Typical Friday morning at the Smiff House. I was in my usual jovial, positive, life-lovin mood, as I am every Friday. I think the Smiff Kids probably recite my dialogue along with me as I spew out my usual uplifting, positive reinforcement to get them ready for a day of learning.

My Middle Schoolers are having “Friend Pictures” made today. They let them get with their friends, pay $5 and have a moment frozen in time. I’m surprised they don’t charge $30 for a tiny polaroid. Anyway, #1 Son is having his picture made with his girlfriend. I was hoping he’d have one made with his posse of pals that he’s been friends with for a long time, but I didn’t press. I didn’t tell him I predict he and Girl will probably be an un-couple within a week or two. They’ve been a couple for about three weeks now. He mentioned yesterday some other kid is trying to move in on his woman. I’m bracing myself to comfort the boy on his first heartbreak. It’s coming. I feel it.

The Room Mothers had sent home this big envelope wanting us to do all these little things for Teacher Appreciation Day…have the kid write her a note of thanks, do a “Why I Love Mrs. Smith” picture, send snapshots of the kid, and of course, an envelope to put money in for a gift. We got this envelope a week ago and we certainly didn’t want to break tradition and have it ready earlier in the week. Why no! It’s much funner trying to scramble and get it done at 10:30 the night before it’s due and carry it over to 6 a.m the next morning. That’s the Smiff Way and I refuse to break such a time honored family tradition.

#2 Son is also having his picture made this morning because he has been given some title I can’t remember but it has to do with being a good student. They take a picture of the other winners and they put it in the paper. I didn’t feel like washing bluejeans last night. #2 is wearing the same jeans he had on yesterday. I did not know until we were on our way out the door this morning that he spilled ketchup on them. He will be Student of the Month, with ketchup on his pants, in the local newspaper. Check that box and vote me Mother of the Year.