  Bye, bye books.
               It's time to go away.
                  Bye, bye books.
               It's time to go away.
               We'll play with you
                    Another day."

with such gusto must, by definition, be slightly touched.  {Honestly, she made the random waiter/wannabe opera singer at Macaroni Grill look stifled}.

Now don't get me wrong: I love the idea of happy, singing people but she was just as alarmed at the fact that I do not sing "Bye Bye ___" to every object in our house as I am at the fact that she DOES sing to inanimate objects (her husband must LOVE this habit.  Like a gum smacker but louder).  We were just completely and utterly opposite in our views on randomly bursting into song about blocks/bottles/strollers and the attention these objects require from me to thrive in their role as, well, random household objects.

My issue (in addition to her false logic and poor arguing skills that I will explain in a bit) is that 1) I did all the work for this class and 2) I sucked at it.  As in I needed a remedial class and that is not acceptable.  Did she NOT get the memo as to who I am?  I am not a remedial kind of girl.

Furthermore, bebe boy did not have to sing, I did.  I never remembered my glasses so I could never see the cheat sheets on the wall unless I wore my prescription sunglasses indoors which, at 9 in the morning, makes me look like "Strung Out Barbie" and I don't want to have my baby taken away from me by the government.  Crazy Lady actually lectured me once about using the cheat sheets.  Seriously, lectured ME.

Crazy: "Didn't you study the songs in advance?"
me: "Are you kidding me?"
Crazy: "I gave you a CD the first day.  You should practice them daily."
me: "Are you kidding me?  You expect me to study for a one-year-old's music class?  We oink in here."
Crazy: "Have you EVEN listened to the CD or laminated your barnyard animal art?  Have you hung it on the wall yet?"
me: "Are you kidding me?  We, literally, oink in here.  And, furthermore, you think I will have laminated barnyard animals ON. MY. WALLS?"
Crazy: "Yes, I do.  How else will your child go to college?"
me: "Ummm, he has got a pretty good gene pool.  Kind of like beating a fast horse.  To make a barnyard animal reference that I imagine you to be very fond of." {I still find that to be a great one-liner.  I don't understand why she did not even chuckle}.
Crazy: "WHERE IS YOUR BAG OF SUPPLIES?  DO YOU EVEN SHAKE YOUR MACARENAS?"
me: "Do you find anything humorous about that question?"
Crazy: "No."
me: "Pity.  It is a good one."
Crazy: "Are you kidding me?"

So, she is asking me several classes later if we are doing summer classes.  I (perhaps a little TOO QUICKLY) say (okay, scream) "No.  It is summer and we don't do summer school in my family."

She is not amused with my lack of enthusiasm and asks me how I expected Junior to go to college without this class.  Like "E I E I O" is a pre-req.  SAT?  Check.  GPA?  Check.  EIEIO?  Check.

"I have several graduate degrees and I did not take music classes.  He'll be fine just, well, being a one-year-old this summer and doing his 'Oh how I love to eat cheese' dance.  No lamination required."

"You know that by making this decision, he will never be good at math," threatens Crazy Lady.

Now this is where I draw the line!  I will accept (not graciously, mind you) the fact that I suck at singing and all things musical/creative.  I will fully acknowledge that I did not prep properly for this weekly torture session.  But I. WILL. NOT. ACCEPT. my children not being good at math.  I don't care if I have to beat a love of numbers into them (sounds effective, no?), they will NEVER brag about not being able to calculate a tip.  (There is a blog coming up on that very subject.  But as a teaser 1) calculating percentages is not math and 2) no one would brag about being illiterate but being bad at math is not something to be ashamed of?  Au contraire!  One of my personal pet peeves.  Ugghhh).

I calmly respond "Clearly this is a case of 'post hoc, ergo propter hoc,' a logical fallacy."

Apparently, it was only clear to me since she simply stared at me.  After an uncomfortable silence I continued "Music classes are clearly NOT essential to success in mathematics, though some studies have shown them to be linked.  Correlation is not causation, however."

Honestly, I thought that I could not have been more clear.  I rested my case.  She stared at me.  Hummm, must further clarify my position.

"See, my friend, I have a Masters degree in Mathematics, with an emphasis in logic and statistics, as you can clearly see by my superior arguing skills.  And, I have had no musical training whatsoever as you can clearly see by my performance in this class.  A class designed for one-year-olds that I am, quite assuredly, a miserable and public failure at.  Henceforth, music classes are NOT mandatory for mathematical prowess.  Thus, my earlier statement of post hoc, ergo propter hoc."

I, literally, sighed with contentment.  Perhaps I even purred.  Happy in the knowledge that I had set her straight and that she would no longer declare this barnyard nonsense essential to future algebraic bliss.

No doubt I have much better math skills than I do people skills since I was completely ill-prepared for her frustration/anger with me.  She never invited me back to summer school or, hell, even fall classes.  Alas.

For the record, in case you were curious, my barnyard bag o' goodies was found (cheat sheets and all) months later in the trunk of my car.  It went into the recycling bin while I sang:

                "Bye, bye random bag of barnyard crap.

                                It's time to go away.

                  Bye, bye random bag of barnyard crap.

                                It's time to go away.

                  Bye, bye random bag of barnyard crap.

                                It's time to go away.

                     We'll shake our macarenas with you

                                    Another day."

Random Stuff

"We are eating dinner.  That means, sit down, limit your dancing and please keep your belly out of the barbecue sauce."

"It's a little like religion and a lot like sex, you should never know when you're going to get it next" sung of gumbo by none other than Jimmy Buffet

"That baby would never make it as a caveman, he is too loud.  And chubby."

"Man, that kid has a huge head.  He is like a human Bobble-head."  {Sadly, this is somewhat true.  The boy is in a 4T hat at 20 months.  What can I say?  Big head, big brain.  But he does not look like a Bobble-head nor does he fall over from the sheer weight of it.  No worries}.

"That woman is the social equivalent of waterboarding" (said about my mother by my hubby).

"You know I only shovel the coal on your crazy train.  Hell, I don't even get to ring the bell." (said by Hubby about me.  Not nice but true and funny).

We took the little guy to his first baseball game (last weekend).  He has always been obsessed with all things ball-related but it is at a crescendo now.  He insists on wearing his baseball glove at all times and everything is a bat.  If he is practicing his swing with a candle/umbrella/zucchini (we moved the huge plastic bat outside.  Clearly, this has not impeded the process), he wears the glove on his head.  Since I have taken all the balls out of the main level of our house (and this was no small undertaking), he has had to find viable ball-substitutes.  Therefore, our lemon trees are bald and I have been hit in the ear with a very large onion.  For the record, onions hurt.  A lot.