” Why must summers be so penitential?”

This is the last line of Michael Tan’s column today in Philippine Daily Inquirer. It is not just a question but a plaintive plea coming from an educator, a chancellor of a prestigious state university. His column today tackles an all too familiar situation – the financial burden of acquiring a college degree in a third world country like the Philippines.

It is a common story replicated thousands of times among the poor. Parents sell their land and farm animals to raise enough money to send their children to college. For them, a college diploma means to unshackle the curse of poverty. It is also mostly for this reason that ten million Filipinos are now working abroad as medical professionals, teachers, engineers, seamen, hotel employees, laborers, maids, and entertainers. They persevere through homesickness, cold temperatures, discrimination and even abuse to send their children, siblings and other relatives through school. A college education is given prime importance in our society, woven tightly into the fabric of the Filipino psyche, that it gave birth to ” Anong natapos mo?” ( an abridged question meaning ” What college course did you finish’?)

The hardship of sending children to school is evident during the summer months of April and May. Michael Tan writes, ” This is the time of the year when after paying income taxes families have to scrounge for funds to pay off end-of-school-year debts, so students can be promoted to the next year’s level, or even to graduate. Others are now finding ways to get funds together as private schools starts enrollment in May.”

It strikes close to home. The hubby recently raised the funds for our son’s tuition fee just in time for enrollment next week. Our seven-year old studies in a Jesuit run private school with an excellent reputation and a beautiful, sprawling campus. But we have to pay very high tuition fees for Joshua to be educated well. I worry if we will be able to afford the tuition fee and its annual increases every year. Friends who have successfully put their children through college assured me that we will be able to survive by God’s grace.

My son, at this moment, is blissfully playing his video games, unaware of my worries. I look at him and I tell myself how lucky he is to be studying in a good school. Last year when he was being obstinate about his studies, I told him in a fit of frustration how his Daddy is working very hard so that he can study in Xavier. He defiantly answered, “I did not ask to study in Xavier. You and Daddy want me to study there!” His words stung me and I should not have made him feel guilty. But what does he know? He is only seven. And what do I know? I am 54 and yet only in my seventh year as a parent.

Times flies fast. Soon he will grow up and, hopefully, appreciate the summers of opportunities that have been laid out for him. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Sixteen Years of Adventure

proudlystayathomemom

February is the month of our wedding anniversary. On the 28th, the hubby and I will be celebrating our 16th. I know it is a cliché but allow me to write it here. How time flies!

We met in a Catholic community for single men and women and were friends for three years. We dated for ninety days and got married five months after. I was 38 and he was 41. I was hesitant to get married so quickly. I felt we needed to know each other better and save up for the wedding. He said we will never really get to know each other unless we live under one roof. And, he added, as long as we keep the wedding simple then we would not worry too much about our finances.

We did have a simple yet elegant wedding. Many of our family members and friends were so generous…

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Chicken Corn Casserole Memories

It was a busy day. I had to cook something really quick with the chopped chicken but I did not know what to do with it. Not chicken pork adobo again, I told myself. I am not a talented cook. I learned to cook when I got married 16 years ago. But I did it ( and still doing it) only out of my survival instincts.

Will I leaf through my cookbook or Google a recipe? On a rush of inspiration, I remembered my Mom’s small wooden box of recipes. I tiptoed hard as I reach for it on top of a book shelf. I blew off the bit of dust and opened it. I smiled at the 5 x 7 inch recipe cards, all alphabetically arranged. My Mom was always organized. I looked under the letter C and as I pulled out her recipe for Chicken Corn Casserole a wave of heaviness filled my chest.

I suddenly missed her for she died many years ago. As I studied her familiar sweeping strokes, I remembered the wonderful dishes that she cooked for our family. It was a triumph for someone who was clueless about cooking during the early years of her marriage. She lived at my Dad’s family home together with Lola Mary, my paternal grandmother. My grandmother taught her how to cook. I suppose my Mom did not have a choice. Lola Mary was known for her culinary skills but she was a stern disciplinarian in the kitchen. It must have been hard for a young bride but she was determined to learn. Many years later, Lola Mary spent her vacation in our Marikina home. My Mom whipped up an array of delectable dishes. My grandmother was very much impressed as she declared. ” The student has outdone the teacher.” My Mom beamed with joy for days.

I sighed and wished I can cook like her. My disinterest in the kitchen frustrated her no end. She would shout my name while she was cooking so she could teach me. But I preferred to bury myself in my books. I overheard her telling my Dad that my few attempts at cooking ended up disastrously. She knew I couldn’t be a whiz in the kitchen and that fact disappointed her. To make up to her, I studied hard and brought home instead consistently good grades.

My husband was to arrive in two hours so I hurriedly cooked the Chicken Corn Casserole. The hubby’s verdict? ” It wasn’t bad.” For my taciturn husband that was a low-key compliment. Maybe there is still hope for me. My Mom would have been proud.

Chicken Corn Casserole

1 kilo chicken cut ups

2 Tbsp cooking oil

1/2 cup chopped onions

2 cups corn ( fresh or canned)

1 cup chicken stock

salt and pepper

2 Tbsp butter

2 Tbsp flour

1 cup green peas

1/2 cup celery

Procedure

Brown the chicken pieces slightly and set aside.Saute the onions until wilted. Pour chicken stock and simmer over low fire. Mix the butter and flour and put the roux in the stock. Swirl the stock a bit then mix in the chicken pieces, green peas and celery. Salt and pepper to taste. Simmer until chicken is cooked. Serve hot either with rice or crusty bread.

A Great Teacher is a Blessing

The hubby and I just attended the last Parent Teachers Conference (PTC) in my son’s school. On the way home, we discussed about our son’s grades and the teachers’ comments on his conduct and effort in school. We acknowledge that we are the teachers’ partners in our child’s education.

What do I do as a parent? I have chosen to be very hands on with my child’s studies. As early as in pre-school, I made sure that Joshua has a set time for play and study. I did not need to read a parenting book to know this. I learned it from my own Mom who helped me develop good study habits. Now that Joshua is in grade 1, I control his TV time and even his video games are reserved only for the weekend. I buy him books and educational toys. Just recently, the hubby bought a telescope for Joshua because he wanted to observe the moon and the stars. I encourage our son to do this because I know that basic astronomy will be taken up in the grade 2 Science class. This summer, he will take up basketball and, hopefully, some art lessons. I also plan to bring him to an interactive children’s museum in the city.

But I can only do so much as a parent. His teachers play a crucial role in developing his mind, emphasizing values and discovering his potential talent. Teaching is a noble yet demanding profession. Many are called to be teachers but few are cut out to be greatly revered. Lucky is the child who ends up with a technically proficient teacher. But blessed is the child who has a teacher with the unique ability of knowing each of his students well beyond the grades in the report card. A passionate teacher who challenges his students yet creates an inspiring, and loving environment for learning deserves admiration.

I was blessed to have been taught by an amazing Literature teacher in third year high school. I remember her fair skin, and chinky eyes hidden by atrociously thick glasses. The first thing that I noticed about her was the husky voice and her graceful, swan like neck. English Lit was considered a boring subject in our high school but she made it alluring for a class of clueless 15-year-old girls. I would wake up excited to attend her class, ready to imbibe the beauty of the written word. Yes, she taught us all there is to know about poems, short stories and novels and their authors. But she was not the type who just wants us to pass her subject. She was adamant that we should have fun first in her class. For her, the grades were of secondary importance.

One time, she asked the class to write a short story on any topic. I wrote a descriptive story about a family with the mailbox as the narrator. She gave me a high grade on that one. I floated with happiness on my way home. She wrote frank assessments of my succeeding stories and told me I have a knack for writing. Read more books, she advised. Write, write, write. Be original.Discover your own style, she egged me on to write.

Because of her wonderful influence on me, I decided to take up journalism in college. I became a feature writer of the college magazine and a book/play/movie critic of the university’s student publication. I have never really thanked her for mentoring me. Oh sure, I did the perfunctory thanks but I was afraid to say what was in my heart. In my naivety, I thought gushing in front of her might embarrass both of us.

Last year just on a lark I typed her name on Facebook. Lo and behold there she was! I introduced myself and poured out my long-delayed heartfelt thanks to her. She was pleasantly surprised and, of course, could not remember me. ( That was 40 years ago!) But she was gracious about it and was flattered that I looked her up.

I wish for my son to receive the same blessing that I had. A teacher who has the exceptional gift of making you believe in yourself.

A birthday, polvoron and the women of Payatas

A week ago, I watched Christiane Amanpour of CNN interview Tom Colicchio, a celebrity chef in New York, about his advocacy on hunger alleviation in the US. Though it was not a surprise for Tom to know that there are hungry people in the US, their growing numbers have unsettled him and his Food Policy Action organization. While I was listening to the interview, I compared how the issue of hunger is treated differently in the Philippines. Hunger is so prevalent in our developing country that the populace has become immune to its existence and eventually take it for granted. That, I am ashamed to admit, included me until I received a call from a good friend five years ago.

She asked me if I will be interested to spend my birthday in a very unique way. Her friend Jane has a personal advocacy. She invites people to celebrate their birthdays with the underprivileged by sharing one’s talent or skill with them.

Intrigued, I contacted Jane immediately. She said that my birthday party should be informal, free wheeling and, yes, I can bring food but nothing lavish. The participants will be women from Payatas, the poor community in Quezon City infamously known for its open dumpsite. What is important, she stressed, is that I should be able to impart a simple talent or skill that they can either appreciate or learn to earn additional income. I was stumped. Unfortunately, I did not have any skill to share but Jane told me that I can bring a friend to help me out.

I invited my high school friend Weng who is known for her tasty polvoron ( powdered milk candy) to demo on how to pan fry the all- purpose flour, powdered full cream milk and margarine and then wrap it in multi-colored paper ( locally known as papel de japon). The polvoron is a popular and inexpensive local dessert or snack. Weng was willing to do a good deed and, just like me, she was very curious about Payatas.

Payatas was and still is a glaring symbol of poverty in the country. It has managed to land in the news several times when garbage landslides occurred burying the scavengers. The scavengers make a living by picking up from the mountains of trash items they can sell to the junkyard. It is not unusual for them to look for frozen food disposed by restaurants to recycle as the day’s meal for their families. Their emaciated faces have been featured in the foreign media by countless photographers, horrified and fascinated, at the same time, by their pitiful condition.

My friend and I were not sure if the women will receive us well. Jane assured us that she knows one of the community leaders who enthusiastically gathered the women in her own home. Around twenty married women were already there as we arrived. Weng did not waste any time as she immediately demonstrated how to measure the ingredients and pan fry it over low fire. She then showed them how to make the polvoron into oval shapes using a molder. Weng also taught them how to do the costing properly and where to source the ingredients.

During the demo, I noticed that the women were interested but reserved. It was understandable. We were considered outsiders coming from the other side of the socio-economic fence. While we were having our birthday snacks, I wanted to break that invisible barrier on the spot. I decided to loosen them up by narrating about my life. I emphasized from the start that we were not rich. I said my parents struggled to put me and my brothers through college. I also met my husband quite late in life because I was busy earning a living to send my youngest brother to school. Lastly, I decided to end our impromptu talk by sharing how I met my husband, our whirlwind romance, his unique marriage proposal and our memorable wedding. Kinilig sila ( They were tickled pink.) and brought smiles on their faces.

In an instant, their shyness banished and to my surprise some of them shared their own life stories. All of them were at their wit’s end trying to raise a family with very little income. Some run a sari sari ( variety) store and they hoped selling the polvoron will mean an earning of a few extra pesos. They talked among themselves about some neighbors who had no choice but to pick up frozen food at the dumpsite just to survive. Life was hard for these women but throughout our encounter they were cheerful, even gossipy, and very appreciative of our polvoron demo. For many of them, that afternoon was the best excuse to leave their responsibilities at home for a while and just be themselves.

Afterwards, Jane drove us near the dumpsite. I had seen it several times on TV but nothing prepared me for it. It was smelly, smoky, and surreal. I was quiet on the way home. I have never had a birthday celebration as thought-provoking as the one in Payatas. Up to this day, my admiration for those women has never waned. They are poor yet brave in the face of insurmountable economic obstacles. In my eyes, that makes them so beautiful.

I wear my pajamas the whole day

I decided to work from home in 2003. Some of my former colleagues advised me that it was not a wise move. I need to have a regular source of income, they said. I will be bored, they warned. I will end up wearing my pajamas the whole day while working in front of my computer. This one came from a fashionista friend who joked, ” But, of course, you are only allowed to do this if your pj’s is a Natori.”

Being a woman, I let intuition took over my decision to quit my 9 to 5 job. Throughout my career, I worked beyond those hours. I had to travel out-of-town even during weekends. I burned the midnight oil with the creative department to pitch for lucrative accounts. I managed with the accounts team countless product launches, sales conferences and press interviews. The ride was amazing and a workaholic’s dream.

In my early 40s, I had a ” stop the world, I want to get off” kind of epiphany. It came like a whisper, niggling me, until I could no longer ignore its siren call. Is this all there is to it? I asked myself. I was burned out from doing public relations and events management work. I took the plunge and for the first time in 23 years I was out of the corporate world. I did not have a plan on what work I will do at home. But in my gut I knew I will be fine partly because I had the support of my husband.

During the first year, I literally had time to breathe. I would wake up early in the morning, smell the air while doing my stretching exercises. I also had leisurely lunches with my precious friends.Some of them envied me for they say I am no longer a corporate slave. Eventually former clients got wind of my ” no work” status and began hiring me as a free-lance writer. By accident, I also dabbled with wedding coordination services after helping out a cousin plan her wedding. Other part-time event coordination projects managed to come my way. For a time, I even put up a corporate gifts and novelty business with my best friend. It did not last long but I had fun along the way. My income now cannot be compared with what I used to earn as a middle-level executive. But it is enough to keep my body nourished and my soul happy.

I will soon tackle some writing projects that were temporarily shelved these past two years. I am nervous on the demand it will put on my time yet I am so excited to see it come to life. I guess this would means lots of laptop work while wearing my favorite pajamas.

Sixteen Years of Adventure

February is the month of our wedding anniversary. On the 28th, the hubby and I will be celebrating our 16th. I know it is a cliché but allow me to write it here. How time flies!

We did have a simple yet elegant wedding. Many of our family members and friends were so generous with their time, effort and their financial gifts to make our wedding unforgettable. Even our Boracay honeymoon was paid for by my business partners! We felt truly blessed.

It is said that marriage is the perfect union of two imperfect persons. Amen to that. There were struggles during the early years. I had some difficulty in adjusting to the fact that I am now a “Mrs” no longer a ” Ms.” I was used to earning my own money, making my own decisions and going off to the beach with my friends at a snap of a finger. I was so uncomfortable the first time I had to ask money from my husband for our household expenses. My work involved stage/production work which meant coming home late at night was not unusual. One time he asked, ” What time do you want me to pick you up?” I was so used to driving myself home that for a minute I forgot that I can ask him to fetch me.

I also did not know how to cook. Sure, I can saute some strips of meat and veggies. That was just about it. The hubby was brought up to be an alpha male. He is the eldest in the family, doesn’t cook and refrains from doing household chores. During dinner, you have to serve him his meal hot and ready. His mother was a wonderful cook and she even baked! I was glad she was no longer around when we got married or else she would have disapproved of me. I had to learn how to cook though I admit I will never be a good one. I had to know my way around the wet market, be familiar with the various cuts of meat and learn how to haggle with the vendors.

I think we were meant to be together because we are opposites in a lot of ways. He hoards things. I am merciless in disposing of used or old items in the house. He finds it difficult to wake up early in the morning. I am up and about at the first ring of the alarm clock. I like things on schedule even during weekends while he is more laid back. He is a carnivore and I, on the other hand, loves tofu and veggie salad.

But we both love books. The love of reading came naturally to us when we were both very young. The bookstore was our our place while we were dating. It is no surprise that our attic is now crammed with books. We are also crazy over supermarkets. Whenever I say this, my friends get puzzled and scratch their heads. I dubbed it as our supermarket fix. The hubby and I find it relaxing as we flit from aisle to aisle looking for the best deals or the newest products to try. We find it ridiculous in rushing to buy the groceries.

I was once asked why the hubby and I are still together. God’s grace is the number one answer. He is the crucial third-party in our union. Our marriage is similar to a wild roller coaster ride. Through the years, there were many “lows” like heated arguments and the stress brought about by my fertility treatments. But the scale was balanced by the “highs” of our travels together and bringing up our smart and funny son, Joshua. We have also learned to live with each other’s idiosyncrasy, and to appreciate the core goodness within us.

So what will happen next? We are still on that exhilarating marital ride, hands held tight, ready to continue with our great adventure.

” I thought girls are smarter than boys”

One time my seven-year old son asked me something which for the life of me I can’t remember now. It was a surprising, out of the blue query which left me groping for the appropriate answer. He was impressed with my explanation. ” Mommy, how did you know that?” I jokingly answered, ” Girls are smarter than boys.” It stuck with him.

I am a SAHM so is it any wonder that I often receive the brunt of his curiosity.

” Do fishes blink?” He was observing Redi, his blue and black pet fish.

” Are all girls afraid of lizards?” God knows where this came from. He blurted afterwards that he does not like any of his girl classmates. I just hope he does not bring a lizard to school.

“Do they have homework?” We were watching a Globe Trekker documentary about monkeys. The presenter described baboons as intelligent.

” Where do they make the Ferrari?” I replied ” Italy.” Wow! I want to go there someday!” ” Will you bring me and Daddy ?” Josh said without hesitation, ” I want to but by that time both of you might be dead.”

” What is a bomb made of?” Alarmed by his question, I asked, ” Why are you asking that?” He shrugged, ” I was watching a Jacky Chan movie on TV. A bomb went off.”

” Will my classmates be taller than me in grade 2?” He is acutely aware that he is one of the smallest boys in his grade 1 class. This frustrates him no end.

” How did my teacher know that I am smart?” He has average grades but he is smart according to his class adviser. Miss Yap sighs, ” He can have better grades if only he will stop fooling around with his classmates during lessons.”

” Why are the paten and chalice in gold?” The question was thrown at me during Sunday Mass. The Sacrament of the Eucharist was the topic in his Christian Life Education (CLE) class that week. I did not dare answer the question. After the Mass, we approached Fr. Joey, our assistant parish priest. For a minute he was stumped. ” What an unusual question!”

” What happened to the baby?’ His pre-school teacher just returned to class after giving birth. Joshua was staring at her belly.

” Are fairies real?” He was watching his favorite cartoon ” The Fairly Odd Parents.” I answered ” No” and he got disappointed.

” How will Santa enter our house? The doors are locked and our house does not have a chimney like in the US.” My answer, ” Santa will knock and Daddy will open the door.”

” Will I own this house when you and Dad are gone?” Me: ” Yes, of course.” Joshua: ” Yehey!” Me: : ” Huh?”

I try to answer his questions with a simple Yes or No but it does not always work. If I can’t there is Google. (Thank you Lord for this high-tech blessing!) And if Joshua is still not satisfied with my answer, I would say, ” Ask your father.” Then in an accusing tone, he would pipe up, ” I thought girls are smarter than boys.”

Street children of Manila: Innocence Lost

You see them all over the country but they stand out mostly in the city of Manila. Barefoot street children with dirty faces,and ratty shirts. They are a ubiquitous lot, weaving in and out of cars during traffic, begging for money. You find them in the sidewalks sniffing glue for their daily drug fix or in jeepneys wiping passengers’ shoes in exchange for a peso. Some have become petty thieves so as to survive the city jungle. At night, they sleep at street corners, wet markets or under city bridges with just a cardboard for a bed.

The government tries its best to cope with the street children problem through the Department of Social Welfare’s rescue centers. There are also institutions funded by foreign non -government organizations (NGOs), or run by private individuals and religious orders which provide them with education, food and shelter. However, the efforts are akin to stopping a rampaging river with a dam made out of sticks. There are just too many children roaming the streets.

They are fascinating oddities for foreigners who hail from first world countries. I remember bringing two Swedish colleagues, first timers in Asia, to several supermarkets for a product tour. On the way to downtown Manila, they kept on taking photos of the street children and barraged me with questions. They could not get over the fact that the children literally sleep on the streets.

Most Filipinos acknowledge the situation as the offshoot of a developing country with a bloated population. I suppose many citizens would like to help alleviate the problem. But the truth of the matter is many are just too busy earning a living to really care or to find the time to volunteer. When I was still single. I volunteered at a center for street children run by the Salesian sisters. I went there during weekends to read stories to them or give them some coloring books and art materials. I also invited a dentist friend of mine to provide free dental services. Unfortunately, my budding career in public relations took much of my time. I stopped my visits at the center and never came back.

I have not given the plight of the street children much thought for so many years. Sure, I toss a few coins to them when they knock on our car window. But I got busy with my career and in raising a family.I have become inured to their existence for they have melded into the city’s landscape. But my seven-year old son Joshua inadvertently changed my jaded state of mind.

After his seventh birthday party, we brought home a lot of leftover food. It was a Sunday so we had to rush to go to Mass. I packed the boxes of spaghetti and french fries in a bag on the way to church. I wanted to give it to a friend who sells mangoes regularly in the vicinity. But she went home early that day.

My son pointed to a group of street children in front of the church selling strings of sampaguita ( small, white flowers). My son decided to give the food to them. They were initially hesitant to accept it but I explained to them it was from my son’s party. They gave cries of joy when they saw what was in the bag. They thanked me, greeted my son a happy birthday and ran off to a nearby tree to eat their unexpected McDonald’s treats.

I was taken a aback on how happy they were. My son was pleased. ” Mommy, we helped some poor people.” I realized that it was the first time that he actually met the street children in our area. He asked so many questions about them until bedtime. Joshua could not forget the experience that he shared it with his Christian Life Education (CLE) teacher the following day.

I had forgotten how simple gifts and gestures are much appreciated by these street children. I witnessed that often when I was at the center. They were dark, smelled of the sun with most of them missing some teeth. They were poor, abused with their innocence lost on the streets yet they giggled with delight with my gifts of crayola and paper. They were after all, deep down inside, just normal children.

HOT Mama

My plan was simple. My Mom taught me my lessons. I was going to do the same for my son Joshua as he entered the big school last June. How hard can grade 1 be? We breezed through pre-school together. I overlooked the fact that I am 54 and my son is 7. When I was in grade 1 the Beatles was the hottest thing on earth. Today, Paul McCartney is probably as old as Justin Bieber’s grandfather.

The school curriculum is based on the principles of Higher Order of Thinking (H.O.T.) as explained by the class adviser. The what? There is less emphasis on facts and lessons are geared towards critical thinking or the application of what the child is learning in class. Darn! I wanted to teach Joshua how to memorize dates, names, and places. I was good at that in school. Does it mean he will never learn when Filipino hero Lapu Lapu killed Ferdinand Magellan who circumnavigated the world?

Gone too is the thrill of memorizing multiplication tables. My math teacher used to hold a contest on who can recite it without losing your breath. That is considered Lower Order of Thinking ( L.O.T). In my son’s school, grade school students are now taught Singapore Math. I had to attend a seminar together with other clueless parents to learn that 5 plus 5 is not just equals to 10. You have to break the equation into different combinations called number bonds to arrive at 10. Whew! Totally alien territory for me but who am I to disagree. The Singaporeans top Math aptitude tests worldwide even beating the Americans.

Then there is Mandarin. The hubby and I thought that it would be cool for our son to learn a second foreign language. It would look good in his future CV and help him land a nice, cushy job. However, during his first month in school Joshua declared he hates Mandarin and wants to transfer to another school. My daydream of our son running a Ferrari plant in China went poof!

In another parents workshop, I learned that Mandarin is a tonal language with four tones making it difficult for a neophyte like me to distinguish each of them. The only Chinese words that I know are xie xie and ni hao. Thanks to a Nickelodeon cartoon.Teaching the Chinese strokes to Joshua is something else! During study time, I have to be creative, sometimes forming shapes with my hands and feet, in describing certain strokes so my son can remember them.

Lastly there is the dreaded subject called Filipino, the Waterloo of many students. It’s an embarrassing fact but a majority of them would rather be proficient in English than their own language. Is it any wonder that the Philippines is second to India as the world’s favorite BPO site?

I don’t relish the subject either but do I have a choice? I have to rewire my brain to absorb words I last heard 40 years ago like pangngalan ( noun), pandiwa ( verb), patinig ( vowel), katinig ( consonant) etc . . My son complains how hard Filipino is but I threaten him that if he flunk the subject he can say goodbye to the gym. He loves to play at the gym after class. He can narrate in detail his adventures with his classmates. But if you ask him what he learn in class today the stock answer is ” I forgot.”

After locking horns with the grade 1 curriculum for seven months, I am still standing and relieved that my son does not have a failing grade. (I just wish he has better grades, whispers my OC self.) And surprise, surprise Joshua now finds Mandarin easy peasy. In two months time, he will be finish with grade 1.A friend, who listens patiently as I whine about teaching my seven-year old kid, suggested recently that I hire a tutor. Is she kidding? I am up to the challenge of being a H.O.T Mama next school year. Bring it on, grade 2!