THREE BEARS OF TODAY FACING NEW PROBLEMS

"Read us a story," my little ones began the usual bedtime ritual, as the evening waned.

"Once upon a time, there were three bears," I opened the book and mouthed the old familiar words.

"But we've heard that one before," the children protested.

"Yes," I agreed, "But the last time the three bears went for a walk in the woods to wait for their porridge to cool, things turned out just a little differently."

"Different?" the kids worried.

"Differently.  Oh, you can be sure that Goldilocks made her usual way into the three bears' kitchen while they were out.  But when she tasted the Papa Bear's porridge, she could only exclaim, This porridge has too many chemical additives, and it’s probably made of genetically modified grain!

"Her reaction to the Mother Bear's steaming owl of porridge came in the form of a question?  Are the cooking emissions from the preparation of this meal environmentally safe?

"And she didn't even taste the Teeny, Tiny Baby Bear's portion once she realized that even organically grown wheat could draw toxic PCBs from contaminated soil.

"So she skipped breakfast and went into the three bear's living room.

"Oh, my! she worried as she sat in the Papa Bear's chair.  The small, loosely sewed buttons on these cushions could choke a little child.

"She only sat for a minute in the Mama Bear's chair, because there was no way to tell if it had lead-free paint.

"And realizing that the padding in the Teeny, Tiny Baby Bear's chair could easily catch fire, she passed it up altogether.

"The situation was even worse in the three bears' bedroom.

"These blankets may have been treated with cancer-causing fire retardants, Goldilocks surmised as she tested the Papa Bear's bed.

"The feathers in these pillows could have come from an endangered species, she worried, as she examined the Mama Bear's bed.

"And she had barely bounced on the Teeny, Tiny Baby Bear's wee, little bed when she was engulfed by a cloud of allergy-causing dust mites.

"Screaming hysterically, Goldilocks ran out of the bears' house, never to return. (But she was careful not to go too fast and risk getting her heart rate above the optimum target zone.)

"As for the three bears, they never came back to their house either, when they found out out how close it was to the town's nuclear reactor."

"That was a good story, Mom," my oldest daughter said, "but you really shouldn't risk straining your eyes by reading at such low light levels!"

As for the three bears, they never returned to their house either, because it was too close to the town's nuclear reactor.

CHRISTMAS LIST PUTS FEAR IN MOM’S HEART

Atari's have gone the way of ancient electronics.  Modern moms:  Think X-Box! 

“Mom, I’ve got my Christmas list ready,” four-year-old Michael informed me two weeks after Halloween.  He handed me a roll of toilet paper inscribed with magic-markered hieroglyphics.

“Let’s see,” I began hopefully, “it says here that because Mikey has been pretty good this year, he thinks he’s entitled to one sack of marbles and a new yoyo.”

Not! That little boy who religiously watches Saturday morning cartoons with all their commercials, had more sophisticated plans.

“No, Mommy, that’s not what I wrote,” he protested, twisting his tongue on every “s” like Winthrop in THE MUSIC MAN.  “What I really want is a 10-speed.”  His voice was firm, despite the childish lisp.

“But, Son, your legs are much too short to ride a bike like that!”

“That’s okay,” he had it all planned out, “I don’t want to have to wait around for it when I get big.”

Next on the list—my hands began to shake as I calculated the impact of such requests multiplied by the demands of six children—was a television.

“What would you do with another TV?” I asked.  “We already have two!”

“I’d put it in my room, so I could play with my Atari there.”

“Honey, you don’t even have an Atari!”

“I was just getting to that,” he cut me off.

I wiped the cold sweat off my forehead with the napkin list and handed it back to him with a sigh.

“Young man,” I said, “it’s time you got a job!”

I don't think there's a television in here, Mom!

CHILDREN: HEAVEN, A PLACE WITH NO SKINNED KNEES

“What’s Heaven like?" three-year-old Matthew asks with eyes as wet as April and a trembling lower lip.

We have just buried the little boy’s pet hamster in a velvet-lined watch box, capping the tiny grave with a paving stone. Gone to Heaven, my husband has inscribed the marker with a piece of yellow chalk. 

 

“Heaven is happy,” I say, patting the pudgy hands that so often had cradled silky, little Munchie to his heart. 

“But, what is Heaven like?” my son asks again, because happy means too many things to really comfort him.

“Oh, Heaven is lovely and it’s warm,” I try again, remembering how poor Munchkin had shivered at the end.

By now the child is sitting in my lap.  I trace the even ridges where a plastic bandage protects one badly scraped knee.

“Heaven is happy and lovely and warm and safe--a place where little boys don’t ever get skinned knees,” I say at last.

My son relaxes then. I feel the tension ebbing as he settles back beneath my chin.

“Because the sidewalks there are soft?  He lifts his lighted face to ask.

“Because,” I say and hold him very close.

"Because the sidewalks there are soft?" he turns his lighted face to ask.

FIFTH GRADER SOLVES THE EDUCATION FINANCE CRISIS

Sara Bellum, my daughter's best friend, stayed for supper at our house the other night.

To say Sara is precocious would be the ultimate understatement.  She's so smart she makes Albert Einstein seem like a pea brain.  And well-read, too!  According to her fifth grade teacher, Sara's the only kid in the history of the school who ever gave a book report on the entire ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA.

"I think I've got things figured out." Sara announced to my husband between bites of meatloaf.

"Got what figured out?"  Dave shot back before I could send him a warning glare.

"How to resolve the education dollar crisis.  The legislature, as you know, is traditionally tightfisted when it comes to appropriating education dollars."

Dave's lower jaw dropped.  As a veteran school teacher, he was ready to take the bait.  Sara had him chummed.

"Pass the corn and tell me more," was what he said.

"Well," Sara smeared a slice of bread with grape preserves, "first of all, you resume selling canned pop in all the lunch rooms across the state and encourage the school district to sell the scrap aluminum cans to supplement teacher salaries.

"Then, you collect all the pencil sharpener shavings in each school and recycle them into paper school supplies.

"Finally, you take all the onions out of the school lunch salads--the kids never eat them anyway--and use the money you save to buy new text books.

 "Why those three measures alone should save the state's taxpayers millions of education dollars."

"I see," my husband said, so obviously intrigued that he had begun chewing on his Jello.

"You recycle the aluminum cans, and you recycle the pencil shavings.  But what about the onions?  What are all the farmers in Utah going to do with their surplus onions?"

"Give them to the legislature," Sara replied.  "That way, next time they talk about the problems in education they can cry some real tears."

HALLOWEEN'S A MONSTER

One Halloween, Mother turned the rag bag inside out, holding up for my inspection the lint-flecked navy wool from Daddy’s sailor days and the rhinestone-sprinkled circle skirt she’d worn ten years before on New Year’s Eve.

I finally settled for a gaudy, paisley shift, cinched tight around the middle with a flamboyant silk scarf. A knotted string of cut-glass beads and a pair of clinking Mason jar rings dangling from one ear made me a fairly authentic gypsy, Mama said.

I stood patiently as she rubbed my cheeks with lipstick over cold cream, taking care to feather out the edges, before adding an eyebrow-penciled beauty mark for good luck.

That was then.  Now, I rummage for my own kids’ costumes, but somehow their father’s cast-off baseball jersey and their mom’s satin bridesmaid dress will not do for youngsters set on extorting treats by virtue of their striking similarity to space-age spooks like Darth Vader and E.T.

It was bad enough when Michael hacked my flexible dryer venting hose in two for the arms of the robot he aspired to be.

And I could barely cope when Jennifer dismantled the kitchen stove so she could use the door for the head of her computer creature costume.

But when Stacee left the goldfish in the toilet with a “Do Not Flush” sign, so she could borrow his bowl for her astronaut suit helmet, I was the one who went into orbit.

Moments later, three space-age spooks timidly attempted to break the glassy-eyed silence I maintained.

“What are you going to be for Halloween?” I heard my children ask.

“A basket case,” they heard their mother say!

!

Matt and Mike back in the day when creating a Halloween costume didn't involve dismantling the house.

So this little spook had a bit too much candy!