Mom guilt

I can't do it all.

There. I said it. And, yes, I know all the stuff about how "can't" really means "won't" and I should really be telling myself that I believe I can fly and all of the rest of it, and I am saying, "NO!"

I need a new plan. I will be being my own little cheer squad on here, and anyone who wants to help is welcome.

Here is where we are: we need my pitiful salary to get us by each month (and sometimes it isn't enough). Years of living in two cities, unemployment, current underemployment, and stupid choices have driven us into the red. I drive a car with nearly 200,000 mile on it that my parents gave me when they replaced it. I'm not sure it will last me more than two more years. Husband's isn't much better. At some point, we will have to take on a car payment again.

Here is where else we are: each morning, I put a sleepy, weeping Crazy Boy on the bus at 6:30 a.m. He sleeps another hour on the bus, then eats breakfast at school. I leave when he gets on the bus and start work at 7:30. Miss America's bus comes at 8:15. Thus, Husband is responsible for getting her out of bed and on the bus.

I don't think Miss America has eaten breakfast this year. She has missed swim team practices, band meetings, and assignments because of communication breakdowns. Early in the year, she actually missed school because she wouldn't get up, and he gave up and let her stay home (I put the fear of God in both of them, and it hasn't happened since). This past Friday, Husband actually called me on my cell phone at school to tell her to get out of bed... he won't be doing that again, either.

This should have been some kind of learning, bonding thing for them, but it hasn't happened. Instead, I am seeing critical years of my children's growth, development and learning suffering.

I love my job. The women I work with are amazing. I'm fairly certain that we are a step backward in women's equality, but I don't see an answer to this (tiny digression): I am a $10 an hour "Instructional Assistant." I also have a Master's Degree. And, I am not alone. There are dozens of women within my district who teach, care, sweat, cry, share the fruits of our educations, and earn what folks working the fry basket earn. Our "beloved" superintendent was just given a $40K raise (putting him over $200K) because of our students' test scores. (I would like to see him try to teach a child taken off her meds because mom decided to sell them instead). Last year, the women who do my job lost their health benefits.

So much more I want to say here, but I won't...

Anyhow, "The Plan."

I want to be out of debt in two years. I want to stop working in two years.

Those of you who know me in real life know that I am not the most organized girl on the planet. I'm not lazy, just impulsive. I also rationalize really, really well.

The next two years are going to be a giant lesson in impulse control. I don't spend money on big things now. My spending is more of the frittering variety. Let's grab dinner here. Let's get that shirt at Target there. A snack here. New markers there. And coffee. Ah, coffee.

I love getting up and going to my job. My friends are there. People actually listen to me (sometimes). I don't want to leave that. I don't want to lose what I have.

But, here is the problem. All of those promises of help around the house and with the children if I got a job have not come to pass. Husband is not going to grow up. Quite literally, if I ask him to help me do something around the house, he will tell Miss America to do it and she will tell Crazy Boy to do it. Often he will actually try to do whatever it is (frequently resulting in a mess), and there it ends. If I come back and say something about this, Husband blames Miss America, she blames Crazy Boy, neither of them feels they should be responsible for any of it, and there you go. Miss America turns 13 in April. Then, I will have two teenagers in my house (and a 7-year-old who is actually willing to try and help).

And so, I am implementing a plan of austerity. Just like Greece. I just hope that our protests are less violent. If one of my subjects decides to burn my minivan, I will have to walk.

Once more, with rationality

In re-reading my last post, I realize that I babbled. Yes, I know, nothing new.

I'll try again.

Let me say first that I love my job. I love the people, the place, the spontaneous hugs the small people share with me. I love the unexpected wins, the small gains, the camaraderie.

Here is my frustration:

Miss America is smart. Scary smart. I remember what she was capable of as a K-2 kiddo, and I know that some of the things I am asking of my kiddos would have been a stretch for her. In just a few years, the expectations we are placing on small children have grown like crazy, and to quote them, it isn't fair. It is mean, and it is wrong, and it will backfire.

For example, Crazy Boy and my kindergarteners are now expected to be able to count by 10s to 100, write their alphabet perfectly (no backwards letters), and count to, write and recognize numbers to 20. They have 25+ "sight words" that they must recognize and be able to write. They have nightly writing assignments that they must do without parental help. We may not tell them how to spell things. We may not tell them how to write things. Two of their vocabulary words are "decompose" and "decomposition" as they are used in math. Example: five can be decomposed as 4 + 1, 3 + 2, etc.

Have you seen a kindergartener lately? They aren't any bigger, older or smarter than they used to be in the days of half days, finger painting, nap time and recess.

Crazy Boy is in his second year of kindergarten, and he is below grade level in everything except letter recognition. He has parents and an older sister who read to him, play number games with him, and all the rest.

This is why I sometimes despair for my kiddos who frequently don't have enough to eat, come in wearing summer clothes in the winter, and have incarcerated parents. I get so angry at the politicians who criticize teachers for the crappy jobs they do, when the vast majority of teachers are amazingly dedicated and involved individuals.

An amazing teacher who has a bunch of my 1st graders was given through luck of the draw a class in which 50% of the kids are a mess. Some should have been designated as special education students and are only being tested now. One of them is spending lunch tomorrow in the principal's office for stealing from my desk (he is the one with the mother under the restraining order). Some have teenaged parents (they are 6 and 7 -- do the math). This is a woman who is a terrific teacher and a dedicated educator. We are all holding our breath that she doesn't lose her job at the end of the year for being ineffective. I honestly don't know what else she could do, and we are killing ourselves trying to help her and her kids.

Remember Sunny? She didn't get TB, and she is no longer with her Mamaw or with us. Her last month with us was brutal as she was off her Ritalin. According to Mamaw, Sunny's Mama sold it to pay to redecorate her trailer. Now Sunny is living with Mama somewhere else.

JJ is being moved to the class of children who are so emotionally damaged that they can't function in a normal classroom.

Our little former homeless girl disappeared one day and we haven't heard from her since. Our guess is that they are homeless again, and we are hoping that she is attending school and sheltered somewhere.

Tomorrow our kids take their quarterly test. Today we sat and quietly decided who we can possibly help just enough to get them through, and who will just not be able to pass this time. I'm taking a large (six) group of the ones who simply don't get it so my two colleagues can each take small groups (three) in the hopes that those six will pass. We will pray that they all do. We have worked with these children daily for the past five weeks, using carrots, sticks, love, frustration and everything else we can think it to help them learn.

And, just as a frame of reference, when I graduated with my undergraduate degree in 1988, I worked for a time as a temporary secretary. I am earning exactly what I earned then to do what I do now...

And now I will resume beating my head against my keyboard.

What do you wanna be when you grow up?

It has been a while since I last posted. Today's events left me shaking my head, although nothing at my job should EVER surprise me...

Each morning, I work with four 1st graders who are reading well below grade level. My group is comprised of three boys and one girl, all six years old.

I swear that I am not exaggerating, embellishing or fictionalizing today's post...

For this week's book, I selected a story about what we want to be when we grow up. We were supposed to "pre-read" by discussing what we might do with our futures.

Two boys suggested "gangstering," and another mentioned the possibility of being a Nazi. I tried to steer them toward more, um, safe and legal goals, then handed out pre-reading worksheets for drawings of their future selves.

Sharif drew a picture of himself cutting off the head of an enemy with a very large knife. He blew through most of a red crayon on the blood.

Isiah drew a picture of himself firing two guns at his enemy, then insisted he was being a police officer when I told him to erase it.

Quinn became concerned that the drawing of himself as a soldier would be compromised without weaponry and wondered if he could draw weaponry accessories instead.

Cassie drew a picture of herself as a mermaid.

Remember... they are SIX. I'm thinking this activity was a collossal failure.

Teachers are a favorite scapegoat these days for all of our country's ills. I'd love to see some fat cat politician try and survive my crew. These are kids who will steal anything that isn't bolted down and then lie to your face about it when you catch them.

And... One is being raised by an aunt because there is a restraining order against his mom seeing him. One has a parent in prison. One has a teenaged parent. One has a "father" who keeps telling the child that his mom was sleeping around so Dad probably isn't his dad. This is just the stuff we know about.

And so I do my best to redirect and guide and hope that my short time with them might actually make a difference.

As disturbing a I find this, my two second grade boys who are reading the same book were the ones who broke my heart. They are tremendously behind grade level with severe learning disabilities. When we did our pre-read, they could not think of anything they wanted to be someday. Nothing they wanted to see. No place they wanted to go. They are seven and they have given up.

This one size fits all educational system our politicians love so much is such a farce. "No Child" leaves so many behind and I am feeling as helpless as my kiddos tonight.

Reality Check

Tomorrow Crazy Boy turns seven. For his birthday, he wants to go to Disney World. I would love, love, love to have taken him to Disney World over Christmas Break as an early birthday present, but that was not in the cards.

2012 is the year of trying to put the financial house in order. More to the point, it is my year of living mindfully... eating mindfully, spending mindfully, moving mindfully.

As always, I am doing this without involving Husband. Husband panics openly about money, and Husband remains a hot mess. We are into year three of no raise, no movement up the ladder, and trying to manage on the massive pay cut he took to come here. The Friday before Christmas, Husband's boss hauled him into his office to issue him an "Official Written Reprimand." All of the stuff Bossman cited was stupid and petty (none of it performance-related; all of it behavior-related)... and since he is the boss, he can do it. Merry Bleeping Christmas. Saying to Husband, "Our finances are scary because of you," won't help. I've got to fix this one on my own.

I digress. Crazy Boy wanted Disney World for his birthday. I have more of a Disney DVD budget this year. This shouldn't have made me feel guilty, but it did.

Friday was my student JJ's sixth birthday. JJ is a small boy who frequently arrives with a black eye. He has one pair of shoes that is losing its soles. When we were talking about words ending with the letter B and the word "rob" was used, he proudly announced that his grandpa had robbed a bank and a store. Another day, he told us that his mom had gotten a new job escorting people. We are worried about his being incarcerated before his age reaches double digits (I'm completely serious). And, yes, CPS has been to visit them and has done nothing.

JJ comes to my room late each morning along with a dozen other kindergarteners who need letter and number help. Friday he bounced out of his classroom clutching his Happy Birthday pencil that the principal had given him at morning assembly. My kids have gotten those pencils every year, and I don't think they have sharpened one yet. JJ was so proud of that pencil, he couldn't stop grinning.

When circle time in our room was over and it was time to go to tables, JJ jumped up to go and stabbed himself in the palm with his Happy Birthday pencil. He didn't cry, but he howled, "It hurts, it hurts, it's bleeding, it hurts!!!!" so I took him down the hall to the nurse's office.

While we walked down the hall, I tried to distract him, so I asked him what he'd be doing for his birthday. He said he didn't know. He wasn't sure he'd have cake, so I suggested that he might have cupcakes. Yes, he agreed, his mom might get him a cupcake.

At the end of the school day on Friday, as I helped JJ and his brother get on their bus, I told JJ that I hoped all of his birthday wishes would come true. I sure hope he had a candle to blow out.

Crazy Boy has cupcakes to take to school tomorrow and he told me he wanted chocolate cake tomorrow night, so that's what we're having. He's also having a party with school friends next Saturday. He's got packages to open from us and his sister and his aunts and grandparents. I guess he really doesn't need Disney World...

Stuff I thought about while driving across Missouri

Today we are in Omaha for Thanksgiving with Husband's family. Originally, autocorrect tried to tell you that we were in Oahu. That would have been fine.

We meant to get an early start on our road trip, but oh well. Riding across the prairie in a dark car containing sleeping children gives you lots of time to think.

When my kids were tiny, the stages seemed to blur. They were babies trying to walk, or they were precocious toddlers who were still toddlers, and so on. Through these past almost 13 years, there have been times (mainly in Target, but I'm not sure why) when I have a little nostalgia for a time past in my child's life. Recently buying a birthday present, I realized that Miss America would never want anything from the Toy Department again.

This most recent stage of Miss America's life has not been a gradual transformation. For her, the change from child to adolescent happened, quite literally, over night. For me, it is as if I got dumped by a guy who was just terrific and now can find no one but unpleasant jerks to spend time with. I am trying to like adolescent Miss America, and some days I really do, but I am still adjusting to this new person who moved into her body.

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And then there's Eddie. Eddie Beagle was my foster dog in the summer of 2007. At the end of the summer I told Husband that I just wanted my flatulent Beagle with anxiety issues for my anniversary present. Eddie was mine.

After moving to the country, I worked hard to keep Eddie contained. He climbed whatever kind of fence we put up or bolted through the door when the opportunity presented itself. Our unfriendly country neighbors would call to complain about and threaten to shoot him. I tried everything I could think of to keep him on our property.

And then, one Sunday night about two months ago, he slept on my feet like he always did, gave me his big, dopey grin like he always did, went into the yard, jumped the fenc, and was gone.

I have tried to remain positive about his return for the kids' sake, and have done absolutely everything I can think of to find him, but no Eddie...

I wish I knew what happened to him, and I don't. I wish I had known it was the last time he would snuggle with me and burp. I hope he knew how much I loved him. The texture of my life is so different without him.

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And finally, there's Cate. Cate and I didn't know each other in college, even though we spent three years living in sorority houses across the street and one down from one another. She met Tim, a colleague of Husband's, in Denver (we all lived there just out of college). They got married in Omaha the Thanksgiving after we did. She and I both worked in downtown Denver and would frequently meet for lunch or drinks. She is truly one of the kindest, classiest people I have ever known.

We lost touch after Husband and I moved to Michigan, but reconnected in New Orleans last December when Tim and Husband had a conference there. She and I had a grand time lunching and shopping and catching up in the French Quarter. We also fielded calls from our tween daughters who were being cared for by their maternal grandparents and were annoyed by their grandmothers by tiny, insignificant things.

This year's meeting is in Ft Lauderdale, and we were ready for more girl time. And then the call came. Cate's mother, with whom she was extremely close, suffered a massive stroke and passed away on Monday. The are devastated and won't be making the trip. My heart just breaks for her.

And so, I thought about uncertainty as we drove through the dark. Of all that I know that is uncertain, and all that I don't, and about doing a better job of taking things as they come. Of cherishing more. Worrying less. Being in the present. Those were my thoughts.

Taking a poll

You all are my friends, so I'm guessing you will be on my side here, but I just have to ask. (Plus, I'm thinking it is just common courtesy.)

Husband has developed a new habit of attaching his tablet computer to his headphones and sitting with his headphones on when we are in a room or at a table together. Since we have told our daughter that this is rude, I don't think he should do it with me, either. He insists that he is willing to remove his headphones and ask me repeat myself, should I wish to engage him in conversation, so there is nothing wrong with his listening to music over his headphones.

Any thoughts on this, dear bloggies?

My mini politician

OK, so she isn't so mini anymore -- she is about as tall as I am.

But it seems to me as if she was pretty tiny about an hour an a half ago. In a few months, she will officially be a teenager.

Help me.

Last night, as we were driving home from youth group, Miss America asked if she could forgo her shower until after swim team practice on Monday. She was just too tired to straighten her hair tonight.

I agreed. It wasn't like she was approaching Pig Pen status or anything, and I was trying to get her settled an into bed (a Herculean effort each night).

Until recently, Miss America didn't really care that much about her red, curly hair. Now it has become all about the Sacrament of the Hair Straightening, practiced several times a day.

I would prefer the Sacrament of the Room Cleaning, or the Sacrament of the Reading, or the Sacrament of the Trombone Practicing, or even the Sacrament of the Playing-Nicely-With-The-Little-Brother (heck, I'd settle for the Sacrament of the Not-Trying-To-Kill-The-Little-Brother), but I don't think any of those are likely.

We got home, I dropped Miss America off in her room and absently told her, "Good Night, Snuggle Buggle, go to bed" (something I've said a zillion times before), to which she replied, "OH MY GOD! DO NOT EVER SAY THAT IN FRONT OF ANYBODY!" I gave up and went to put Crazy Boy to bed.

An hour later, I returned to find her IM-ing with her friends, crossed-legged on her bed, fully dressed, lights on. I said, "I told you to go to bed."

She replied, "Yeah, but you didn't say when I had to go to bed."

Forget being a formidable debating rival for Rick Perry. These days, I think she could take down Bill Clinton.

And she is not yet a teenager. Boy, this is gonna be fun...