Thank goodness there are other parents out there, hard at thought about what's best for their teen!
Showing posts with label Bad Parent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bad Parent. Show all posts
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Deft Parenting
The Matron has made a well-informed, philosophically sound decision based out of total panic. She is going to decide whether or not to give her children H1N1 vaccines based on her facebook comments.
You may read that again for clarification: she will be making life and death decisions regarding her children's health based on her facebook comments.
But another friend, a nurse, posits that the reason this flu is hardest on children is that their little bodies have been vaccinated into pristine territory: they haven't fought off any big guns and their natural, immune-syste, virus-fighting arsenal? Undeveloped.
Makes you sorta wonder what other ingenious parenting strategies she has for you to emulate.
You may read that again for clarification: she will be making life and death decisions regarding her children's health based on her facebook comments.
Go ahead -- friend her in either the newly created Minnesota Matron account or locate her real life persona and tell her what to do!
You see, the Matron has absolutely no idea who to believe, the well-informed, research-armed opposition to flu vaccines or the well-informed, research-armed advocates. The Matron is a big believer in science and hard cold facts; yet, she also knows that knowledge that challenges or threatens to unseat Power (power in this case Medicine and its Official Recommendation) is often strategically discredited, disregarded or otherwise eliminated.
Michehl Foucault 101
Everywhere she turns, information is Suspect! No, she would not, as one dear friend pointed out, like to return to the day of the pre-smallpox vaccine or to experience polio. Her children are immunized and up-to-date in that regard, as well.
But another friend, a nurse, posits that the reason this flu is hardest on children is that their little bodies have been vaccinated into pristine territory: they haven't fought off any big guns and their natural, immune-syste, virus-fighting arsenal? Undeveloped.
Considering, the Matron is currently encouraging dirt-eating and outdoor play of all sort, hoping to give her three a last minute boost of the germ=combat game so they're prepared when the real bug hits them.
Herd mentality sounds pretty soothing at this point. Whichever way the wind flows on facebook -- vaccinate or not--she'll follow.
Makes you sorta wonder what other ingenious parenting strategies she has for you to emulate.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Tooth Fairy, Redux
Now, the fact that Stryker remains among the fairy faithful has a special poignancy for the Matron. She's here to tell you the backstory -- and that narrative?
Suckified Mothering 101
When Stryker lost his first tooth at seven, the Tooth Fairy--full of wine and emotion on her first EVER visit to this family--gave that boy a crisp $5 bill! Now, what hapless T.F. considered a one-time blowout, Stryker perceived (of course) as Precedent.
So when a single dollar rolled in for the next couple of teeth, he was less than impressed. Annoyed, even. (she knows that buck probably already makes her a spendthrift but she is loose with money when she's giving it away, whether she has sufficient cash or not)
But the next loose tooth? He methodically presented this analsyis to the Matron and her husband.
"Look, on one hand, I'm pretty sure you guys are the Tooth Fairy. But on the other hand, if the Tooth Fairy really exists, then she knows that this is special: I need FIVE DOLLARS again because then I'll have enough money to buy a pokemon game for my GameBoy. PLEASE GIVE ME $5!!"
The Matron could fill cyberspace with the amount of time Stryker spent on that simple narrative -- either way, magic or Matron, Fairy or father, he deserved five bucks. He pitched this up and down, in the bathrub, through dinner, dancing back and forth between the poles of "you're the Tooth Fairy" and "if she exists, then, surely."
Late that night, the Tooth Fairy, far more sober in all respects, left the darling boy the standard single dollar bill--with a well-crafted Fairy note and magic Fairy dust, to ease the blow. She kissed his sweet blonde head, too, just for a bonus.
At 5:53 am, the entire family awoke to this roar: "I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST GOT ONE LOUSY DOLLAR! I HATE THE TOOTH FAIRY!! I HATE YOU GUYS YOU ARE THE TOOTH FAIRY, I JUST KNOW IT!"
Screaming, crying, ranting and raving ensued.
And the Matron? Startled out of her sleep, such? Why she was as cool as a cucumber. She did what she sometimes remembers to do during Behavior Emergencies-- she consciously made the decision to pretend to be somebody else. Yes! She imagined herself actually being her Early Childhood and Education teacher, Beth.
Far from suckified mothering, the Matron rocked. Channeling Beth, she felt nothing but compassion and clear boundaries.
"I see you have strong feelings about that, Stryker."
"Oh honey. I bet you're disappointed!"
"It's okay to be angry, but please do scream in your bedroom."
"It's good that you're expressing your sadness, but remember to do it respectfully. Please take the wailing to the other room."
The marathon tantrum began just before 6 am, giving Stryker a full two and a half hours to rage. And friends? Rage, he did. And he was clever. Relentless. You see, once he stopped screaming (oh, like hour two) his new strategy was to follow the Matron, dogged her like gum on a shoe.
He followed her with this, alternating between despair, sobs and anger; the tone varied between the sigh of death and volcanic rage: "I can't believe you did that!" "I know you're the tooth fairy!!" "You must hate me!!" "If this is what real fairies do, well, I'm done with fairies!!."
"There is no tooth fairy. I can't believe you did that.!!! YOU're the Tooth Fairy and I wanted five dollars!" He didn't stop for a second, screaming from the bathroom when he had to pee.
And the Matron? She was all calm and groovy and like "boy, you have strong feelings, babe" for just over 2.5 hours. But that last half hour, she felt something great planetary shifting in her belly. Deep cracks and rumbles and shakes. "Beth" began suffering from Headache. Supressed Rage. Exhaustion. Strong Dislike.
On the walk to the van, "Beth" gasped one last good-parenting breath and died.
The three children piled into the van and Stryker wailed: "I know there's no Tooth Fairy! I wanted that five bucks. You did it!"
And the Matron?
Even she of wit and verve cannot adequately describe her rage--she was Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Every inch of her body shook and shimmied and threw itself into this SCREAMING presentation:
"YOU'RE RIGHT! YOU'RE RIGHT!! THERE IS NO F$%CKING TOOTH FAIRY! IT'S ME, ME, ME. AND YOU'RE NEVER GETTING ANOTHER DIME!"
And with that, she laughed manically!! Felt the pure raw joy of the righteous flush through her, was swept up in the sweetness of pure relief. She might have even panted at that steering wheel, a little bit. Damn, that felt good.
Until she started noticing the steady hum of sobs behind her. Sniff, sob, weep. Merrick was the loudest, just over one and surprised to discover that his mother was actually a demon. Scarlett was a close two -- she added moaning. Stryker just wept. Cried and cried.
That's what she listened to, all the way to school. Suckified mothering, indeed. The Matron is the woman who actually said "There is no f#%cking Tooth Fairy" to her children. And meant it.
The nail in her heart? When they arrived at school and she turned to assess the damage, Scarlett turned a soggy red face toward her mother and said: "But Mama! I haven't even lost a tooth yet!"
Oh! Mortal blow!
The Matron got down on bended knee and begged for mercy with the single strategy she had.
"You know when someone is really really mad and they think of the meanest thing they could possibly say -- like Scarlett how you told Stryker you were going to throw his GameBoy off the balcony but you really weren't? -- well, I was that mad. The WORST lie I could think of was that the Tooth Fairy didn't exist. She does! She does!"
And the Matron made more explanatory dance until the big kids went to school and she crept home.
Stryker probably still believes in the Tooth Fairy because he is afraid not to. Perhaps this shining track record is why the Matron has concerns over that whole conversation about Santa. . . .
Suckified Mothering 101
When Stryker lost his first tooth at seven, the Tooth Fairy--full of wine and emotion on her first EVER visit to this family--gave that boy a crisp $5 bill! Now, what hapless T.F. considered a one-time blowout, Stryker perceived (of course) as Precedent.
So when a single dollar rolled in for the next couple of teeth, he was less than impressed. Annoyed, even. (she knows that buck probably already makes her a spendthrift but she is loose with money when she's giving it away, whether she has sufficient cash or not)
But the next loose tooth? He methodically presented this analsyis to the Matron and her husband.
"Look, on one hand, I'm pretty sure you guys are the Tooth Fairy. But on the other hand, if the Tooth Fairy really exists, then she knows that this is special: I need FIVE DOLLARS again because then I'll have enough money to buy a pokemon game for my GameBoy. PLEASE GIVE ME $5!!"
The Matron could fill cyberspace with the amount of time Stryker spent on that simple narrative -- either way, magic or Matron, Fairy or father, he deserved five bucks. He pitched this up and down, in the bathrub, through dinner, dancing back and forth between the poles of "you're the Tooth Fairy" and "if she exists, then, surely."
Late that night, the Tooth Fairy, far more sober in all respects, left the darling boy the standard single dollar bill--with a well-crafted Fairy note and magic Fairy dust, to ease the blow. She kissed his sweet blonde head, too, just for a bonus.
At 5:53 am, the entire family awoke to this roar: "I CAN'T BELIEVE I JUST GOT ONE LOUSY DOLLAR! I HATE THE TOOTH FAIRY!! I HATE YOU GUYS YOU ARE THE TOOTH FAIRY, I JUST KNOW IT!"
Screaming, crying, ranting and raving ensued.
And the Matron? Startled out of her sleep, such? Why she was as cool as a cucumber. She did what she sometimes remembers to do during Behavior Emergencies-- she consciously made the decision to pretend to be somebody else. Yes! She imagined herself actually being her Early Childhood and Education teacher, Beth.
Far from suckified mothering, the Matron rocked. Channeling Beth, she felt nothing but compassion and clear boundaries.
"I see you have strong feelings about that, Stryker."
"Oh honey. I bet you're disappointed!"
"It's okay to be angry, but please do scream in your bedroom."
"It's good that you're expressing your sadness, but remember to do it respectfully. Please take the wailing to the other room."
The marathon tantrum began just before 6 am, giving Stryker a full two and a half hours to rage. And friends? Rage, he did. And he was clever. Relentless. You see, once he stopped screaming (oh, like hour two) his new strategy was to follow the Matron, dogged her like gum on a shoe.
He followed her with this, alternating between despair, sobs and anger; the tone varied between the sigh of death and volcanic rage: "I can't believe you did that!" "I know you're the tooth fairy!!" "You must hate me!!" "If this is what real fairies do, well, I'm done with fairies!!."
"There is no tooth fairy. I can't believe you did that.!!! YOU're the Tooth Fairy and I wanted five dollars!" He didn't stop for a second, screaming from the bathroom when he had to pee.
And the Matron? She was all calm and groovy and like "boy, you have strong feelings, babe" for just over 2.5 hours. But that last half hour, she felt something great planetary shifting in her belly. Deep cracks and rumbles and shakes. "Beth" began suffering from Headache. Supressed Rage. Exhaustion. Strong Dislike.
On the walk to the van, "Beth" gasped one last good-parenting breath and died.
The three children piled into the van and Stryker wailed: "I know there's no Tooth Fairy! I wanted that five bucks. You did it!"
And the Matron?
Even she of wit and verve cannot adequately describe her rage--she was Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Every inch of her body shook and shimmied and threw itself into this SCREAMING presentation:
"YOU'RE RIGHT! YOU'RE RIGHT!! THERE IS NO F$%CKING TOOTH FAIRY! IT'S ME, ME, ME. AND YOU'RE NEVER GETTING ANOTHER DIME!"
And with that, she laughed manically!! Felt the pure raw joy of the righteous flush through her, was swept up in the sweetness of pure relief. She might have even panted at that steering wheel, a little bit. Damn, that felt good.
Until she started noticing the steady hum of sobs behind her. Sniff, sob, weep. Merrick was the loudest, just over one and surprised to discover that his mother was actually a demon. Scarlett was a close two -- she added moaning. Stryker just wept. Cried and cried.
That's what she listened to, all the way to school. Suckified mothering, indeed. The Matron is the woman who actually said "There is no f#%cking Tooth Fairy" to her children. And meant it.
The nail in her heart? When they arrived at school and she turned to assess the damage, Scarlett turned a soggy red face toward her mother and said: "But Mama! I haven't even lost a tooth yet!"
Oh! Mortal blow!
The Matron got down on bended knee and begged for mercy with the single strategy she had.
"You know when someone is really really mad and they think of the meanest thing they could possibly say -- like Scarlett how you told Stryker you were going to throw his GameBoy off the balcony but you really weren't? -- well, I was that mad. The WORST lie I could think of was that the Tooth Fairy didn't exist. She does! She does!"
And the Matron made more explanatory dance until the big kids went to school and she crept home.
Stryker probably still believes in the Tooth Fairy because he is afraid not to. Perhaps this shining track record is why the Matron has concerns over that whole conversation about Santa. . . .
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
My Success, Thus Far
Merrick's best friend, Lachlan, was over on Sunday. They were talking about being R-I-C-H someday. They're four and five. Rich means all the toys and candy you can buy. Oh, and a motorcycle. And a big house with a room for your pet elephant.
Never one to miss a Quality Parenting Moment, I probe: "Is rich about money or family and love?"
Lachlan answers with speed and absolute self-assurance. "Money."
Aha! Wrong answer! I turn to my guy, all anticipation.
The little darling smiles and says, "Family."
Before maternal pride can even find its footing, he clarifies: "Because when you're rich, you buy a family that's maybe better. And you can buy anything else you want, like guns and cars."
Then, just to make certain I understand that the situation is entirely hopeless, he looks me straight in the eye and says, "Right, Cheese Butt?"
Friday, November 30, 2007
John Drove For This One
Scarlett wraps up one Guthrie gig and immediately auditions for another: a read through of Little House on the Prairie.
The only problem is that she's already in a SteppingStone Theatre show during the week of the read through. Doesn't matter. She wants to audition.
Translation: she wants a parent to drive her to Minneapolis during rush hour, wait in long lines, cower in the face of Competition, make excruciating small talk (perhaps even comparing notes: "Oh, what has your daughter done?"), and then drive her back home again.
This brings me back to October, when she begged to audition for a play while currently rehearsing for The Home Place at The Guthrie.
I held up the schedules -- incompatible. "You can't do both," I reason. "You're already booked. Why bother?"
Scarlett: "I LOVE to audition. Please, please, please. I NEED to audition!"
She auditioned for the show she couldn't do.
The current Guthrie audition is for children who sing well. Scarlett does. Many sing better. They are to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
This is The Guthrie. You can bet there will be quasi-pros queuing up, rehearsals held, lessons had.
I ask Scarlett: "Do you know the words?"
Scarlett: "Sorta."
Me: "Do you know the tune?"
Scarlett: "Mostly."
So once again she wants to audition for a show she probably can't do and to boot, is ill-prepared for.
For the year she's been acting--the shows and all the auditions--I have kept my mouth shut. I have taken her to stages with uncombed hair (its natural state), mismatched clothes, and rings of chocolate (or spaghetti or sucker) around her lips. There has been neither tutelage nor immersion in topic of play. John and I have put cross-country mileage into this child's transportation needs. Her older brother says of the crowd around his sister: "I am openly jealous." Her younger brother told a friend he could have Scarlett's room because "my sister lives in a play." Bedtime during October turned into midnight, all that Guthrie juju shooting through her addictive little veins. When someone called to tell her that she was on TV, she said, "So?"
So. So I say: "I think you should know the words."
Scarlett runs to her room in outrage, screaming.
You know those cartoons where the character morphs into someone else? Their face contorts and plasticizes and they snap into someone new--like a Super Hero?
This begins to happen to me, only the emerging figure is a uniquely pathological mixture of Joan Crawford and Gypsy Rose's mother, Rose. Electricity actually popped off my fingertips and my head spun, twice.
I'm going to rent The Shining and start working on my novel.
Things are looking up around here.
The only problem is that she's already in a SteppingStone Theatre show during the week of the read through. Doesn't matter. She wants to audition.
Translation: she wants a parent to drive her to Minneapolis during rush hour, wait in long lines, cower in the face of Competition, make excruciating small talk (perhaps even comparing notes: "Oh, what has your daughter done?"), and then drive her back home again.
This brings me back to October, when she begged to audition for a play while currently rehearsing for The Home Place at The Guthrie.
I held up the schedules -- incompatible. "You can't do both," I reason. "You're already booked. Why bother?"
Scarlett: "I LOVE to audition. Please, please, please. I NEED to audition!"
She auditioned for the show she couldn't do.
The current Guthrie audition is for children who sing well. Scarlett does. Many sing better. They are to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
This is The Guthrie. You can bet there will be quasi-pros queuing up, rehearsals held, lessons had.
I ask Scarlett: "Do you know the words?"
Scarlett: "Sorta."
Me: "Do you know the tune?"
Scarlett: "Mostly."
So once again she wants to audition for a show she probably can't do and to boot, is ill-prepared for.
For the year she's been acting--the shows and all the auditions--I have kept my mouth shut. I have taken her to stages with uncombed hair (its natural state), mismatched clothes, and rings of chocolate (or spaghetti or sucker) around her lips. There has been neither tutelage nor immersion in topic of play. John and I have put cross-country mileage into this child's transportation needs. Her older brother says of the crowd around his sister: "I am openly jealous." Her younger brother told a friend he could have Scarlett's room because "my sister lives in a play." Bedtime during October turned into midnight, all that Guthrie juju shooting through her addictive little veins. When someone called to tell her that she was on TV, she said, "So?"
So. So I say: "I think you should know the words."
Scarlett runs to her room in outrage, screaming.
You know those cartoons where the character morphs into someone else? Their face contorts and plasticizes and they snap into someone new--like a Super Hero?
This begins to happen to me, only the emerging figure is a uniquely pathological mixture of Joan Crawford and Gypsy Rose's mother, Rose. Electricity actually popped off my fingertips and my head spun, twice.
I'm going to rent The Shining and start working on my novel.
Things are looking up around here.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Dinner With The Family
Should've shaken their brains soggy when they were babies and I had the chance.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Deft Parenting
John's putting Merrick to bed. The 12 year old baby monitor still works and from the kitchen, I hear Merrick say:
"I'm sad Thurston is dead. I'm afraid to die, Daddy."
Every maternal cell is fully loaded and vibrating. I turn up the monitor. These are delicate times, John. Frail psyches at stakes.
No reply from John.
"Daddy, do you know when you die? Do you know so you can get ready?"
John (seemingly waking up): "Uh, no. Nobody knows when you're going to die. It just happens."
WRONG ANSWER. The correct answer is: you don't have to worry about this for nearly 100 years because you die when you're very very old. And I won't die until I'm very old and I will take care of your forever and ever (because you are now just four and can't handle much Truth about painful issues of existential sort).
Merrick.: "What does it feel like, when your heart stops and you go somewhere else? What does it feel like when your heart stops?"
John: "Dazed. You feel dazed."
I just turn off the monitor and give up.
"I'm sad Thurston is dead. I'm afraid to die, Daddy."
Every maternal cell is fully loaded and vibrating. I turn up the monitor. These are delicate times, John. Frail psyches at stakes.
No reply from John.
"Daddy, do you know when you die? Do you know so you can get ready?"
John (seemingly waking up): "Uh, no. Nobody knows when you're going to die. It just happens."
WRONG ANSWER. The correct answer is: you don't have to worry about this for nearly 100 years because you die when you're very very old. And I won't die until I'm very old and I will take care of your forever and ever (because you are now just four and can't handle much Truth about painful issues of existential sort).
Merrick.: "What does it feel like, when your heart stops and you go somewhere else? What does it feel like when your heart stops?"
John: "Dazed. You feel dazed."
I just turn off the monitor and give up.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Hillary, Redux
This afternoon while driving-- okay, let's digress for a moment, shall we?
Driving and driving and then driving a bit more. Starting at 2:00 I go from work to; home (one quick hour of grading and I am nearly comatose which starts with C as in community college); pick up kids at school; drop off Merrick at new friend's house (this means parents could be running meth lab in basement but since I don't actually know them, ignorance is bliss); go to Red Balloon Bookstore with older two children; eat (what turns out to be dinner) at Bread and Chocolate (on the food pyramid or I will pull this trigger); head to evil conglomerate to find books unavailable at previously visited independently owned book store (only to be disappointed again, requiring that I buy three previously owned-now-lost Virginia Woolf books as salve); home, to discover Scarlett is "starving" despite gigantic cinnamon roll recently consumed, so we inject -- I mean, give her more carbs and sugar; to the Guthrie, only to discover that the child supervisor (who just landed plum Guthrie gig) is officially more successful than I am even though I have a 20 year head-start; to strangers' house to retrieve Merrick; home to check email (I mean blog), and later to head back to the Guthrie at an hour in which I should be mildly intoxicated.
Anyway.
While doing THAT I was of course listening to NPR instead of communing with children and I heard this very thoughtful, well-rounded -- diplomatic, even- -- piece on how Hillary Clinton has (or maybe hasn't; it was that balanced) changed since her stern and uncompromising stint as First Lady. Lots of important men in the know were interviewed. Funny, how they were all men and the words "strident" and "rigid" kept popping up, in the analytical sense, of course: "other people say."
Stop it!!
Anyway.
So these guys leave us with the impression that Hillary has become more diplomatic. The rigid bitch has morphed into the masterful politician, mastered the art of the compromise and all that.
Remember last week when she was unable to convey what she thought of New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's plan to issue drivers licenses to illegal immigrants? She said a little yes, a little no, a playful yes, a friendly no. Pundits and politicians are still wiping the juice of their lips.
But the guys on the radio reminded us of how really awful the old Hillary was. As First Lady, she didn't play well with others , not at all. She was always the boss! She had this annoying habit of thinking she was right.
When President Clinton said on national TV that he might accept something less than the health care plan she was devising, she (that rigid, uncompromising bitch) immediately called her hubbie, demanded his public retraction and apology. Which she got.
This can be viewed as: A) asking your spouse to stand up for you B) standing up for yourself or C) as shrew-like control.
If you picked C you get to be an NPR commentator!
Do I even need to say it? Oh MY GOD. Bring back the uncompromising bitch. Shove some chocolate chip cookie dough down a throat or two. PLEASE.
Driving and driving and then driving a bit more. Starting at 2:00 I go from work to; home (one quick hour of grading and I am nearly comatose which starts with C as in community college); pick up kids at school; drop off Merrick at new friend's house (this means parents could be running meth lab in basement but since I don't actually know them, ignorance is bliss); go to Red Balloon Bookstore with older two children; eat (what turns out to be dinner) at Bread and Chocolate (on the food pyramid or I will pull this trigger); head to evil conglomerate to find books unavailable at previously visited independently owned book store (only to be disappointed again, requiring that I buy three previously owned-now-lost Virginia Woolf books as salve); home, to discover Scarlett is "starving" despite gigantic cinnamon roll recently consumed, so we inject -- I mean, give her more carbs and sugar; to the Guthrie, only to discover that the child supervisor (who just landed plum Guthrie gig) is officially more successful than I am even though I have a 20 year head-start; to strangers' house to retrieve Merrick; home to check email (I mean blog), and later to head back to the Guthrie at an hour in which I should be mildly intoxicated.
Anyway.
While doing THAT I was of course listening to NPR instead of communing with children and I heard this very thoughtful, well-rounded -- diplomatic, even- -- piece on how Hillary Clinton has (or maybe hasn't; it was that balanced) changed since her stern and uncompromising stint as First Lady. Lots of important men in the know were interviewed. Funny, how they were all men and the words "strident" and "rigid" kept popping up, in the analytical sense, of course: "other people say."
Stop it!!
Anyway.
So these guys leave us with the impression that Hillary has become more diplomatic. The rigid bitch has morphed into the masterful politician, mastered the art of the compromise and all that.
Remember last week when she was unable to convey what she thought of New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's plan to issue drivers licenses to illegal immigrants? She said a little yes, a little no, a playful yes, a friendly no. Pundits and politicians are still wiping the juice of their lips.
But the guys on the radio reminded us of how really awful the old Hillary was. As First Lady, she didn't play well with others , not at all. She was always the boss! She had this annoying habit of thinking she was right.
When President Clinton said on national TV that he might accept something less than the health care plan she was devising, she (that rigid, uncompromising bitch) immediately called her hubbie, demanded his public retraction and apology. Which she got.
This can be viewed as: A) asking your spouse to stand up for you B) standing up for yourself or C) as shrew-like control.
If you picked C you get to be an NPR commentator!
Do I even need to say it? Oh MY GOD. Bring back the uncompromising bitch. Shove some chocolate chip cookie dough down a throat or two. PLEASE.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Home Schooling
Nifty educational tools for conversations on two of those delicate topics, sex and drugs. Click on the links to the right!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)