Dibs

Mom guilt

2012-02-19T03:37:00.017-05:00

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

2012-02-02T18:47:00.004-05:00

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?

2012-01-31T23:05:00.007-05:00

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

2012-01-08T19:41:00.005-05:00

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

2011-11-24T07:23:00.018-05:00

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.

************

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.

************

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

2011-11-14T21:09:00.002-05:00

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

2011-11-14T06:29:00.006-05:00

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...

My education as an educator

2011-11-12T09:20:00.021-05:00

I spent a bunch of years working as a fundraiser for a large, national charitable organization and worked closely with many social agencies. I thought I'd heard it all.

Not even close.

I work with kiddos grades K-2. If you don't have any kindergarteners, you may not realize how much kindergarten has changed very recently. As in, this is not your first grader's kindergarten any more.

Our state is part of an initiative (thanks, George W) that makes 3rd grade the make-or-break year. If you have kids in primary grades but don't work closely with the schools, you will have received a paper about this, you won't have read it, and you should have.

Third grade is the gateway to our children's educational future. At the end of the year, a test (a HARD test) is being given to third graders in our state. If they flunk the test, they flunk third grade. No do-overs. No exceptions. No parental-intervention. Do not pass "GO." No $200 for you.

Children will have three chances to pass it, and if they still don't pass, they will be promoted to fourth grade -- after they have attended the third grade three times. This is part of the No Child Left Behind initiative.

Because Crazy Boy is in special ed, his teachers have assured us that they have, "everything in place to protect him as best we can." Yes, just what we want, our teachers needing to protect our children from our government. And, believe me, I am unbelievably grateful to them for their efforts.

This spring is the first time the third graders in our district will take this test. And then all h-e-double-toothpicks will break out.

This is a long introduction to the point of my post. My job is to help my at-risk kiddos prepare for this test. We work damned hard together. I do my best to make it fun, but there isn't much time for fun. The stakes are too high.

I wish the bureaucrats who came up with this massive brain-fart could meet my kiddos. Could see our tiny, blond son of a prostitute who has come to school with four black eyes so far this year. His seven-year-old brother is responsible for him and their baby sister when mom goes out to party in the evenings. The teachers called child protective services who did an investigation and concluded that as long as the seven year old knows how to dial 911, all is fine.

Gee, I can't understand why our first task of every day is to cut through our boy's anger. This boy who cried when his classroom assistant was assigned to another classroom because, "You're the only one who loves me."

We work and play and drill and try with him, and he wants to please us and he tries his hardest... and in the first 14 weeks of school he has gone from knowing 0 letters of the alphabet to knowing 6. Listen to the media, and they will tell you that we are failing. Yes, dammit, we know we are failing. He will probably be retained in kindergarten. He will probably do three tours in third grade. This will make him an 11-year-old fourth grader with vicious anger issues. Just who I want on the bus with my son.

I didn't set out to write about him today -- we worry about him every day and do what we can.

The big worry arrived yesterday, and I am praying it doesn't find its way into our homes.

A month into the school year, a little girl I'll call Sunny arrived at our school to begin kindergarten and work with me. Old-school kindergarten was perfect for Sunny. She loves to sing. She loves to color. She is bright and completely unfocused (probably because she is FIVE). You never know if her clothes will be too big or too small or too out of season or even cover her appropriately. I'm not sure she bathes regularly.

She wants to negotiate in a situation where negotiation can't happen. She wants to tell me stories when we have work, work, work to get done. She doesn't understand the urgency. When one of our sounding-out words is "hat," she wants to tell me all about her Papaw's hat that he lets her wear in the pickup. I would love to have her tell me all about it, but I can't. She has 10 "H's" to write and four worksheets to complete in our miniscule time together.

Too many things wrong here to count.

Yesterday morning, Sunny's kindergarten teacher took my teacher aside to quietly explain why Sunny will be absent for a while. Sunny's Mamaw (and caregiver) has been diagnosed with Tuberculosis and is coughing up blood. Sunny will be staying out of school until she has a clean bill of health. We have no idea who is taking care of her now that Mamaw is in the hospital. Papaw? Random relative?

We are worried about Sunny. And... we are worried about us. Sunny has been coughing since her arrival. Thursday, she coughed on me, hugged me, and held my hand while we walked down the hall together. She coughed on my teacher's granddaughter who is also in kindergarten. She coughed on the pregnant teacher's aide who pulled her for extra work on Thursday.

Holy Jesus.

I hate to admit this, but I strive to be honest on here. There is a part of my soul that is relieved at the end of my school day when I can get in my minivan, come home to my messy-but-reasonably-clean house and children, cook supper for my family, and watch "Jeopardy" and laugh at "The Big Bang Theory."

If you pray, please say one for all of the folks who are involved here. I changed the names, but God will know who you mean. I think we need it.

Gray hair

2011-11-02T19:07:00.003-04:00

This fall, Miss America has reconnected with her old friend Goth Girl. I am sincerely hoping it is short-lived.

Sunday evening after church youth group, MA and I stopped at Target for hair conditioner and headbands (and a new scarf and mittens to match her coat, even though it was 70 degrees out).

While walking across the parking lot, MA casually observed, "Goth Girl is being an idiot. She is whoring herself out to two boys at school."

My well-meaning mother would have greeted this comment out of me (as if that ever would have happened) with a sermon that would have ensured that I never shared again.

However, since we just went through her bff Ally's first boyfriend who was 16 (these girls are all 12) with Ally's mother forbidding her to text him (he lives several towns away) necessitating a convoluted communication stream involving MA, I tried to keep my tone light.

Additionally, MA has lately become waaay into hair and makeup and such, causing me to wonder about her own interests. I want her to keep talking to me.

Anyhow, MA explained to me that Goth Girl is letting various boys feel her up. Did I mention that Goth Girl is 12? TWELVE. Yikes.

Hopefully, I got it right. I said, "Yeah, that's like an incredibly stupid thing to do."

And then I felt the gray hairs popping out all over my head.

Aaaargh.

Middle School Humor

2011-10-17T20:41:00.005-04:00

Miss America is in the 7th grade now, and is in Honors Algebra with the other smart, snarky 12-year-olds at her school. Her teacher, Mr. C, is equally smart and snarky, and Miss America loves his class.

Here is a sample of a conversation I particularly enjoyed:

Mr. C: (something irrelevant and snarky)

Prissy Tween Girl: You're mean! You aren't as mean as Mrs. G, though. She hates everybody.

(Mrs. G is the English teacher who drove Miss America, Husband and me bananas last year. I can say with absolute certainty that Mrs. G hates me.)

** at this moment, a student office assistant enters the classroom with a note for Mr. C. **

Mr. C: (to Office Assistant) Do you know Mrs. G?

Office Assistant: No, but I just delivered a note to her class.

Mr. C: Apparently, she hates you.

** Office Assistant looks taken aback **

Mr. C: She hates everybody.

Prissy Tween Girl: (to Miss America) She hated you the most, however.

Miss America: So true.

Hello!

2011-10-11T20:03:00.008-04:00

And so I'm back... from outer space...

Just kidding.

The cast is off the arm. Things are crazy but good. I'm working full-time in addition to everything else. Still hauling the kiddos 500+ miles a week. Still fostering fur kids. School is going very well for the kiddos. Crazy boss decided he'll keep Husband after all. Crazy Boy's bus picks him up at 6:35 a.m.

Sleeping a whole lot less.......

I love my job. I am an instructional assistant in a special education classroom. I work one-on-one with kiddos grades K-2 who have special needs or are at risk.

In the nine weeks I've been doing this, I have had some (please pardon the cliche) hilarious and heartbreaking experiences.

I had a small boy inform me that his name means "Messenger of God's Word" and then proceed to drop the F-bomb in the following sentence. I had a tiny girl with a giant hair bow tell me about visiting her daddy in prison and explain to me that breaking crayons won't get you incarcerated but stealing stuff will and then you'll never see your family EVER AGAIN. I had a mom tell me of her irritation that our high school wouldn't let her enroll as a freshman because she was six months' pregnant with our student at the time.

I am finding as a rule of thumb that the more Old Testament a kid's name is, the more likely he is to be a hot mess.

Late last week, two boys at my table were comparing boo-boos. One of them pointed to an ugly, red burn on his arm and calmly explained that his dad's cigarette lighter did that. And so, I reported my first suspicion of child abuse.

On any given media outlet, on any given day, it is possible to read about our failing schools, our failing teachers. And, yes, my kids have had some doozies. As in any profession, it is possible to find a teacher who is a loser. In my life, I have had bad teachers, bad doctors, bad waitresses, bad plumbers.

I work harder at my current job than I have at anything (besides parenting) in my life. The teacher and other assistant I work with (and the rest of the special education staff) are amazing, committed women. Every morning, I spend an hour with a sweet, funny boy with spiky blond hair who loves "Lion King" and who was born addicted to cocaine. To quote my co-workers, "Bless his heart, he works so hard." According to my teacher/boss, I must explain something to him at least 80 times before he will understand it. I am guessing it is more like 100 (and I am a pretty good explainer).

He has loving, supportive parents, a good school situation, and he can barely read a dozen words. (He is nine and in the second grade). Today he told me of his dream to play baseball at our high school and I quietly said a little prayer that I can find the way to help him reach this goal. To help him get out of elementary school before he is in his teens. To reach the part of his brain that wasn't irrevocably damaged by the chemicals he didn't ask to ingest and unlock the mysteries there so he can learn the things he struggles so mightily to remember.

The politicians are all about "Excellence." And, sure, excellence is great. It doesn't seem to me that any of those talking heads give a good gol'darn about my spiky-haired boy or my messenger from God (who was homeless in Southern California last year).

I love those stories about the homeless kids who somehow manage to graduate from an Ivy League college just as much as the next girl, but my victories (and those of my school kiddos and my small boy who is making strong academic progress this year -- huzzah) aren't Ivy League dreams. My kiddos achieve excellence when they manage to remember what the number 11 looks like from one day to the next.

So that's what I've been doing for the past two months. I've missed you, blog people.

On a dime

2011-08-07T20:21:00.004-04:00

Wednesday was a beautiful morning. Cool, sunny and without humidity. Crazy Boy and I went outside to weed the garden. On our visit to Spokane we visited beautiful gardens that inspired me. My ankle was finally healed and I was motivated.

Along my driveway was pretty weedy. I braced my feet on the driveway and pulled. And pulled. And found a biggie that stuck. I braced and pulled harder. The weed's roots gave way and I flew backward, bending my right wrist below me as I fell onto the warm blacktop.

I lay there for what seemed like a long time and Crazy Boy fetched hiss sister from the house. My barely-mobile, rapidly-swelling purple hand didn't look like it would heal on its own. So we climbed into the minivan, gardening clogs and all, and headed for the ER, stopping at McDonalds for lunch for the kids on our way.

Four hours, three x-rays, and two Chicken McNuggets later, the same doctor who treated my ankle informed met that my wrist was broken and required surgery. He is a young doctor and funny, first generatiion Indian immigrant. Because of the McNuggts, the surgery had to wait until evening. Husband arrived and took the kids home for supper and a change of clothes. The surgery would take about an hour. I'd wake up, drink a soda, and go home to my own bed.

When the nurse wheeled me into surgery, one of Miss America's favorite songs was playing on the stereo. I made a mental note to tell her this when I saw her later. And then I was asleep.

Later, there was something down my throat and women clutching my hands and telling me not to fight it. What a strange dream... Not frightening, but so uncomfortable. And people saying my coloring was a little better. And there was something like a large, plastic halloween mask on my face, but still it was so hard to breathe.

And then I was in a hospital room so my doc must have decided to keep me over. I was kind of hoping he would do that... Soft sheets and my own tv. This was weird -- I was in a room that had so many lights and buzzers it was like being on the starship enterprise. And husband and the kids were there... So tired and so hard to talk behind the plastic mask... Sleeping... Waking up with people checking things... So many sounds and lights... It's morning, no the clock says 4 am... So hard to breathe.

The clock said 10, the sun was up and a nurse came in. I asked her where I was and she said, CCU. She explained that I had had a little trouble breathing after my surgery so had spent the night there as a precaution.

I asked to watch the Today Show and to call Husband. He answered the phone and right down the pike started complaining about the foster cats. Told me he had contacted a local kill shelter because taking care of them and the kids was too much for him. Because they were in rescue, the shelter would not take the cats, goddamn them. And at this point all the sirens went off in my room and a team of nurses ran in. Apparently, my blood pressure and pulse had skyrocketed.

I explained what had happened to the nurse, who asked if I wanted to speak to somebody other than husband.

I wanted my sister, and the nurse got her on the phone for me. My sister was the one who explained what happened to me, tat I had spent the night in "serious" condition in CCU which was a step up from ICU. That immediately after surgery my lungs filled with fluid and I was placed on a ventilator. That she and my parents had stayed up all night terrified that I would die. And, that I apparently came a bit close to meeting my maker.

They kept me in the CCU until Friday afternoon. I returned home to husband doing what husband does when there is a problem --having a tantrum over the foster cats.

I may write more on this later as I am still trying to process it. But for tonight, I am home. I typed this post with my left pointer and my and is asleep. I am taking Miss Merica for pedis in the morning while my folks are still here to watch CB for me.

And I am happy to be alive, ouchie arm and big cast and all.

This teachable moment might just kill me

2011-07-29T22:58:00.004-04:00

The day started out well. In fact, it started out great. I received, and accepted, a job offer.

I am going to be a special education assistant at a local elementary school. Not glamorous and not well-paid, but a job I think I will enjoy at a nice school with a nice principal. All good.

Wednesday, we returned from our vacation which was a rip-roaring success. Fun times, too much food, beautiful scenery and weather and a super-comfy bed at the hotel. It really doesn't take much to make me happy. It was what we needed.

My ankle is still not completely healed, and it hurts a bunch at night. I'm supposed to stay off of it as much as possible. When the principal dude called me this morning to offer me the job, I was still in bed watching TV and telling myself, "I'm supposed to stay off of my foot so it will heal. It is REALLY OK that I'm still here in bed."

After his phone call, I got up and hopped in the shower. Crazy Boy brought me the phone while I was shampooing. It was my mother in law.

It all went downhill fast from there.

My mother in law has bad manners. Some of them are hard to deal with, like her love of dining and dashing and her ordering water at fast food restaurants and then taking firsts, seconds and thirds of soda in her water cup. She also loves to talk about herself and the rest of the Omaha branch of the family. If I happen to say something about myself or my children when we are together, she will actually get out her cell phone and dial my SIL so she can continue talking about herself while I am still speaking.

She also comes to my house and cleans. You are probably thinking (like I have been told about a bazillion times), "She can come and clean my house."

Really? You want your MIL walking into your house and ten minutes later removing your canisters from your counter-tops and scrubbing them down because your counters are just too messy for her tolerate? I didn't think so.

She also complains about my SIL's MIL's housekeeping, even though the woman was recently widowed and then hospitalized with brain and lung cancer. Still, her house should be immaculate, don't you know. MIL tells me of all the housekeeping advice she gives SIL's MIL so her house won't be so offensive, and then proceeds to give me the same housekeeping advice.

Bitch.

I have explained to Miss America that it is rude to go into someone's house and clean it because it isn't up to your standards (let me say here that I am not like those hoarder people you see on TV. We are talking about microscopic crumbs on the counter).

And tonight Miss America and I had a new discussion about rudeness and how it is rude to give someone less that 24 hours' notice that you are inviting yourself to their house and staying there for five nights and six days.

To recap, a month ago I was in the hospital and from a week before that until now I have been under doctor's orders to stay off my feet. I have kids, dogs and Husband, so things are pretty rough. Or at least they were. I have been cleaning my hiney off for the past 14 hours and I am tired, tired, tired.

I also had to rework tomorrow's schedule so I can clean, clean, clean some more. She will be staying in Crazy Boy's room, so I have a good three hours' work just in there.

Can I just say that I am missing Cheryl the super extreme cleaning woman like crazy this evening.

And speaking of Husband, he had a phone interview with a company in the Pacific Northwest today. He said it went "meh." I'm not writing it off at this point -- I once beat out a whole bunch of people for a job with an interview that caused me to beat my head against the wall when it was over. Besides, who asks nitpicky jeopardy-esque questions in an interview? Husband can hardly manage to get along with me most of the time, so I'm not sure the guy he interviewed with today sounds like a great fit for him.

Still we are down to 76 days. His department underwent a massive reorg that left him duplicated with somebody else. In 76 days, he will be redundant. I'm trying really hard not to think about this.

Add to this that his dick boss told him that he will tell anyone Husband interviews with at his company that they should have serious reservations about hiring him and we reach rather terrifying territory.

My new job just about covers the mortgage. Maybe unemployment will cover food? And Visa will just have to suck it up and deal?

Having my MIL here in the middle of all of this is rather horrible timing. And with that, I return to my cleaning.

The last sad post for a while... dammit

2011-07-17T09:11:00.003-04:00

This morning, my cat Gatsby was dead.

Gatsby was 18 years old -- he lived a long life by feline standards. He had long blond hair and a surfer-dude attitude. He liked to hunt for little garter snakes in the yard (in his younger days) and loved his short-haired blond sister, Daisy. He also loved food.

Last night, Husband mentioned that Gatsby did not seem to be doing well. Miss America and I petted and combed him and snuggled him for a long time until he wanted to go back to his bed. This morning, he had passed.

I'm thinking my luck needs to turn now. It's time.

Uncomfortably Numb

2011-07-15T19:40:00.004-04:00

This morning I had my first job interview in 15 years. All things considered, I think it went OK. It was for an entry-level clerical position with one of our local school districts.

This afternoon I had to take a bunch of clerical tests for the job. My goal was, at the time, to get the job and enroll Crazy Boy at a school specializing in kids with hearing and communication disorders. At the low low price of only $16,500 per year, I would just about cover the tuition with a school year's worth of work if I ate PB&J's every day for lunch. Dress code is casual, so wardrobe would not be a problem.

Crazy Boy's private therapists and pediatrician have been quietly urging me to find a way to send him to this school. At his age, critical brain development is still happening. It would have been a stretch, but with what I'd earn at the job and not spend in the time when I'd be working, it was doable for a year or two. The school is downtown near Husband's office and my hopefully new job. Trying to get him to and from would be a headache, but worth it.

I took the kids with me to my clerical testing, stopping beforehand at the mall for shoes and books for our upcoming vacation. We leave Wednesday for a week of working vacation for Husband and long-overdue family vacation for all of us. I made arrangements for Human Resources to reach me if needed while I was gone.

As we walked through the parking lot, my cell phone buzzed. It was Husband. I figured he was checking to see if we were doing anything with it being Friday and all.

He was calling to tell me that this afternoon his boss officially gave him 90 days to find another position within his company. At the end of 90 days, if he has found nothing else with his company, he will be let go. Terminated. Fired. Adios. No severance. No nuthin'.

I knew it was coming, dammit. It was like a low pressure system in the atmosphere. I could feel it.

Goodbye dreams of superb special education services for Crazy Boy. Goodbye dreams of school job where I can still be with my children in the afternoons and summers. Tonight I'm drinking Sangria and watching "Muriel's Wedding." Tomorrow I start looking for a real job. I don't see how I have a choice any more. I don't care whose fault it is or why it is happening -- somebody has to keep this family afloat, dammit. I think that somebody is me.

So when does it become home already?

2011-07-12T20:18:00.003-04:00

It has been a long summer for Crazy Boy and his mama.

I haven't blogged for a bit because I have been in the hospital. A small cut on my inner ankle developed a big infection, and I recently spent four days in the hospital with infectious disease specialists trying cocktails of antibiotics on my bod. Add to that the fact that morphine didn't cut the pain, and it adds up to a long four days.

If you're looking for a good time, this isn't it.

The $100 per pill option appears to be working, and I am home. I am supposed to be staying off of my feet and I have a walker. And two kids. And parents who came to "help" and nearly drove me insane (in fairness, only my father. He has a pathologic hatred of sharing my mother's attention and affection with anyone, especially their children).

Until November of 09, we lived in a ranch house in a neighborhood full of friendly, neighborly people. Now we live in the country in a house that has stairs and then stairs and then still more stairs. Stairs + walker + ouchie ankle = bad

This is my second hospitalization in less than a year. The stress of it all caused me to develop shingles right where my underwire meets my bod. Again, not a good time. My doctor felt it was an opportune time to discuss/ask just what the hell I am doing to destroy my immune system. I guess I am not managing the loneliness of moving to an area where newcomers aren't really accepted, the isolation of living waaaay out in the country, and my depression very well.

In case there was any doubt, Miss America and I were recently at the library. She pointed at a picture as we walked by it and said, "I always hate seeing this picture. It reminds me of you." It was that picture that is at the top of my post because I couldn't figure out how to move it down here.

That's how my 12-year-old sees me. Eeeek. And she wasn't talking about my hair. She went on to say, "You are such an awesome person -- you deserve so much more than you have." My daughter thinks I'm awesome! Dance of joy! When you have a 12-year-old daughter and she says you are awesome, it is better than Jake Ryan telling Sam that he thinks she is awesome. For real.

Poor Crazy Boy has not had anyone to play with except for Miss America and me this summer. He has made friends at speech camp, but the moms haven't bonded and we live all over the place. Thus, he has watched "Toy Story 3" about a gazillion times. He also has all of the toys and enjoys making the army guys shoot them dead. I'm trying not to be too troubled by this.

So Saturday, I made Husband take the two of us to a local park -- one we hadn't visited yet. There aren't really parks here -- not the kind there are back in Ann Arbor. We spent about 10 minutes, and Crazy Boy told me he wanted to go. It took him a bit to get me to understand, but I finally understood that he was asking to go to our old neighborhood park back in Michigan. It has been nearly 1/3 of his life since we were there, and he still misses it. Still finds photos of our old home and brings them to me, asking to go there.

He has such a sweet spirit for a little guy with so many challenges.

Last night, Miss America told me to turn quickly to see something on TV. Then she told me the number from our Michigan cable. It sounds ridiculous, but we aren't committed enough to life here to memorize the channel numbers on our cable.

I know I blame myself for everything, but I'm really blaming myself here. How do I make this home? This place where we have so few friends and such limited options to make them. Where there are not parks with sandboxes (and we have a sandbox at home -- he just wanted the ginormous one at the park) or a place to ride bikes. Where I already drive 125 miles a day just to get us where we need to go, let alone where we want to go.

It really feels like the moment we moved here we all just stopped living -- just gave up.

I want us to be happy -- all of us. But how do I do this? Miss America is having a sleepover tonight with her bff (and only f), who just got back from fundamentalist Christian camp and keeps calling to try and get Miss America to be a better Christian. Do I love this? No. Did I have the heart to tell Miss America (who has had an amazing swim season this summer but never says a word to her team-mates and never hears a word from them) "No" when she asked to sleep over? Nope.

I'm ready to start consulting my Magic 8 Ball. I don't know what else to do.

Putting plan in motion... slowly

2011-07-01T09:34:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, I had my first face-to-face job interview in a long time. It went well. The job was interesting. And then the manager told me the hours. I would have to pay for pre-school and after-school care for Crazy Boy. And the job pays $9 an hour. So not so interesting.

There are more options out there; I just have to track them down.

Last week, I had a small accident and cut my inner ankle. Last night, I spent seven hours in the Emergency Room because the small cut developed a big infection. I saw my doctor about it on Monday, and in spite of the antibiotics she gave me, it got progressively worse.

So now I'm back home under doctor's orders to stay off the foot. If the infection gets any worse, I will need to be admitted to the hospital. Murphy's Law being in place in my life (as per usual), our $6,000 health insurance deductible reset at midnight. Yes, there was method in my madness when I went to the ER yesterday.

As always, my little injury has been overshadowed by Husband's big drama.

His big project's deadline is today. He presents it to the VP at 11 this morning. Any prayers or good karma you'd like to send his way would be appreciated. Without bothering to go into detail, he has become an emotional mess over personality conflicts with a member of his team as he reached this deadline. To the point that his boss suggested he seek psychiatric help. Literally.

I have tried to point out that becoming an emotional mess at work to the point that your boss suggests counseling is not a good thing to do. That running to tell your few allies at work about what happened now is not a great idea.

But what the heck do I know?

This week included a huge disappointment. One of his former clients in Michigan was looking for a person who does what he does. A former headhunter of his called about the job on Friday. When the headhunter contacted the former client on Tuesday, he was told they were not interested in Husband.

My guess is that this was a purely political thing. The regime he worked with as a consultant had been fired/replaced, and the new regime probably didn't want anybody associated with them coming in.

Still... this was the other big company in his industry located in Michigan. There is no chance that we will be able to return.

When I finish writing this, I'll return to sending out resumes. I'll try really hard not to think about the fact that I am seriously ill at the moment and could not get Husband to just pick up the kids (we were at Miss America's swim practice when I decided to go to the ER) and bring them home on his way home so I didn't have to take them to the hospital with me. I will absolutely be functioning as a single working mother, and I'll have to plan accordingly.

Gotta get back to it.

Mantra

2011-06-22T19:58:00.000-04:00

Oh mighty mitten how I miss you...

Plan B

2011-06-21T21:47:00.007-04:00

I used to be a journalist. I enjoy writing, enjoy chasing a story, enjoy telling that story to others.

Until the birth of my daughter, Miss America, I worked first as a journalist and then as a public relations consultant. I learned that I am a terrible editor and should not pursue work in this field. I always planned to return to writing when my children were in school.

After a great deal of internal debate, I have decided to go back to work. Not some crappy part-time Mommy job but an actual job job.

And today Gannett laid off 700 people. At least 50 of these people used to work in my city. Many of them are young, talented, amazing writers and editors. I'm guessing that as I am writing this, they are applying for the few crummy communications jobs I was able to locate online today.

I'm thinking I need to find a Plan B.

In a return to a previous theme, things are not going well at the office for Husband. He called this evening to say he will be working all night and that we really have no choice but to look for another job in another city. From all he has told me about what was said at this afternoon's meeting, I can't help but agree with him.

The past job changes have involved signing bonuses, paid moving expenses, and generous severance packages. We had money in the bank. We were OK. This time, we most likely will have none of this.

I am literally sitting in my kitchen wondering what my furniture would draw in a consignment store, and if I could earn enough temping to pay my mortgage. I'm considering what I should try to sell on Ebay first.

And because I am sick beyond reason of this drama, I am also working aptitude tests to try and figure out what my Plan B career might be. There is no money for me to go back to school, so whatever I do will have to be something I can already do.

Here is the problem: Husband's field of occupation is a small one. Things have not gone well at several major players in his industry, and his reputation is not stellar. Our next move will most likely be a step down once again.

Which means I absolutely have to get a job just to keep us afloat. Time to get my panic attack under control and brush up the resume.

Blog as only therapy option in the modern world

2011-06-15T20:59:00.004-04:00

Our health insurance sucks. In two weeks, we begin a new year of deductible. Last year we met it because of Crazy Boy's surgery. This year, barring some unforeseen surgical or emergency situation, we won't.

I have been seeing a therapist, and she has been reasonably helpful. I have also been on antidepressant medication. My therapist felt that the antidepressant I was taking was exacerbating my anxiety, so I have gone off of it. I would have had to anyway after July 1, anyway.

This leaves alternative forms of depression treatment for me. I have been trying to exercise, but getting kids to camps and therapies while living here in the middle of nowhere has caused me to spend a minimum of seven hours in the car per day. I have no friends here to talk to; no relatives close-by.

So my blog is where I'm gonna say it all. Please be forewarned that this is becoming strictly therapeutic. Please feel free not to read it -- I do this just for me, anyway.

Things in my marriage have been about a C+ lately. I am currently physically and financially unable to leave, so I am staying. (initially, the previous sentence had a typo in it making it read, "I am straying." LOL). I am stuck. I am one of those stupid, pitiful women who gave up her career and financial stability when she had children, believing in the future of her relationship. Believe me, I have set Miss America straight on this one. We attended husband's cousin's wedding this past weekend, and she was all, "I can't wait to get married." I set her straight on that one, too.

This evening, Husband flew to a distant city for meetings. He will be gone until Sunday night. He called me from the airport, nearly giddy at the prospect of being away from us. Last night, I asked if he didn't want to spend a little time with the kids since he hadn't all week. He did not. He also didn't tell them "goodbye" when he left for work today. I told them he was leaving after work for the airport and would be gone for the next five days. I don't think they cared.

Yes, this is my family. Just what I dreamed of.

When he called from the airport, I told him that Crazy Boy had poured chocolate syrup over himself (the expensive Hershey's kind) while standing in the middle of the living room floor. I was swapping one load of laundry for another while this was happening. Anyway, I told him I was in the middle of trying to deal with this unholy mess. He asked what the score of the hockey game was.

Sunday night he will do what he always does after these trips; he'll wheel his suitcase three feet inside the front door where it will stay until I unpack it, he'll announce that flying first class for the past three hours has left him exhausted, and he'll fall asleep on the couch immediately.

There are times when I wonder if he has something going with one of the people at these meetings. It's not like he has anything going with me. We have not had a physical relationship in years. While slow dancing at the wedding, he was all over me -- had to show the family and all that we are just one happy couple. That's the first and last time that's happened in a while.

It's funny -- when there are witnesses -- he will help with housework and be physically demonstrative. When there are not witnesses, it doesn't happen. My sister says she finds this more irritating because it proves he knows what he should be doing and he chooses not to.

As always, she is right.

The thing I hate the most is that Miss America tells me nearly daily that she is sorry that my life sucks. I really hate it that my 12-year-old daughter perceives me as such a loser. I left my career in order to parent her the way I wanted to (Husband agreed to this -- I didn't spring it on him). I don't know if all men lose complete respect for their wives when they stop bringing in a paycheck, but what little mine had for me evaporated with my career.

A good friend of mine just had her second baby. She wrote on FB that her husband volunteered to get up with the baby overnight so she could sleep. I am so happy for her; I can't imagine a life like that. I want that life for my daughter, and I don't know what to do to help her achieve this.

The rational part of me looks at this past week of my life, which we spent with my in-laws, and understands perfectly why Husband is the way he is. If my FIL spoke to/interacted with either of my children once during the week, I wasn't there to see it. However, he volunteers at my niece and nephew's school, demonstrating what a great guy he is for all to see. They even call him "Grandpa" there. And when my other SIL asked my inlaws for help with her daughter for a week during the school year, she was told that it would not be possible because of his commitment to the kids at the school (where my niece and nephew are not even attending school this fall).

This is the same man who golfed 18 holes with the male members of the family on Friday afternoon (minus cart) but parked in the one handicapped spot at the restaurant Friday night (he has a hang-tag because of a back problem)... don't get me started on these people. They make sure they are seen at Mass each and every Sunday and have no scruples about lying to or cheating anybody.

I understand how Husband could grow up having no comprehension of how to be a father -- it doesn't make living like this hurt any less, however.

In a favorite movie of mine, a character starting a new job stands in front of the mirror whispering, "Don't screw it up... Don't screw it up... Don't screw it up..." I have failed miserably in this area -- in all areas. I would never, ever leave my children, but I'm beginning to understand how people just walk away from their lives. There are times it is pretty damned tempting.

Lovin' my little perfectionist

2011-06-06T09:40:00.003-04:00

Miss America swam in a big meet over the weekend -- by far, the biggest meet she's ever done. Plus, she swam a 200 free, which she's never swum in competition before. You might say that my Miss America is kind of a perfectionist. She had one B+ on her report card this year, and she brought it to me weeping and apologizing.

Anyhow, the swim meet. Because we are new to this club, Miss America doesn't have reported times yet. As a result, she didn't swim in heats with other girls of her ability. Her very first race was against much, much faster swimmers, and she wasn't happy about it. However, that 200 free was the elephant who was not in the corner, but sitting on our backs through both days of the meet and her first seven events.

I walked her over to the blocks for her 200, she all the while insisting that I tell the coaches that she was sick and couldn't do it. She told me that she could not swim that far, and that she was afraid she'd drown. I told her that if that happened, I would personally jump in and pull her out.

You may have heard her reaction emanating from the pool area. It was, "MOOOOM! OH MY GOD! YOU WOULD TOTALLY EMBARRASS ME! NOOOOOOOO!"

Death before embarrassment. We are officially in adolescence.

She told me that she didn't want to be that girl who was miles behind everybody else and finished minutes behind everybody else. I get that.

When we reached the blocks, the other 11 and 12 year old girls were lining up. In the lane next to Miss America was a young lady who made me wonder if Miss America's worst fear might come true. She had amazing, well-defined muscles. She was stretching like an Olympic gymnast. She looked like one of those African women who win marathons. And... she had the same event number written on her leg that Miss American had written on hers.

The announcer called for the swimmers, Miss America stepped up on her block, and... a different young lady stepped ahead of the stretching one and prepared to dive.

Miss America did fine. One of her team-mates was the girl who was a full pool-length behind when the race was over. My Miss America was in the middle of the pack. On the way home, I looked the other swimmer up on the heat sheet and found that she has the fastest time of all of the competitors in this event.

I so wish my girl could view the world in a way other than, "It's perfect or it sucks." Husband and I both grew up with so much pressure to succeed academically that we swore we'd never put that kind of pressure on our kids, and we meant it. Miss America piles it all on herself. However, I might be guilty of modeling a bit of perfectionism...

Her swim friend Cate's family was sitting next to us. Cate swam an event, swam a personal best of three seconds faster, and was disqualified for an infraction. She informed her mother of this with a shrug and an "oh well, now I know I can swim that fast for next time." Miss America would have been looking for something tall to throw herself from. I can't imagine Miss America ever reaching this kind of zen acceptance. It would be nice if she could, though. Then maybe she could teach me how to do it.

Asking a question

2011-06-02T22:51:00.002-04:00

I have a Facebook friend who is an animal rescue friend and not an actual person-I-know friend.

Tonight she linked to a Fox news post about how a school district in Texas is not allowing prayer at graduation this year. She commented that she is so glad to live in her little town in Georgia where they still "Praise the Lord and Salute the Flag."

And so I sent her a comment. I told her that I understand wanting to include prayer in her life because I include it in mine. However, at a public event, in the name of including everybody (theoretically, we do that in America), we might include an Imam saying a prayer to Allah. Would she be OK with that, also?

I'll be interested to see what she says, or if she just defriends me.

I'm really tired of our country being this place where I am on this side and you are on that side and we don't really discuss it, we just yell about it.

And so I asked. I'm curious to see where it goes (if anywhere).

Apraxia Exhibit A

2011-05-31T20:47:00.006-04:00

My son Crazy Boy has Severe Childhood Apraxia of Speech. I love this ad because it shows somebody going through what he and I go through over and over and over again:

Ally Ad

I can't imagine what it must be like to do your damnedest to express yourself, only to have everybody around you have to guess at what you are trying to say. It's clear to him, and as clear as mud to the rest of us.

Crazy Boy has come a long way since he began speech therapy at two years with only the words "Mama" and "that" to get him by. Still, he only learned to say his name about a month ago, and he is six and a half now. Daddy comes out as, "Daaee." Sissy comes out as, "DeeDee." We have a tri-syllabic last name -- Husband recently quipped that if the legalities wouldn't be a pain, he'd actually consider having Crazy Boy return to his three letter Korean family name.

Tomorrow is the first official day of summer vacation. Miss America has morphed into a fully-adolescent Sybil-like creature of many moods in many minutes. Poor Crazy Boy often takes the brunt of this, in spite of his sweet nature. In fact, yesterday afternoon I got mad at and grounded Miss America for being mean to her brother; Crazy Boy insisted that I apologize to his sister for getting mad at her and return her confiscated computer.

I walk a very fine line with my sweet Crazy Boy, as I have to insist that he try and speak clearly while trying not to cause him so much frustration that he breaks into tears and refuses to speak at all. I have to remind myself not to speak for him when adults try to converse with the beautiful little boy with the big smile. Most of all, I have to do these things because my Crazy Boy has become very critical of himself and his abilities. Tonight he broke down and told me he isn't smart and that I have to help him because he isn't smart.

It is very hard to know what my beautiful boy knows, but I know that he knows a lot (and that's not just Mama speaking). It is so easy to want to do everything for him, to just pick up the damned Legos when he pitches a fit about picking them up or to not make him erase and try again when his letters are illegible. However, my Crazy Boy deserves better.

Lately, I've been grappling with some regrets about letting my career go when Miss America was born a dozen years ago. Back in Ann Arbor, I had friends who were Harvard-educated physicians and former executives who had chosen to leave their careers and stay home with their children. I had a group of women who saw stay at home motherhood as a viable choice for an important thing to do. I don't have those women here, and nearly two years into being here, I am still dealing with incredible isolation and loneliness.

And, I've recently been in contact with friends from long ago who have done some pretty amazing things with their careers. My contribution to those conversations has been, "Well, I drive a minivan for a minimum of five hours a day and am battling mightily to keep my brilliant daughter from speaking like a redneck."

Having a child with special needs presents its own brand of loneliness that you can't really explain until you've tried it. Crazy Boy is repeating kindergarten next year. It's a good thing for him and a decision that his teachers, therapists, Husband and I all reached on our own and rapidly agreed to at his IEP meeting.

Still, I had a little rush of jealousy when I saw the other parents taking their kindergartners on their first grade classroom tours and I get wistful sometimes when I'm up at school and hear Crazy Boy's classmates telling their parents about school or friends. Crazy Boy still can't tell me what he ate for lunch or the names of his friends.

Ultimately, I know that I need to believe that parenting him here is as worthy an occupation as it was back home in Michigan, and he and I have to maintain a belief in each other to make it all work. I can't doubt myself. Husband worries about him -- I need to be the one with the unswerving faith. It isn't that Husband doesn't want him to succeed, but Husband gets frightened when Crazy Boy struggles. Miss America is Husband's clone -- Husband can no more understand how to help Crazy Boy than he could speak a dead language fluently.

Lately, I've been spending my five hours in my minivan swirling things around in my brain and trying to make sense of it all. Crazy Boy needs more therapies than our insurance will pay for. Husband's job still isn't going well, and he hasn't received a raise since he started here two years ago at a giant paycut from his previous job. Gas costs more. Food costs more. It all just costs more. His therapists all agree that time spent with a specialized occupational therapist this summer at the low low price of only $500 a month would be very beneficial for him. If I'm working, I can make the money for the therapy and will have no way to get him there. Spending all summer at a daycare will send him flying backward. And it's not as if anyone is beating down my door to hire me.

And speaking of the small boy, he has now gone as long as he is willing to go without my attention. This is something he is very capable of communicating very clearly.

Today I am grouchy

2011-05-30T15:30:00.002-04:00

Dear too many people I've come into contact with lately,

They are children. They are not fashion accessories. They are not puppets. They are not figurines. They do like to move and they do have feelings. Please behave accordingly.

Thank you for your time,

Dibs

Irrational immaturity

2011-05-18T20:59:00.006-04:00

I seem to recall a commandment against coveting a neighbor's spouse or ass (sometimes one and the same) or house or whatever.

I am soooo breaking this tonight, and it is just stupid. I am trying the old, "Write it down and then it will leave my brain," approach.

There is this woman in my church book group, call her Tess. To say Tess is nice is to say that the sun is a little warm. She is an amazingly kind, friendly woman (in a good, not chirpy, kind of way).

Our book group spends a little time talking about the book and a lot of time talking about kids, husbands, schools, shopping and kids. It's sort of like group therapy, and there is a wide-enough variety of ages and (former) professions that somebody has words of wisdom and experience on any topic imaginable.

Anyhow, during the course of the year, I have learned that Tess and her husband have adopted a child from overseas, just like us. Her degree is the same as mine. And, her husband has the same weird profession that my husband has.

And... the similarities end there.

Recently, Tess has been going through conflict because of her husband's job. His company is transferring a large number of employees including her husband. They liked their potential new city about C+. So, a former colleague of his got his employer to offer her husband a new wonder job. This caused the C+ city company to offer him a bigger wonder job.

Tess explained to the group (in a very humble way, naturally), that her husband just gets along so fabulously at work that his career is on some kind of meteoric course. After much prayer, visiting, wining, dining and the rest, he chose to go to the new company in an A+ location.

The next hurdle was selling the house -- Tess's husband is just so fabulous with the kids that she couldn't imagine living a moment apart. Tonight Tess posted on FB that their house sold in 36 hours -- full price offer.

It is wrong for me to feel like a loser by association just because I know this woman... but I do. She is a perfectly lovely woman who deserves to have a perfectly lovely life. Just seeing so vividly how my life could have been kind of makes my life seem like it sucks more than usual tonight.

Which is whiny and wrong because there are people with way bigger problems than mine. Even though my Beagle did barf in my new shoe this evening while I was wearing said shoe. This would never, ever happen to Tess.

little gripe

2011-05-11T17:08:00.000-04:00

Lately, Miss America has been totally into Japanese manga. She has a soundtrack from an anime she loves and she listens to it 24/7. Listening to a 12-year-old crooning cheesy Japanese pop (that she learned phonetically) over and over and over and over and over and over is about as much fun as you'd guess it would be.

Just sayin'.

Lessons for my daughter

2011-04-25T10:54:00.002-04:00

My parents were here for Easter. All things considered, it was a good visit.

Growing up, I was not supposed to have feelings of my own. Hurting my father's feelings was something worse than treason in my house, and my father's feelings are hurt by the sun rising in the East.

I, on the other hand, was expected to have no feelings. Being called "fat" in front of a roomfull of relatives was supposed to be helpful somehow.

But this is not where I'm going today. I am what I am -- a woman whose life struggles include believing and acting that having her own feelings is acceptable. Being used to not feeling entitled to my own feelings led me into a marriage where I am not expected to have my own feelings. So I'm dealing with this as well.

My mother lives to take pictures. These are her proof that we are one rip-roaring hap-hap-happy family. At church on Easter, Husband made a comment to me that somehow I wasn't supposed to find offensive. Nevertheless, it made me cry, dammit. So I moved to the other end of the pew and sat by my parents and cried through Easter, dammit.

After church, Miss America was being grouchy, Husband was telling me I was being ridiculous for reacting the way I did, and my mother pops up with her point-and-click camera and chirps, "Last year you took such nice Easter pictures. Over there on the steps would be a great place for a photo. Where's Crazy Boy?"

She was not trying to break up the fight; she wanted her pictures and she wanted them now. Anything going on with us could just suck it up and deal. Never mind her daughter was crying in church, never mind her son-in-law was being a butthead, never mind her granddaughter was going through this thing where she doesn't want her picture taken and feels ugly -- the bottom line is, if there is a photo showing us all smiling on the steps of church at Easter, then the rest of it just didn't happen.

Miss America told my mother that she is not feeling attractive right now and doesn't want her picture taken. She said it very nicely. My mother told her that since we now live so far away, those pictures are just so important to her and she wants them anyway.

We went from church to a restaurant where my mother had her camera at the ready. She and my father thought it was hilarious to point the camera at Miss America and watch her duck and get mad. They always thought that shit was funny when my sister, Refried, and I were kids, too. Finally, my father said to Miss America, "HEY. Your grandmother wants a picture. Cooperate."

So I said to him, "She told Mother very nicely that she is uncomfortable having her picture taken." And he got mad at me. Nothing new there.

Fortunately, Husband and I do listen when Miss America tells us that things make her uncomfortable, unhappy, whatever, and we try to accommodate when we can (when she tells us she doesn't want to sleep/doesn't want to get off the phone/doesn't want to go to school, we tell her to suck it up and deal). I do my best to cut through the crap with my parents and at least express that I'd like them to listen to her. They will never acknowledge either of our rights to feelings or (gasp!) to express them, but I'm trying.

Dammit, I'm trying. And, maybe, my girl is catching on that she matters. Her feelings matter. She is important. If she becomes a woman knowing nothing else, I hope she knows that.

More things I do not like

2011-04-20T16:17:00.002-04:00

I do not like being called a "Fucking ungrateful bitch" in front of my children.

Now we are in the penitent period of things, the going to change and be better period of things, the "I don't know why I do the things I do" period of things.

I have reached the point where I am tired of all of it. I need to rebuild my life -- there is no way I can go now. I have, however, reached the point where I really want to go. After years of going to bed thinking, "One less day I have to be in this relationship," I have really reached the end.

Spring Break -- Woot!.

2011-03-26T09:35:00.003-04:00

Sarcasm.

The kiddos and I made the trek up to Ohio to visit my parents for a couple of days -- this was Spring Break for us.

My parents are people who can take absolute any situation (including Disney World -- I've seen them do it) and wring and destroy all of the joy from it.

I don't know if I'll explain this well -- it is hard to understand it unless you have lived it. First, in case it isn't obvious by now, my parents are control freaks times infinity. They also are people who believe they are the only people on the planet who are right about everything. I have honestly never heard my mother admit to being wrong about something and she would never, ever dream of apologizing (except to my father) about anything.

(on an aside that has no bearing here -- she and I got into it over politics while I was there which was supremely stupid on my part -- I know full-well I am not entitled to hold an opinion that differs from theirs, and they disagree about nothing. The highlight of this discussion was when she told me that "Jimmy Carter was a simpleton, and Sarah Palin is definitely better looking than he is." Well.. there ya' go.)

So spending Spring Break with them was like spending it being pinned to the dry earth by a ten-ton boulder.

We went shopping while we were there, and they bought Crazy Boy a toy -- a cool toy (that I picked out) that is a guy from one of his favorite kids' movies. It is a fairly indestructible toy made from a full-pound of plastic and it makes sounds and is made to be played with enthusiastically... my parents don't do enthusiastically.

So Crazy Boy was playing with his toy, and my father did the thing he does where he crouched down in front of him, stuck his face in Crazy Boy's, and seriously explained that he didn't want Crazy Boy dropping his toy on the ground any more -- that they had spent their precious money on this toy that could easily break on the floor and that he should just gently play with it on the kitchen table.

Look in Webster's under "buzzkill," and there you go.

I have thought so many times since adopting Crazy Boy that it is an extreme blessing for everybody involved that my parents didn't have a boy child.

On that same shopping trip, I bought a bag of donut holes from my favorite bakery. Crazy Boy just loves those donuts -- they were his favorite treat back in Michigan. I walked out of the kitchen with the donuts on the table and came back a second later to find them... on top of the refrigerator. I asked what they were doing there and my parents explained that Crazy Boy had had a couple of donut holes, wanted another one, and so they put them on top of the fridge.

I explained that we were having what was passing for a spring break vacation, and if my kid wanted another goddamned donut, that was fine with me. My father's jaw literally dropped, he gave me his best "I'm so disappointed in you yet again" look, and he made some comment about my child's health. Because Crazy Boy, who is in the 12th percentile for weight, might eat an extra donut on vacation.

Anybody wonder why I hate the holidays?

The Answer

2011-03-07T19:46:00.002-05:00

So the Indy folks interviewed a bunch of people and made an offer to... no one. Looks like we are staying put. I think this is a good thing.

Trying to work out my feelings

2011-03-01T16:37:00.003-05:00

This post may make absolutely no sense -- sorry.

Tomorrow Husband interviews for a new job. Things at the current job are OK -- just OK but that's OK -- with me, anyway. This interview has been set up for a month now -- this is the earliest everybody can get together. So for a month it has been a little hum at the back of my brain. Everything I've done, said and felt has included this as a subtext. However, I've told absolutely no one about it (except you, Sis).

And, in a lot of ways, it would be a very, very, very good thing. It is in a larger city about two hours away from us -- two hours closer to family and old friends. There are more opportunities in this city -- I could do music again, find a job, better Arts, real live liberals, all of that. We could move into a neighborhood with sidewalks and neighbors -- that could be good. I might find better services for Crazy Boy (although we have good services for him here). Nobody would wake me up at 6 a.m. on a Sunday shooting at who-knows-what.

And then I think about what we have here. What I have bitched about on here ad nauseam for the past 18 months. The kids finally have friends. We have a church we like. School is going well. I might actually have a friend or two. We are reasonably settled in our house. I have started applying for jobs I might want, and the childcare situation (for after school) is good. We can try and get our finances together.

Not all bad.

Moving will cost us a bundle. Trying to sell this house will be a hassle. All of the other houses we looked at when we moved here are still on the market -- nothing is moving.

There is part of me that wishes Husband would just stay put for the next six years until the housing market improves, Miss America graduates, and our finances are back on solid ground.

And then I consider that in six years he will be 52 years old. In the world of job hunting, 46 is seriously different than 52. Plus, six years is a long time. Is it really fair of me to ask him to be patient in a situation he feels is a dead end?

And then there is the little issue of, nobody has made him an offer yet. He might hate these people. They might hate him. It has happened before -- it could happen again.

I try to live it day-by-day -- I really do. I think so much of this goes to the way I grew up which was, "move, be miserable the first year, get settled, find out we are moving, be miserable about that, move, rinse, repeat." I just want to stay put.

And then I think, this job is a tremendous opportunity for Husband (if he gets it). This city holds real opportunities for all of us. Would the short term pain be worth the long term gain? Is my just wanting to stay put reason enough to stay put? (if we have to make this decision)

I don't know.

A new chapter

2011-02-24T20:56:00.003-05:00

Miss America will be 12 in April -- I hadn't expected this just yet.

She has decided I am a complete idiot and am useless to her. It is like somebody threw a switch and suddenly this is the situation. The past few days have been pretty acrimonious.

It kind of sucks.

Taking care

2011-02-18T10:19:00.001-05:00

So I think I need to find somebody to help me tweak my meds. Whenever I get into glass-is-half-empty-and-contains-toxic-waste mode, I know it is that time again.

Having the flu for the past 14 days isn't doing much for my state of mind, either.

Miss America talked to a counselor every other week for a while, but decided she didn't want to go any more. Apparently, her great stressor is that I don't take good enough care of myself and she worries about me. I so don't want my 11 year old daughter worrying about me.

A long time ago, my Danish ancestors got on a boat and came here. They left it all behind and started over. Doesn't that sound so great? I look around at the crap in my house and the commitments we have and I think that just sounds terrific. Completely unrealistic, but fabulous all the same.

Ultimately, I do need to find a better way to take care of myself and to raise her comfort level that I'm OK. Not sure how I'm gonna do that, but I will figure it out.

Really??? Was that necessary?

2011-02-08T16:05:00.008-05:00

For those of you who have suffered along with my tales of job loss and redemption on here, you will remember a psycho boss in Atlanta. Let's call her JoAnn.

JoAnn's main purpose in life is clawing every bit of money and power for herself within their company and stomping on anyone who gets in her way. She is horrible to everyone in their Atlanta office, and either you kowtow to her or she makes your life so miserable that you leave.

We have not missed her in the two years she has been away from us.

When Husband's headhunter hooked him up with a company we'll call Bonne, Husband knew they were JoAnn's biggest client. The company told him they were looking to hire someone to do the consultant's work internally so they could turf the consultant.

Husband actually told them he wasn't interested. He wasn't interested in the city, he said. They proposed an office in a different city. He didn't think their company was a good fit for his interests, he said. Give us a chance, they said.

So, fine, Husband was scheduled to fly in and meet with them next week.

This morning, headhunter got a call from Bonne telling him that an internal reference had blackballed Husband and that they were no longer interested in speaking with him.

JoAnn is back in our lives. There is not another living soul either of us knows who is connected to Bonne in any way.

I am proud of the way Husband reacted. It helps that this really wasn't his dream job or his dream city. But, still, was that absolutely necessary? Yes, the two of them had personality conflicts. Husband could unintentionally have a personality conflict with a potted plant. After having him in my life for nearly 30 years, I know this better than anyone.

His conclusion (and I agree) is that JoAnn either wants the job for herself or she is clinging to her biggest client in the hopes that they won't find another applicant (in this job market, fat chance).

Still, they haven't spoken in two years. She didn't know if he desperately needed work, if his company was laying people off, if we needed to get to that other city for some reason or what. She just decided that she had the opportunity to be the c-word and she took it (sorry, I really hate that word, but it is really the only one that will do in this situation).

OK, karma. Do your stuff. I just want her eradicated from our lives. I really don't care if it happens in a good or a bad way. I feel like I'm living in a 19th century French novel. Doesn't she have anybody else to bug?

What a pain.

Breathing, breathing

2011-02-02T20:04:00.003-05:00

OK, freaking out. Looking at my house that I'm still not moved into that currently has twice as much stuff as will fit in it and I am having a little trouble breathing. How am I EVER going to do this by myself?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

I need to find a career and start working. Once we get to our next destination. If I'm not dead.

Postscript to job drama

2011-02-02T12:53:00.003-05:00

It has been a week now since the tempest in a teacup at Husband's job. In the course of it all, his direct boss advised him to start looking for another job. Not because Husband might lose this job, but because of the whole situation there he may have hit the ceiling.

And so the search has begun. He is scheduled to fly to two different cities to meet with two different companies in the next couple of weeks. One of them is Atlanta. God has a sense of irony, I tell you.

I may have mentioned on here that I attended 10 schools K-12. I don't recommend it. Miss America has finally settled in here... this whole scenario is way too familiar and I don't like it one bit.

Husband and I had a very long discussion about this whole situation and I told him I would do this one more time. We can move now, or we can move later, but Miss America has to change schools one more time and that is IT.

In the midst of it all, we received this chirpy e-mail from Husband's sister about her husband's grand new promotion. And we are happy for him -- he is a good guy. It just was not the best timing. Not that she would know -- we tend to share information with our parents/his siblings on a need-to-know basis. (hi Sis)

Selling this house will be a challenge. Last time (14 months ago) I had my parents and my sister nearby, Cheryl the cleaning lady, Mike the handyman, Mike-next-door the electrician, and a gazillion good friends and neighbors to bail me out.

Here I have... um... nobody. Oh, there are people from school and church I could call on in the event of fire, flood or pestilence, but nobody here in my corner.

And so, dear bloggies, holding my hand will fall to you. It's always something...

The hazards of Sunday School

2011-01-31T10:47:00.004-05:00

Yesterday morning in Sunday School, Crazy Boy's class made lambs out of black construction paper and cotton balls. They glued the cotton balls on the pre-printed lambs and brought them home. They were cute.

My children expect me to lovingly keep every scrap of paper they ever have handled and are annoyed if they see me treating a math worksheet as anything less than gold. I put the lamb picture on my dashboard so it would not wrinkle, get coffee spilled on it, blow away, etc etc etc.

This morning I had a doctor's appointment at 6:50. Yes, a.m. It was dark and windy and cold when I drove there. As I turned into the parking lot of the office, a flash of light struck my dashboard and I thought I saw a white dog run across the lot. I slammed on my brakes, nearly spilling coffee on myself, only to find that it was not a dog, but the reflection of the lamb on my windshield.

Silly me.

My view for the evening

2011-01-29T22:38:00.003-05:00

My father hates my politics. That's OK -- I hate his, too. The difference is, it supremely hacks him off that he can't get me to change my mind. I don't want anybody trying to change my mind, so I have the respect for others that I won't try to change theirs.

He sent me this horrible, racist, evil e-mail about Muslims. Not the first one I've received from him, but by far the worst.

I'm supposed to pass it along so Americans can all see how evil all Muslims are and hate them.

I don't see how hating each other is going to fix anything. I don't see how fearing each other is going to fix anything. I just don't get it.

And so, this is my belief statement: hating and fearing people just because of what they look like or how they worship God is WRONG.

My politics disappoint my parents. Boo hoo. I am disappointed that they are not more outraged by the actions of the KKK, neo-nazis, and other white supremacist assholes. I am disappointed that they are choosing to be hateful and ugly. My neighbor Mohammed in A2 was one of the very best neighbors a person could hope for. They know this, and it means nothing to them.

And so, I am angry at their ignorance, and I am telling the world. Or, at least, I am telling the blogosphere.

The rest of the story...

2011-01-27T19:09:00.004-05:00

and so Husband and V and J met this afternoon.

(the cast -- J is big boss, V is direct boss, N is trusted team member)

J was impressed with what they had done. J was perfectly happy.

If I weren't still shaking, I would track N down and run him over with my minivan.

Here's how it happened...

J took N to lunch yesterday for some kind of team building thing. N told J of his concerns about the direction the team was going, and about Husband's team leadership. J expressed concern over his concern.

N returned from lunch and told V that J was unhappy with the way things were going. He told Husband that J was extremely unhappy about the way things were going and with Husband's performance.

Husband and V listened to N... and Husband put in a 24-hour workday assembling a presentation to try and save his job that was never in jeopardy.

N told Husband and V that J had approached all of them for input when N actually started complaining at lunch. J never talked to the rest of the team and never approached anybody about anything -- N made it all up.

And so it sucks for Husband that the person he relied on most on his team turned out to be a backstabbing drama queen, but at least he now knows it. It was like a retelling of Othello recasting the roles with math nerds.

Thanks for holding my hand through my drama. It gave me the wakeup call I needed to get a few things in order around here... just in case.

WTF?

2011-01-27T13:04:00.003-05:00

You know how it feels when you are flying along at a comfortable altitude, and then the plane suddenly drops what feels like a long way and your stomach stays where it was and your plastic cup of Sprite ends up on your lap?

That's where I am today.

Last night at 8:30, Husband picked up his BlackBerry and started yelling. Then he grabbed his coat, announced that he needed to work all night, and went out into the dark.

Sixteen hours later, we know most of what we will know, and it is not pretty. It is terrifying.

Husband has a boss, "V," and a big boss, "J." V is good. J is not. Husband is a project manager and has about five people working on the project with/for him. "N" is his right-hand person.

V e-mailed Husband last night with the corporate version of, "Houston, we have a problem."

It seems that J is not happy with the work Husband has done on the project, in spite of the 80 hour weeks and all the rest of it. J did not tell Husband this in his status meetings. J did not tell V in their status meetings.

No... J went to the five people working for Husband and told them that he is not happy with Husband and wanted to know what they are unhappy about, too.

He let V know about this at 8:30 last night, and is meeting with Husband at 4 this afternoon. From what N has told Husband, we may not have a job this weekend.

Scared? Scared doesn't even begin to touch it. Angry? You bet. I want to sell everything we own and move to lower Mongolia and raise yaks. I hate this so much. Things were going well for us, and he thought things were going well at his job. I mean, if your big boss is telling you things are good, who are you to doubt it?

Bastard.

New Direction

2011-01-26T12:02:00.009-05:00

Last time, I wrote about my new therapist. Once I leave her a voicemail this afternoon, we'll call her my "former new therapist."

I'm getting out of the therapy biz, and it is for the better. It's time.

I'm sure Therapist is a perfectly good therapist. Just not for me. Her daughter goes to Crazy Boy's school. When I met her last week, I asked if she had gone to the honors assembly earlier that week. CB got an award for "Improvement" in the second nine weeks, and he was proud. I videotaped it for the grandparents.

She told me, "No," she hadn't gone because (insert self-deprecating giggle here) "I would have had to get up early to go."

I tend to set outrageously high standards for myself when it comes to parenting (more about this in a bit). I have friends whose standards are much higher than mine (homemade organic baby food made only on kosher-clean cooking utensils, anyone?)

Still, if my little boy is getting an award at 8 a.m. at school, I will damned well be there.

And then there was the book. Therapist talked to me for 90 minutes and told me about a book that I had to get and read because it described me and all my problems. OK. So I got and read the book. And, yep, I can see some of myself in there. And then not so much. The second half of the book advised always putting yourself first, kicking anyone who gets in your way to the curb, and being in a way that does not really fit with who I am.

So Therapist is getting kicked to the curb.

It's not really about her, so much, as the way I want to live my life from now on. I live in the country now and drive the kids everywhere. Two days a week I go down to the city, where I get my fix of hanging out with liberal city dwellers in liberal city places. I drive more than 500 miles a week. Even with books on CD, I have a lot of time to think. I've also had time to talk to my sister on my cell phone. She is very wise. Thanks, Refried.

And here's what I've come up with (and this is not new information to anyone but me). I don't have much to complain about. OK, so I wish Husband didn't leave his ties all over the damned house. And I don't really like living in the country. It's beautiful here and there are horses and a stream across the road, so I should. I miss neighbors. Although I had neighbors in A2 who drove me up a wall. So... maybe I could like living here in the country in a house we can afford that has heat and plumbing and all that.

Further, if we lived in the city, my kids would most likely be bused. Right now, my kids are both thriving in excellent schools. Even the dreaded English teacher is making an effort with Miss America, and MA is responding in kind.

I have been doing a lot of volunteering at the kids' schools, and have met some women I really like. Have I mentioned that I live in Pine Valley (of All My Children fame)? I do. There are about 10 families who settled our town and named the roads. Their descendants make up at least 75% of the population. Husband and I call them "the road namers." As in, "Crazy Boy's new occupational therapist is a road namer."

The road namers at Miss America's old elementary school were pretty standoffish, but the ones at Crazy Boy's are nice. And they crack me up. We were at an event planning meeting on Monday night, and people kept saying stuff like, "I can ask my MawMaw and PeePaw if they can get that from their neighbor's store," and "Oh, you remember her... she is married to one of those Douglas boys... the ones who stole the school mascot back in 1993."

Do I miss Ann Arbor? God, yes. Is there any way we can go back there now? Not a chance.

Telling a therapist about it isn't going to transport me there. I need to make a life for myself here and stop talking about it.

Beyond this, I have to believe in my little heart of hearts that I do contribute something of value to our family, even if it is not money. I need to stop feeling guilty about not bringing in money. I need to start valuing myself more.

My parents are both professional musicians and off-the-charts perfectionists. Our family crest should read, "If you can't do it perfectly, don't do it at all." It wasn't until I was an adult that I learned that other people do stuff (like make music) just for fun. What a concept!

I still struggle with this -- the notion that if it is not perfect, it is hopelessly flawed -- whatever it may be. Up until this point, I have viewed my life as being hopelessly flawed, and I don't want to do that any more.

And so I am going to stop. Welcome to my new journey.

Time flies

2011-01-10T21:12:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was a baptism at church. We Episcopalians don't have many baptisms through the year, so it is kind of a big deal when it happens. Being the sentimental girl I am, it made me think back...

Miss America was baptized on Pentecost when she was just a few weeks old. She wore my little white dress from my baptism and slept through the whole thing. Afterward, at our house, she wanted to nurse and take a nap. My mother wanted a photo of her while she was still awake, so I have a wonderful photo of Miss America bright red and screaming with fists flailing, kicking her tiny, frilly feet because my mother insisted on scheduling photos her way.

Some things are as predictable as the tides...

Nearly twelve years have passed since then. I sat there in church next to Miss America, no longer in a frilly dress but in Ugg boots with chipped black nail polish and thought there wasn't much resembling the tiny girl in the white dress. Oh, the red rosebud mouth is still there and the tiny, turned-up nose. The ability to become furious at my mother over picture taking, well, we already covered that.

How did that tiny girl turn into surly girl who rolled her eyes skyward when I insisted she spit out her gum before taking communion? And how did it happen so darned fast?

Maybe that should be the resolution I really stick to -- making each day count. I can't believe how fast my children are growing up.

Thoughts for the big day

2011-01-09T06:23:00.005-05:00

Today is Crazy Boy's sixth birthday!

Yesterday he got his big present from us -- a goldfish he named Dorothy. Husband and Miss America set up the little aquarium in Crazy Boy's room, and Dorothy remained in her plastic bag while the water settled to the right temperature.

Crazy Boy hopped into bed with me last night with Dorothy in her plastic bag along for the night. He had been pushing her in her plastic bag in his little stroller (I just love love love this boy). Dorothy and her bag were in a felt Easter basket on my bedside table.

Fortunately, motherhood has taken away my former ability to sleep through anything.

I awoke very early this morning to hear Gertie kitten trying to break into Dorothy's plastic bag, and discovered water dripping through the felt Easter basket.

So, ready or not, Dorothy is now in her little aquarium. She had about two inches of water left in her plastic bag, so it wasn't an option to just pour her into another container.

It would have been a birthday tragedy. Bad kitty.

Happy birthday to my sweet boy. My funny, loving, kind, goofy, wonderful boy.

Crazy Boy spent his first birthday, a very important day in Korea, with his foster family. Dol is a tradition celebrating the day, blessing the child with a prosperous future. The birthday baby is presented with several objects and is encouraged to pick one up. If he selects a book, he will be a scholar; if she selects money, she will be wealthy; if he selects a thread, he will have a long life, etc. Apparently, some parents now include a computer mouse among the items so their child will have a career in a high tech area.

I don't know what Crazy Boy chose at his Dol, but it may have been that mouse. Friday evening Miss America and I were running errands for Crazy Boy's party when my phone rang. Caller ID said it was Husband's work BlackBerry. I answered, and discovered that Crazy Boy had hacked through the password and figured out how to call me. I wasn't the last number called... we have no clue how he did it.

So, whatever Dol object foretells "computer hacker," I think that's what my Crazy Boy chose.

Happy Birthday, my sweet babboo. I love you with every fiber of my being.

Snow!

2011-01-08T09:33:00.002-05:00

I just sat down to post about my meeting with my new therapist who was really awesome and then Crazy Boy ran in with his snow pants insisting that we go out into the new .2" of snow. Which may melt in the sun at any moment.

So the therapist can wait. Happy weekend, everybody!

Resolutions

2011-01-05T12:00:00.013-05:00

Dr. Phil and Oprah and all of those people say we should write our goals down if we want to keep them.

My goal for this one is a biggie. In the words of Muriel (of "Muriel's Wedding" fame -- possibly the best movie EVER), "I want to be a totally different person."

Several years ago I lost a lot of weight. My doctor asked me how I did it, and I told him I followed my guru, Geneen Roth. Further, I explained that my husband has cholesterol of 300+, won't stay on his meds, is seriously overweight, and doesn't exercise. Dr. C was a country doctor in Ireland before he came to the states. He looked at me and said, "So you decided that one of you should stay alive to raise your children." Pretty much.

Since my hysterectomy, my body seems to have taken on a mind of its own. I am a foodie and I eat too much. I totally admit this. Plus, I get sad, I get lonely here, and I eat chocolate. I totally admit this, too. But it's like my metabolism is different. And... I went up a jeans size. So, I need to get back to my mindful eating.

One benefit of being told you are fat and ugly since you were a small child is (for me, anyway), having no fear of losing your looks as you age. I have no delusions of being pretty or attractive or whatever. Which means that I have hit mid-40's without a wrinkle or a gray hair. Go figure. So the losing weight thing is not a vanity thing. It's an I-don't-want-to-get-diabetes-or-heart-disease thing. And an I-want-my-comfy-jeans-to-be-comfy-again thing.

I need to become a better mother to my children. On New Year's Day, I woke up with this upper respiratory crud that I am still fighting. I had this great idea that I'd sleep it off. I don't think it worked. Anyway, I woke up late in the evening and asked the kiddos what they'd had for dinner. They told me "frosting and sprinkles." I asked Husband about it and he said that was what they wanted. This is why I've got to keep my health together. Murphy's Law being what it is, I'll be the one to drop dead from a heart attack if I'm not more careful.

I need to become more patient and I need to get my depression under better control. I'm finally meeting with my new therapist on Friday. Here's a stupid thought -- I'm scared to meet her because of her daughter's hair. I liked her a lot on the phone, but in person is different. I volunteer at the library at Crazy Boy's school during the time when therapist's daughter comes in. She is eight, and very nice. She also has hair that looks like it was done by a professional -- always perfect and with some kind of bow or something. She also has great clothes. Miss America has curly red hair that she wears in a pony tail. It is beautiful, but it always looks like she has fall foliage stuck to the back of her head. I've never been one of those mothers who spends a lot of time on her daughter's hair.

So therapist is obviously way more put together than I am. What if she doesn't like me? I've found the whole therapist/patient thing works a lot better when you like each other.

I need to become a much better housekeeper, and I need to purge a lot more stuff. Like a ton more. I need to keep up with the laundry better. I need to scrub the kitchen floor more. And the showers. I need to take better care of my hands so it doesn't hurt like hell when I do that.

I need to get my finances in much better order. As in, not spending money on anything that is not completely essential. So far, I've done well at this for the six days I've been really trying. However, I already miss pedicures and Starbucks salted caramel hot chocolate a whole lot. Hopefully, this will subside with time.

Finally, I need to write better blog posts. Mine tend to be long, whiny and boring. Add better blogging to the list.

So... this is my list for the year. Sad part is, none of it is optional. It is essential that I do all of it, and do it really, really well. If I do, I'll be like a totally different person. And that will be a very good thing.

Happy New Year

2010-12-31T23:55:00.002-05:00

Happy New Year to my bloggie friends. I remember all of us kicking 2009 to the curb, and proclaiming better times ahead for 2010. I'm not sure that came to pass, but I'm glad we were here for each other in good times and bad this year.

Here's to 2011. Thanks for being my friend.

Gertie Update

2010-12-23T10:43:00.003-05:00

Since Gertie is walking on my keyboard while I am trying to type, I'll write about her. She's all better. See? Here she is helping me wrap presents. She is one awesome kitty cat.

Epic Fail, Santa

2010-12-19T08:54:00.002-05:00

So, Santa, as we discussed, I thought a lot about this and I wrote to my mother about it. And she wrote back and told me I was wrong. And what Miss America told me didn't happen. We both know she likes to rewrite history, so this should not surprise me. And she told me about all the fun things they did and... well, Santa a lot of what we talked about happened a long time ago and I don't really want to tell you about it because just thinking about it is making me cry.

Which is really not what Christmas is supposed to be about, is it?

Hugs,

Dibs

Dear Santa

2010-12-16T10:04:00.002-05:00

Dear Santa,

What I would like for this Christmas (or, possibly, some Christmas in the future) is a soft place to fall. I've never had one, and I've always wondered what it might be like.

Husband likes to think he is a soft place to fall, but he's not. You and I both know that, Santa. Husband and I had a terrific visit to New Orleans last weekend -- lots of good food and good drinks and good times. There were no kids to take care of, no house to clean, no broken dishwasher, or any of the rest of it. When there are none of these things, we do fine.

Santa, I'm sure you witnessed the whole thing the night before our trip, and I'm sure we both landed on the "naughty" list for it. I would personally put Husband there for asking me, "Just what the f*** do you do around here all day?" when I asked him to help me get the kids' wet towels picked up and put the kids in bed. I landed on the list for taking the bait and yelling back. And for using swear words in front of my kids. And for not stopping fighting, even when they begged me to.

Believe me, I'm on my own naughty list for that one.

Maybe it is my kids who need the soft place, although I really, really try to give that to them. I know what it's like to grow up without one.

Miss America told me all about her stay with my parents while Husband and I were playing in New Orleans. About her grandfather yelling at her for her tiny smiley face in the salt on his Lexus window because she'd scratch the paint. And his making her dump the soda her grandmother had bought her down the sink and then lecturing her about calories and healthy food. And my mother's defense that "He only says these things because he loves you."

Sorry, telling adolescent girls they are fat as an act of love didn't work for my sister and me, and it is really not going to happen with my daughter. Santa, if you have Christmas magic that makes parents of parents actually listen when those parents try and talk to their parents, I'd sure love to find that in my stocking. In spite of my "naughty" status and all.

Nearly a week home, and Miss America is still talking about getting in trouble for hurting their feelings when she said she did not wish to visit the Egyptian exhibit at the museum. About worrying about what she should eat and drink and not eat and drink because she did not want her grandfather yelling at her some more.

I understand all of these things because the time my children spend with my parents is just a groundhog day of my own childhood. It doesn't matter if I'm there or not; if I try and intervene or not. Last week my father sent me my third copy of Ben Stein's e-mail about how things were better when parents could hit their kids and not listen to that Dr. Spock mamby-pamby shit. As if I give a shit about what Ben Stein thinks about parenting.

So, dear Santa, maybe I'm really asking for wisdom this year. How to manage this. How to get through to people who won't listen and to make a better life for me and my children without cutting lots of people completely out of our lives.

But, a soft place to fall would be really swell, too. Soft place to fall lessons for Husband would be just fine, also. He's a really good guy when he's not being a complete jerk.

I'll leave good cookies for you this year, and I'll do my best to be sure the Beagles don't eat them like they did last year.

I really have tried to be good this year. And I promise to try harder next year.

Love and kisses,

Dibs.

Words of Wisdom

2010-12-14T13:48:00.001-05:00

A person should have a brain before she becomes a school counselor. Just sayin'.

Things I hate hearing

2010-12-05T21:26:00.003-05:00

Husband has been away at the Nebraska football game in Dallas all weekend. My parents arrive on Thursday, and I spent the weekend in a futile attempt to get my house into something socially acceptable.

Tonight, as I was driving Miss America home from pageant practice, we were admiring the Christmas lights. Because of my back and hands, I can no longer put them up myself, and Husband would only do them if I nagged him incessantly to do them. This I wouldn't do because the last time he put lights up (2003) he screamed profanity so loudly every time he dropped a bulb, etc etc etc, that I couldn't face the neighbors until 2005. This is a well-known family story.

Anyhow, Miss America said to me, "Do you ever wish we were a normal family? You know, the kind where the dad loves the mom and actually does things to help and take care of her?"

Not sure how to proceed with this statement. Some days it sucks having an insightful child.

Life

2010-11-29T11:02:00.003-05:00

We returned late last night from visiting Husband's family in Omaha. It was a good visit. His mother and sister are always game to go shopping in the dark hours of the night after Thanksgiving, and I enjoy going merely for the people-watching.

We decided to bring Jessie the puppy with us. When she had an accident in her kennel an hour into the trip, I worried a bit about the remaining 11 hours of travel, but she turned out to be a trooper. I collected the Beagles from the kennel this morning, so now it really feels like we're home.

Tomorrow I have to meet with Miss America's English teacher. I'm trying very hard not to go into this wearing my game face. Miss America has had problems with this woman from the word "go," and I'm not sure I understand. OK, I do understand. Miss America and the teacher have very different communication styles, and often the assignments are unclear to Miss America. However, I know from both Miss America and other parents and teachers that this teacher yells if kids ask questions. Gotta stay diplomatic... gotta stay diplomatic.

Then there is the whole issue of the teacher pronouncing Miss America's name correctly. My daughter's name is not a very common one, but it is also not one I made up while eating alphabet soup. And... it is December for crying out loud. The teacher called after Miss America corrected her for mispronouncing her name again. Was Miss America snarky about it? Oh, probably.

Heard from a dear friend that her husband (also a dear friend) had a small heart attack recently. So scary. These are the people that need to remain among us -- they are the good guys. Thoughts and prayers for a good, no, great recovery for him.

Happy holiday season, dear blog friends.

In which I am a raging, insensitive bitch

2010-11-14T08:38:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of the day the kiddos and I left A2 and arrived in Indiana. I mentioned this to Husband, and said, "Sorry if I am cranky -- November 13 was NOT a good day for me."

He didn't look up from his football, but commented, "That's too bad. I was so happy that our family would finally be together again. It was a great day for me. Sorry it wasn't for you."

Youch.

Gratitude

2010-11-12T19:05:00.003-05:00

I am grateful that Miss America has decided she wants a lovely, clean room, and has taken steps to make it that way all by herself.

Everything that is dirty, broken, or a Miss America reject is now piled up in the hallway blocking the bathroom. This, not so much.

More steps

2010-11-11T20:50:00.002-05:00

Maybe I have mentioned that I take an anti-depressant -- have for several years now. There are times I can actually feel the depression pushing on the drugs like it is trying to get out. Recently, I have been feeling as if the depression is winning.

So... I decided to find me some good old fashioned talk therapy.

The therapist our family doctor recommended was a dud, and the online recommendations were kind of useless, so I finally went with a tried and true method -- going with my gut. Actually, I chose a therapist whose first name is the same as one of my best friends in A2. Not a particularly scientific option, but it was the best one I could think of.

She and I spoke on the phone, and my gut made a good call, I think. She has a child who attends school (but in a different grade) with Crazy Boy. She has kids and dogs, same as me, and she was helpful, nice and sane on the phone. We're meeting next Friday.

I'm looking forward to working with her. Tomorrow I see the spine specialist guy. Today I went for what I thought would be a teeth cleaning that turned into more than four hours in the dentist's chair and a four-figure bill. Still, the work was necessary.

This is my year of feeling better. Or at least trying to. I think it is working.

Aftermath of the weekend

2010-11-08T06:55:00.005-05:00

We spent the weekend up in Ohio at my parents' house. It was an early Thanksgiving/birthday for my mother. Husband's birthday is the same as hers, but time at my parents' is all about them.

Time at my parents' is like groundhog day.

My mother has this anxiety thing over meals at her house, but God help anyone who tries to contribute anything to the meal that she hasn't cleared with my father/stressed about/finally approved as acceptable. For example, she decided she didn't like the rolls she had purchased, so she sent me out for more. She told me exactly what store to go to and exactly what rolls to purchase. While I was out, I grabbed a cup of coffee. When I returned with it, she grouched, "Well, I'm sorry you don't like the coffee I made here."

My father spends the entire time freaking out that someone might make some kind of mess/do something to their furniture/carpet/make some kind of noise. For example, Crazy Boy was practicing holding an unpeeled orange on a spoon and walking around and my father freaked out at him for removing the orange from the kitchen. Husband also got a cup of coffee while we were out, and he had it on the desk next to the computer where he was working. My father came into the office to get something, and shortly after, Husband realized his coffee was gone. Yep, my father had returned it to the kitchen, lest it make a mess elsewhere.

Once we get the food and the people to the table, my children are incapable choosing the right foods/being quiet enough/staying seated enough/using their utensils and napkins correctly enough. Should there be a lull in the conversation, we move on to the portion of our meal, "Everything Dibs has Ever Done Wrong and Why She Utterly Sucks." This isn't an equal opportunity bashing; this is just for me.

Should I become upset over any portion of this ritual, my mother tells me I am making it all up, that none of it actually happened.

Good times... good times.

There was, actually, one sadly hilarious change to the day. Usually, my mother has some kind of "favor" that she puts on our plate, and recently she has gotten crackers. Not the Triscuit kind, but the kind wrapped in paper that look like a big piece of bubble gum. You pull the ends, and little gifts fly out.

Miss America was disappointed that there were no favors this year, so my mother sent her to the store with my dad. They returned 90 minutes later with Miss America in a lather. All she would say was, "Everything I picked out, Granddad said had no purpose. It was pretty/sparkly/glowed in the dark. That was its purpose."

So we get done with dinner, and my father makes this big production out of bringing a Dollar General bag into the dining room. There, he presented Husband with a package of paper clips. My sister and I got sticky notes. My mother got a package of stickers to give to her piano students. And those were our "party favors." He was not being ironic. This, actually was his idea of an appropriate party favor. Which is actually a beautiful summation of the day.

*******************

Husband had a call from a headhunter this week about a job back at his old company in Michigan. A place he hated; a company that is basically on the brink of disaster. Taking the job for him would be like doing a giant, career hokey pokey -- you put your whole self back... and back... and back some more. Still... he has some friends left there. He told me he'd call in favors and we could go back.

I told him not to do it. Not to consider it. Please don't.

He would do it for me. At this point, it would only be for me. My children are thriving. He is thriving. Plus... I just don't have another move in me right now. Our finances are in tatters. There are many reasons to just stay put, and all of them are good. I love him for offering, however.

We've had a couple of these lately -- him going far above my expectations.

Sometimes, my life is like groundhog day. And sometimes, life can surprise you.

My problem that is not really a problem...

2010-11-01T07:43:00.004-04:00

in the word we live in today. There are millions of people with bigger problems than mine.

However, here it is.

I have one "friend" here and I don't really like her. Our kids went trick or treating together last night, and we ditched them after an hour because she was on my last nerve.

She just started a new full-time job, and I'm thinking we'll do that drifting apart thing...

This is a really hard place to meet people, let alone make friends. I like the people at my new church, but they live a bunch of miles away.

I'm wistful this morning. In 12 days, it will have been a year since our move. Halloween was an awesome holiday for us back in A2. Miss America always went out with one of her dearest friends since kindergarten, both in our old neighborhood and in our current one. They ran and laughed and joined their friends for the fun, clutching their pillowcases full of candy, their flashlights bobbing up and down in the dark.

Last night, after ditching our people here, Crazy Boy grew tired and went home with Husband. Miss America and I continued on our own. She was really beautiful -- she was a "vampire princess" and she was. It was a mild night, and she sprinted from house to house with her black and red cape and her red hair streaming out behind her. Still... I don't think I was projecting my loneliness on her when I watched her decide that she just wasn't having fun any more and give it up for the year.

We live in the country. I wish wish wish we lived in a neighborhood. And... I wish we could just go home.

Conferences, Part 2

2010-10-22T18:33:00.003-04:00

Crazy Boy's conference was last night. His teacher began by apologizing that his marks were not better and telling us about how she had lost sleep over doing his report card.

Turns out, the dear woman was brokenhearted about giving her beloved Crazy Boy something less than a perfect report card. She had to report that he does not yet know all of his numbers and letters. His behavior is excellent, and he tries very hard. He just hasn't mastered it all just yet, in spite of her tremendous efforts on his behalf. My Crazy Boy has something like the Wonder Woman of kindergarten teachers, and she is committed to doing it right for him.

He also has something like a harem of five year old girls ready to help him with his work, hold his hand when he walks down the hall, and let him copy off their papers if necessary.

I'm beginning to sound like a broken record, but I really am raising Ferris and Jeannie.

Good opera words for our times

2010-10-21T21:52:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I get discouraged about the polarization of our times, and I think of Muslim friends I had in Michigan -- really terrific people -- and about how so many people think it is OK to be prejudiced against them because of the actions of a minority of them.

This says it better than I can:

"It's about the way people is made, I reckon
an' how they like to believe what's bad.
How short they are on lovin' kindness.
It must make the good Lord sad.
They don't know it ain't what you feel that counts but what you do about it.
So instead they take it out on you.
It must make the good Lord sad.
'Way out yonder somewhere, the Lord's great heart must break
at seein' how men treat one another an' say they're doin' it all fer His sake.
It's a hard thing fer you to realize, I know,
that people want to believe what's bad
an' how short they are on lovin' kindness.
It must make the good Lord sad."

Conference time already

2010-10-21T07:53:00.002-04:00

Today is Crazy Boy's conference. Miss America's school apparently only offers conferences to parents of kids having struggles with school. She came home all proud yesterday with her straight A's and perfect 5's in attitude on her first 9 weeks report card, and I was proud of her. She wants to do well, and I want to do all I can to help her.

I am kind of outraged at all that is expected of little kindergartners these days, but that's how things are. My little dude works so hard during the day that he flops over sideways sleeping on the way home. His teacher is a wonderful, energetic woman who loves him, and he loves her right back. She has a whole lot to stuff into those growing little brains, and I know she works hard at it.

I know that we will be presented tonight with a checklist of where we should be and where we are instead, and I will remind myself (yet again) that it is not a race. My Crazy Boy keeps steadily improving, and this is a very good thing.

He arrived at his orphanage in Seoul at three days old, remained there for five months, and then lived with a wonderful foster family for seven months. His foster mother loved him so much that she and her husband actually contemplated taking him and running away. Crazy Boy brings me the photo album she sent along with him and asks to look at it together at least once a week. I know he remembers and still loves her.

He learned to understand his second language quickly and in spite of his neurological challenges, is learning to speak it, one sound at a time.

And through it all he is happy and loving (except recently he has latched onto the phrase, "Mean Mama!" I am a mean mama when I hold his hand crossing the street, make him wear his seat belt, and only put a few cookies in the bowl. OK.)

And... he keeps progressing. I keep a handy file of all of his former evaluations, and if I am tempted to be discouraged, I look at all the ways he is progressing.

I will remember them at our conference this afternoon.

Straw,

2010-10-20T11:02:00.004-04:00

This past weekend, I had bad yard karma. First, some yahoo ran over my mailbox. Even ripped the concrete out of the ground. I'm glad I like the lady at the post office because I now have to schelp over to get my mail until the new one is planted. The new one that is in my trunk.

Second, my Beagle ran into my jerk neighbor's yard again, and I got a shrieking phone call from her at 10:30 Sunday night about him. This is the one with the guns and the mean husband.

Monday, I spent my entire day at Lowe's, where I basically needed a personal shopper (the nice woman in overalls was glad to serve that purpose for me). I finally got the fencing that should keep the dogs corralled.

Now all of this stuff needs to be installed.

My appointment with the spine specialist is in a month - the earliest he could see me. In the meanwhile, I have two arms that go from screaming pain to dead numb. I've had to cut back on taking the meds that help because I'm concerned about becoming addicted to them (my doctor suggested I might consider this concern; I haven't been watching too many after school specials).

As I said, I like the post office lady, so the mailbox is on the back burner until Husband decides to do it. The fence, however, is a problem. In spite of everything, I spent about four hours outside yesterday battling with the fence, the prickly shrubs (some of which I actually hauled out of the ground with my bare hands and hurled into the driveway out of exasperation), the sandy rocky soil, and my stupid, malfunctioning hands, arms, elbows and back.

For a brief digression, you who know me in real life know that I was once a violinist and a pianist and I used to love doing needlework and knitting. All of that is gone from my life thanks to my stupid back/arms/hands/whatever. This makes me cranky sometimes.

Husband got home as it was getting dark and I was getting supper on the table. I looked outside and found him pulling up the fence I had just put in. I went out and asked him what the bleep he thought he was doing. He very calmly told me that he thought they should be installed a different way and kept on pulling.

At dinner, he couldn't understand why I could be upset about his removing the fence, and kept telling me, "The key to doing the fence right is....." He also promised to come home this afternoon and install it. If this actually happens (and monkeys fly out of my butt), I might amend the end of this post.

I was up all night with hurty parts, and got up this morning thinking, "If I had the money to do it, I'd go. Why in the hell am I here with this insensitive jerk?"

And so, loyal readers of mine, your job is to keep me focused for the next year on dusting off my career or finding a new one, paying off my debt (yep, it's all mine), and moving into the next chapter of my life. I know it is only a $200 fence, but his attitude over this was infuriating.

Hold me to it, please. The straws are really piling up, and this camel is about to tip over.

My Ally Story

2010-10-12T22:46:00.004-04:00

National Coming Out Day was yesterday.

On more than one occasion, I have joked that I only wish that I could find women physically appealing -- dating them has got to be less complicated than dealing with men. Sadly, they are not for me.

When we lived in Ann Arbor, Miss America had a number of friends who had two moms. When she noticed this (maybe 3rd grade?), she asked me why they had two moms. I hadn't really given my answer much thought, but I extemporaneously came up with one I liked -- I explained that sometimes women fall in love with other women, or men fall in love with other men, just like sometimes women fall in love with men and vice versa. She was fine with that answer, and I intend to help her remember that this is her family's stand on this topic. Now we live in a place where calling somebody "gay" as an insult is a pretty common thing.

I have been in relationships with two gay men. The first I'll call J1. We dated for a while during my sophomore year of college. We never slept together, although I would have, had he asked nicely. He later moved to DC, became a lawyer and a widely-known AIDS activist, was one of the first HIV patients to receive the drug cocktail, but sadly died shortly thereafter of AIDS. He has scholarships named for him, a book written about him by his lover, and was eulogized by the U.S. Attorney General (at that time). His body was returned be buried in the small farm town where he grew up.

His obituary appeared in the NY Times. In it, I learned that he was HIV positive while I was dating him. All those times we were fooling around on the couch in his frat house... well, I don't like to think about the could-have-beens much. I prefer to think of him as that beautiful blond farm boy who gave me a teddy bear dressed up as a farmer for Christmas (I still have it). The boy I met in a Poli Sci class who could debate politics for hours. Who boldly fought to have "sexual orientation" included in the non-discrimination policy of our university during a time and in a place where being openly gay meant being openly told you were going to hell. Or worse. His obituary photo barely resembled the boy I knew. He deserved a much better death than the one he got.

Shortly after J1 broke up with me, I started dating J2. Perhaps the fact that he had antiques in his frat house room should have given me a clue, but I just thought he was dreamy. When he wasn't being a crappy boyfriend, he was a really good one. He is the boy I never got over. He also moved to DC after graduation, and also became a lawyer. He even attended J1's funeral. Unlike J1, who came out to me while we were in college, J2 let me wait awhile. According to him, he spent hours in therapy trying to figure out how to come out to me. When he did, his timing was somewhat awful. It was a 2 a.m. on a long distance phone call that had lasted for four hours at that point (and ended up lasting all night), and I had a show to play that night (I was still a violinist in those days).

I'm not sure what J2 thought I was going to do or say, but we have remained friends and talk on Facebook from time to time. After my surgery, he sent me a sweet get well e-mail.

My reaction to both of these boys' news was the same. OK, not exactly the same. J2 broke my heart. No, that's too understated. When J2 finally told me why our relationship was going nowhere after many years of dating, it was as if he put my heart through a snowblower. Or maybe a woodchipper. It was ugly.

My second reaction was the same, however. I worried (and still do) about some horrible ignoramus hurting this boy I still love. About some stupid creep desecrating J1's grave out on the prairie. Some bigger, stronger monster attacking J2 after he finishes a night out of clubbing in DC.

A friend of mine has a son who is a senior in high school. He has been struggling mightily to come to grips with his homosexuality, and has begun cutting himself. She recently found him in the middle of the night, bloody and crying. I cannot imagine.

I apologize for the rambling nature of this post -- my friend Laggin wrote a beautiful post on her blog on this topic, and she got my mind moving in many directions. I try to be a person with an open mind, but on this one I can't see the other side -- I can't understand hating or hurting someone because of who they love. I can't find a way to believe that is right.

I do believe that J1 is at peace and I know that J2 is leading a happy life that is far more glamorous than mine. I was the last girl either of them ever dated. I'll try not to take that too personally. :)

Surprising news

2010-10-08T11:08:00.002-04:00

I've had a backache for the past seven years. Since this is my year of living better, I went to the doctor to try and get some answers. I've asked before, but have not followed through. I now have two strong female doctors who ask good questions and listen to the answers.

A couple of hours later, I had my answer. I have adult-onset scoliosis. How weird is that?

I'm now heading off to specialists to find out where I go from here. One thing I know for certain -- my back will feel better when I'm done.

Good news on the kitty

2010-10-06T13:33:00.001-04:00

Took Gertie to the vet this morning and learned that she is doing very well. She has to wear her bandages for another week and spend another week in the dog kennel (not her favorite place to be...) and then we'll return for more x-rays. But, so far no surgery needed. Huzzah!

Good things

2010-10-05T21:07:00.005-04:00

Thank you so much for asking about my kitty! It means a lot to me.

I'm happy to report that Gertie is doing wonderfully! She has been recuperating in a large dog kennel in my bedroom, and she seems pretty happy to be watching the kids and the dogs doing their thing. Tonight I saw her sitting up like one of those Egyptian cats (does that make sense?) instead of just flopped down on her side. Her back leg is all bandaged and taped to her body, so she must be getting some mobility back to be able to do that. She's also eating and pooping and all the rest, so I figure that's a good sign, too. Tomorrow she and I return to the vet for her checkup and more tests. Fingers crossed that her bandage has worked and that she won't require surgery...

Early last week was bad things in threes (two car issues and a missing/hurt kitty). Later that week swung the other way. First, Gertie was alive and she is recuperating. Additionally, Miss America was nominated by one of her teachers to attend classes for gifted kids at our local college. The school could only recommend a small number of kids to do this, and my girl is pretty darned excited about it. She works so hard and has such a great attitude about school and life, I'm seriously proud of her.

I've started volunteering at Crazy Boy's school library (in addition to my gig at Miss America's school) and am really enjoying the people I'm meeting and the things I'm doing. Plus, we made the decision to change churches and were officially welcomed as new members there last weekend. It definitely was the right thing to do. The kids enjoy Sunday School there, and Husband has attended with us for the past three weeks which is some kind of world record for him.

So that's all the news that's new. I am listening to Crazy Boy violently protest Husband's attempts to get him into jammies and bed, so I must go rescue them from each other.

Good night, everybody.

Kitty Update

2010-09-29T19:31:00.003-04:00

It has been an emotionally draining day, to say the least. Also, a very expensive one. I started my morning by having a new catalytic converter installed in my car. Then, I rushed a badly injured kitty to the vet. This has been one of the most expensive days of my life, including several Black Friday early morning excursions I've indulged in. Still, all is good.

My friend Stef drove me home from the car repair shop this morning and was bringing her daughter in to use my potty when she noticed fur sticking out from under my deck. I recognized it as Gertie fur. The space was about 2" high -- not high enough to see in -- and Gert would have had to go through a small opening under another part of the deck to get where she was. I touched the fur -- nothing. Called Gert's name -- nothing. Touched her more forcefully -- nothing.

That's when I decided our Gertie must be dead.

Stef went home to get her husband and a crow bar so we could pull up the deck boards and get Gertie's body out before my kids came home from school. While she was gone, I dug a grave for Gertie in my flower garden.

When Stef and her husband returned, I commented to her that Gertie had died right below a small St. Francis of Assisi plaque I had hanging in my garden. And, right then, Gertie moved. The fur patch was gone.

We really couldn't see her, then, so all we could do was pull up a board and pray that what we saw below wasn't too heartbreaking. What I saw was a freaked-out, and very much alive, Gertie looking at me. I got dirt, dead leaves and spider webs in my hair, but I was able to pull her out and carry her into the house, all the while marveling that she was alive and well.

I put her down in front of her food bowl, figuring that she must be starving, and her back legs gave out. She was alive, but not well.

We got her into her cat carrier and called ahead for an emergency appointment at our vet's. They admitted her to the hospital and told me they'd call when they knew more. What I now know is that her right leg was dislocated, and that they were able to put her under sedation and get it moved back into place. They will do additional x-rays to determine if her pelvis is broken in one or two places, but there is not anything they can do for this injury. Blood work will determine the extent of her internal injuries.

And now we wait.

As of ten minutes ago, Gertie was sleeping on her blanket in her hospital "room." The vet told me the next 24-48 hours are critical -- so far, so good.

Unless Gertie gains the ability to speak English, we will never know what happened to her. The vet thought her injuries were consistent with being hit by a car, but there is literally no way she could have been hit by a car, been injured as badly as she was, and wedged herself under the deck the way she did. We'll have to be content to let this be one of life's mysteries.

Meanwhile, we'll be very content to have her come home and be our kitty once again. Thanks, St. Francis, for taking such good care of her.

Mark Twain Said it First...

2010-09-29T15:02:00.001-04:00

and now Gertie is saying it best, "News of my death has been greatly exaggerated."

I only have a moment to post, but had to report that Gertie is not dead, just very hurt. She was trapped under the deck, and we couldn't get to or see her and she wasn't moving. She is now at our veterinary hospital and I'll know more tonight.

RIP Gertie

2010-09-29T11:58:00.002-04:00

She passed away yesterday. She was a wonderful, loved cat, and she will be sorely missed.

Stress

2010-09-28T13:45:00.004-04:00

Our cat Gertrude has always been an indoor cat. However, she has lately been sneaking out when the dogs/kids/other marauding intruders go in and out of the doors. I haven't seen her today. That isn't that unusual -- sometimes she sleeps somewhere weird.

This morning the dogs and I were awakened by a cat shrieking someplace. Not sure it was inside. Not sure it was outside.

After losing Holly the cat to the great outdoors just a year ago, I'm kind of jittery thinking about it. I really wish Gert would show her cranky face. It would give me one less thing to stress about.

Monday Monday

2010-09-27T21:06:00.008-04:00

Last night I forgot to reset the alarm clock from the time we wake up to go to church to the time we wake up to go to school.

Whoops.

Thus, my morning started with Husband hollering, "You're late! It's already after 7:30!" I generally start weeks out organized and get lazy as we go. Thus, Crazy Boy's backpack was in the car, as was a package of muffins I had stashed there. Getting CB to eat breakfast on a school day takes an act of congress. Fortunately, his class eats lunch at 10:45, so I don't think he has time to get hungry. After school, he comes home and cleans out the fridge.

I had laid out Crazy Boy's clothes, so all I had to do was plop him on the potty, stuff him into his clothes, buckle him into his car set, and pray for no tractors on the road so we could make his 8 a.m. bell. The weather here has finally turned cool, so I had gotten some jeans out for him. The boy is in kindergarten and finally fits into some 4t's. Only not the 4t's I had set out for him -- those fell to his ankles.

Whoops again.

The poor kid didn't match, but at least I managed to find a pair of pants that would stay up, and we headed out to the car. Husband went downstairs to let the puppy out into our fenced area. It is off of our walkout basement, and one of the Beagles has learned to jump out. And guess what?! So has the puppy. In the amount of time it took me to go around the minivan, the puppy jumped out and climbed into the minivan. There was no time to take her inside, so she rode along.

The traffic gods were with us, and we got to school with two minutes to spare. The principal, a kind but no-nonsense man in his 70s, gets the kids out of their cars and into school. He opened Crazy Boy's door, and along with CB, a pair of flip flops and a half-eaten muffin tumbled to the sidewalk. CB looked like a kindergarten Jeff Spicoli heading into school. At least the puppy waited until after school drop-off to have her accident in the car (both #1 and #2, naturally).

I got home, got the puppy into her kennel, got Miss America to school on time with her required latte slushy, and was finally back home at 9:30. I was still in my pajamas. I still had not brushed my teeth or my hair. I was not looking pretty.

The rest of the day followed the same kind of insanity, although I did manage to shower and dress and scrub out my minivan before heading off to Miss America's school for lunch duty at 11:30.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I pick Miss America up from school so we can race to swim team practice. Tuesdays and Thursdays she rides the bus. I am pleased to report that we finally got the kinks worked out of this schedule today. We have only been doing this for two weeks, after all. In that time, she has ridden the bus home while I've waited for her in the carpool lot (on a Monday, of course), she has exited the building by the north doors after specifically telling me to meet her by the west doors, she has exited the building by the west doors after specifically telling me to meet her by the north doors, and she once took 30 minutes to leave the building because she kept forgetting stuff in her locker.

You have to go early to get a good spot in the carpool lot, and today I got one of the coveted spots near the exit. The downside was that Crazy Boy and I had to wait a really long time for the bell to ring. Fortunately for CB, he was asleep. I opened the windows and realized I was parked smack dab in the middle of the cute and popular mommies.

I have never been one of the cute and popular mommies and that's fine. However, if I had ever entertained the notion of joining their ranks, today I knew for sure that it would never happen. I sat surrounded by perfectly coiffed, manicured women with perfectly clean SVUs who were discussing between their cars tennis lessons/cheerleading tryouts/ballet recitals. I cannot imagine any of them racing like a crazy woman with a puppy on her lap stuffing muffin bits into a small boy's mouth all the while wearing jammies with sock monkeys on them.

In that 9:30 to 11:30 interim this morning, I had a phone conversation with a friend who is a fellow stay-at-home mom. She also recently relocated here and is looking for a job. She worked before she moved here. The chaos and unpredictability of stay-at-home mom-dom drives her crazy. It drives me crazy, too. The difference is for me that it's a good kind of crazy.

As I write this, I am listening as Crazy Boy tortures his sister who is on the phone with her bff. I can hear both of the laughing hysterically. And now she is threatening to break his leg. He is still laughing. I love this gig.

Release from a dry season

2010-09-24T14:50:00.006-04:00

The weather in my part of the world has been unseasonably hot and dry as of late. The leaves falling from the trees are brown and dry -- almost like dust. The local newscasters assure us that this is fine -- trees do this as a method of self-preservation. Still, the news of the local corn crop has been grim, and the cornfields are filled with dead corn stalks falling down on each other.

Additionally, my gardens have died. Everybody's gardens have died. I managed to keep the small patch I brought with me from my grandmother's garden and my garden in Michigan alive, but many of my flowers look like they have been blow-torched. It is depressing.

We are not permitted to water nor to burn things outdoors, as the water levels are low and the risk of fire is high.

For the past few weeks, the forecast has included promises of rain -- if you can call a 10% chance of any precipitation a promise. Another such promise was made this morning, with the weatherman pointing to his map and explaining that if the storm goes here, we will get rain; if is goes there, we won't. I figured we'd draw the "won't" card again.

I spent the morning at the doctor's office dealing with some kind of upper respiratory illness. I'm not one to run to the doctor at the first sign of a cold, but I do have a history of ear infections, and I wanted to check to be on the safe side. The good news -- I do not have the flu. The bad news -- my ears are filling rapidly. I took my prescription, promised to try and get some rest (ha!), and headed to collect Crazy Boy from school.

As I left the doctor's office, I noticed that the sky and the air had changed. It wasn't cool, necessarily, but it also wasn't the blast furnace of 97 degrees that we experienced yesterday. Once I got off the highway and onto the small, farm roads that lead to Crazy Boy's school, I rolled down my car windows. I have one of those uncomfortable fevers that makes me cold and then hot in 15 second intervals, and my car air conditioning was making me miserable. Somehow, the warm air blasting through my windows and whipping my ponytail around my face made me feel better.

I collected Crazy Boy, headed for home, and the skies opened. It was not some tiny rain, but a huge release of water accompanied by cooler temperatures. It was wonderful.

Crazy Boy celebrated the rain by dancing outside until he was soaked to the skin. As I write this, he has just run into the house, kicked off his wet Converse tennies and pulled off his little Detroit Tigers t-shirt. His hair is wet and sticking out everywhere, and he is laughing.

I hope I can remember the sounds of my boy laughing and of the rain hitting my roof. It is the coziest, happiest sound in the world.

Of fish and journalism

2010-09-21T09:15:00.005-04:00

Long ago, before my life centered around children, laundry and puppy training, I attended journalism school. I'm still a news junkie and listening to NPR in my minivan is one way I stay sane. The folks at NPR are 10 times the journalists I ever was, which makes me a little too gleeful whenever I catch weirdness in one of their stories.

This morning's show included a story about genetically modified salmon. I like salmon, but genetically modified salmon sounds to me like something that Woody Allen would have eaten in the movie "Sleeper." Beyond the "ick" factor, opponents are claiming that these modified fish might escape and breed with normal fish and then lord only knows what would happen.

I'm trying to imagine how a fish from a farm in, say, Kansas could make his/her way up to, say, Washington state in order to breed. It would take some kind of salmon MacGyver to make that happen. I guess the opponents needed additional arguments to bolster their "how do we know if it is safe?" argument which, frankly, is plenty for me.

The story's reporter interviewed some folks at a fish market in DC for their reaction to the possibility of eating genetically modified salmon. And here is where it got weird (to me, at least). The interviewed couple sounded something like this, "Genetic salmon? I wouldn't eat nothin' like that."

I am the first one in the world to admit that I am a grammar snob. But even so, is that the best interviewee they could come up with? Was the reporter trying to imply that only dimwits would refuse to eat this fish? Or was he just lazy?

Or do I just need to talk to more grownups in my life? This is also a strong possibility.

Elementary School

2010-09-18T10:37:00.005-04:00

A few weeks ago, Crazy Boy overheard me discussing lunch duty with Miss America. Her friend Goth Girl (who is still in the picture), was dumped by that dreamboat she met in after school daycare, Goth Boy, for another girl. Goth Girl got Miss America to ask me to bust him for some fabricated lunch infraction. I told her no.

I don't love having Goth Girl back in Miss America's orbit, but they only eat lunch together (with a bunch of other girls), and I can keep an eye on them during my days at her school. I've made it pretty clear to Goth Girl that she needs to be on good behavior (she is one of those who likes to make erupting volcanoes out of condiment packets), or I will whap her with my clipboard. OK, so I can't actually whap her with my clipboard. Still... I can look at her like I want to.

Crazy Boy found out I was eating lunch with Miss America and asked me to eat lunch with him. The next day I showed up with my sack lunch and we ate at his table together. And then he was very unhappy that I was not joining his kindergarten class for the rest of the year. I went home and later told Crazy Boy that I thought he would be happier if he just ate lunch with his friends.

Late last week, I started my library mom volunteering gig at his school. My schedule included his lunch period, so I dropped in to lunch again. He was fine with seeing and separating from me during his library time, and he accepted my kiss and told me goodbye when he went out to recess.

And then I was grabbed by his evil, fire-breathing school counselor. Perhaps I am exaggerating here. But perhaps not. She told me that "Every time I come to lunch at the school, I cause a disruption for Crazy Boy. It makes him sad when I leave and so by showing up, I am depriving him of fun."

I told her that there is not really an "every time" going on here, since this was my second lunch with him, and he seemed to separate and do fine. Nevertheless, she had to insist that I not interfere in his school day. I could still volunteer at the school; I just could not volunteer in a way or a time when he would be aware of me.

To be fair, this is the woman who had to physically drag Crazy Boy out of Husband's car for a week in late August when CB adamantly did not want to go to kindergarten. Since then, I have made some changes.

Husband let Crazy Boy sleep all the way to school (about a 25 minute drive) and then freak out when somebody opened the door and woke him up.

Now I drive Crazy Boy, and I put my old toddler music teacher training to good use. We sing. We dance. OK, I dance and he laughs. And, occasionally, other drivers laugh also. I tell him he makes me look like a doofus for dancing by myself, and that makes him laugh more. I've had to dial it back a bit because last week I danced so hard behind the wheel that I ran off the road and almost went into a cornfield.

In any event, he gets there laughing, hops out of the car and runs into school. It's all in the presentation.

The thing about having to apply annually for his transfer is that I can't be a pain in the tookus or I run the risk of losing his place there. And so, I nicely agreed to change my library mom slot to a day when Crazy Boy does not enter, pass, or think of the library.

Recently I was chatting outside of school with one of Miss America's teachers. She told me about some insane e-mails she had received from an insane parent objecting to the way she taught latitude and longitude. I know that being an educator can be kind of a balancing act. I just didn't like hearing that I am intruding in my sweet baboo's life.

And so it goes.

Middle School

2010-09-14T16:16:00.011-04:00

Miss America's middle school asks parents to volunteer as lunch room monitors, and I signed up at the beginning of the year. OK, actually, Miss America thought she was signing herself up for something when she was really signing me up, but it has worked out fine.

It has been interesting, amusing and irritating spending the lunch hour with these, what? They aren't children, they aren't adults, and I always hated being called a "young person" when I was one, so I won't use that term either. "Kids," I guess.

The best and worst part of lunching with the kids is seeing how much things have changed in the past 30+ years, and how much they haven't. Some things are definitely different:

Miss America attends a school that cost a bazillion dollars and was just finished several years ago. The floors shine. The aquatic center is huge. It is beautiful. Each class is segregated into its own cluster, so no 6th grader will ever encounter an 8th grader in a hall or a bathroom.

I attended junior high in my town's former high school building. It was dark, dingy and smelled like pot smoke. Classes were spread randomly throughout the three-story building. The bathrooms were notoriously dangerous. There was no pool, and the gym smelled like dirty socks.

And some things are tremendously similar -- especially the painfully obvious manifestations of a maturing body:

On our first day of seventh grade, one of my classmates made the unfortunate decision to wear a white dress. Boy, she must have done something to screw up her karma in her first 12 years of life. She was ever after known as "that period girl." Yikes.

Early this week, Miss America was having acne angst. The doofy boy she co-edits the 6th grade newspaper with informed her, "You have a zit on your nose." She replied (rather eloquently, I think) "Big duh."

Hanging out in a middle school cafeteria is an awesome thing for a people watcher like me. I have seen 7th grade girls turned away from the popular girl table. I have seen 5th grade boys wearing shirts that say, "This is your girlfriend's shirt." (Do they even get it?) I have broken up grape fights and turned rude children in to the principal when they made a mess on the table and then laughed at the lunch lady who told them to clean it up.

Most of all, I love watching my girl in action at school. She has found her confidence and her voice again (honors classes and strong, female teachers have done this for her), and I am happy to see her happy.

Who ever heard of middle school bringing joy? It is a nice surprise.

Random bits of nothing

2010-09-08T00:20:00.002-04:00

It's the middle of the night, and I am awake. I have unintentionally adopted this stupid way of functioning -- get up early to get everyone else going, ingest gigantic amounts of caffeine during the day to keep going, have a hard time falling asleep because of the caffeine, have a hard time getting up in the morning, rinse, repeat.

Dumb.

I have this giant zit between my eyebrows and it totally hurts. There should be a law that when a person is in her mid-forties, her skin should just behave.

Our formerly mellow baby puppy acted like a rageaholic at her first night of puppy obedience tonight, and bit both the instructor and Miss America. Not a good thing. Not sure if a weekend spent at the kennel caused her to be crabby or what. Don't even want to ponder the repercussions of having a vicious puppy.

Why can nothing be simple?

Going back to bed.

One week later

2010-09-05T19:45:00.002-04:00

So here it is a week later.

I have the number of a marriage counselor. I have a husband who is trying. Really trying. I have so much swirling in my brain that I don't even know where to begin.

We are in Ohio this weekend. Yesterday, we went to the Michigan football game and had a good time. The kids stayed with my parents, so we spent the day together and had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants. It was nice.

Here is the problem. I don't want to go; I want to stay. I want things to be the way they are now, when everyone is on his and her best behavior.

The other problem is, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. And so, I'm actively looking for jobs. I'm trying to get finances in order. I'm not ruling anything out... with one exception. My sister tells me I should not write off the possibility of my moving the kids in with my parents. Never, ever gonna happen.

I can't get my brain around this.

Life

2010-08-30T07:50:00.003-04:00

The party was good. Great, actually, from the standpoint that it was all that my mother wanted. That was what I had planned to write about this morning.

However, plans do change.

This morning, I told Husband that I'm planning to leave him. Not right now -- there are no jobs and I said it would be too hard on the kids. And that is true. However, I meant it from the standpoint that visitation would be a nightmare. He forgot to feed them while I was gone over the weekend. Nobody got any sleep and there are no sheets on Miss America's bed. That sort of thing.

I got off the plane and called to let him know I was coming home and was treated to a screaming rant because the puppy had an accident. I hung up. I got in the car, my phone rang, and it was Miss America calling to tell me that her father had told her that the whole problem around here was that I "need to get a f***ing (he said the word) job." There was a whole context behind this that isn't really worth going into.

I got home, we yelled some more, and he called me a bitch in front of the kids. And a bunch more stuff. I told him I just wanted him to be kind to me. He told me he's sorry he can't provide the life I think I'm entitled to...

And so it went. Eventually, when the kids and I were all screaming, we went to our separate corners and things quieted. I had gotten on the plane at 5 a.m. and had gotten (maybe) three hours of sleep the night before. We went and got dinner since he hadn't fed anybody yet the kitchen looked like a nuclear bomb had detonated in there, came home, and the kids and I went to bed.

This morning, I sobbed in the shower for a while. Then, while the kids were asleep, I went and told him that I am planning to leave. Not now, not for a while. But that I deserve better. That I am not a perfect person, but I try to be kind and respectful to him and I think that I deserve to be in a relationship with someone who does the same for me.

He didn't ask me to stay. He didn't say he wanted me to stay. He asked if I'd go to counseling, and I told him I would. He said he acted that way because he is frustrated -- the kids and I are just so demanding.

Fine, whatever.

When I put Crazy Boy in the car with him, he was still reminding me of times I was unkind to him.

Absolutely true.

But here's what I know. I have tried to be a good wife and mother, and I try harder and harder every day. I try to be kind and respectful to him, even when he is a jerk. I try to be a wife, even when he wants to be a roommate.

And I'm tired.

My daughter tells her counselor that she worries about me -- that I work too hard and am depressed. That's just wrong.

He was raised to believe that the standard rules don't apply to him, and he will go down believing it. I can't do anything about it. A friend I have here (another recent transplant with kids the same age as mine), who is 15 years younger and much better credentialed than I, has been searching for a job with no luck. Crappy jobs that pay nothing, and she can't get them.

I should have called this blog, "Stuck." First I was stuck in a house and now I'm stuck in a marriage.

So there it is. I have to stop crying now and get Miss America to school.

It has arrived

2010-08-26T11:42:00.003-04:00

Today I am packing to attend my parents' 50th wedding anniversary party. It is going to be hotter than blazes in that church basement, and my mother is still snarky because my kids aren't coming with me. I am trying to maintain a positive attitude about this event, as I know it means a lot to my mother. Unfortunately, I not being terribly successful so far.

Further, I just found out that my least-favorite relative (Husband's pain in the patoot brother) will be visiting my in-laws. I will be staying withe them also. Oh boy.

What I want to do is to take my book, go down to my favorite restaurant, order an iced tea and a salad, and read until it is time for the kids to come home from school.

What I am doing is trying to get laundry under control, get a casserole in the oven/fridge, and make sure my kids can survive the 48 hours I will be gone without me. Yeah, yeah, I know, Husband will be here. However, it is nearly football season and the internet is just bursting with football stuff....

Maybe I should order a cocktail and a salad.

Music News

2010-08-24T23:57:00.004-04:00

Since beginning school, the 6th graders have been trying out different instruments in beginning band. Eventually, the director will assign them their instruments. This way, there won't be a plethora of trumpets or saxophones or whatever.

Miss America started playing the trombone back in Michigan, and we all kind of figured she'd take it back up here. Husband played the trombone through high school and college, and she has been blatting away on his trombones for years.

Tonight she returned home from school and announced that she tried out on percussion today. Apparently, she is good at keeping a steady beat and whatnot, and the director told her that she would be an excellent percussion player.

Gack.

Husband and I told her that we want her to play the instrument she wants to play, and we tried to mean it as we were saying it. It's just that percussion is so..... loud. Having played the glockenspiel in my high school marching band, I can say this with authority. Marching in parades left my ears ringing for a week.

Still... it is her life and choice and all. What's funny is that this kid she has become friends with whose mother works at my hair place really really really wants to play percussion and his mother really really really wants him to play percussion and when he tried out on percussion today he apparently sucked at it badly. This according to Miss America.

So that's the music news from southern Indiana. Never a dull moment, I tell you.

I have returned

2010-08-11T21:13:00.004-04:00

We have had some crummy virus on our computers that has made it impossible for me to get into Blogger (and other sites). It was a pain. At last, tonight, it is fixed.

I just wanted to stop by and say, "Hello."

And now I must return to the drama at hand.

Today was the first day of school here. It went well. However, Miss America announced this evening that she must have 10 subject dividers by tomorrow or she will flunk out of middle school. And then she started to shriek. We had just arrived home from an area with a Target, two office stores and a drug store when she made this announcement.

While I went digging through Husband's office stuff looking for subject dividers, Crazy Boy got into the fridge, removed eight yogurts, opened all of them and dumped them together into a popcorn bowl. He is now naked and covered in yogurt.

And through it all, Husband has been sitting at the computer and watching this TV channel I despise (the one that shows only old football games -- can you say "extreme waste of time"?) saying, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

It always looks so much funnier on the sitcoms...

School registration -- check

2010-08-03T13:51:00.004-04:00

Our local schools have an odd way of placing children in advanced vs. standard classes. They look at the students' 2nd grade standardized test scores and lump them into one group or another. And that's that. Nobody moves up. Nobody moves down.

Miss America is really smart. When we moved here, we were told that she would need to finish elementary school in the general population, and that she'd be reassessed for middle school. OK, fine. Actually, not so fine. She was bored in her classes (fortunately, she stayed awake and did well) but did well on her standardized tests. She also missed the friendly competition and camaraderie of other academically-driven kids.

Nevertheless, when she received her schedule in the mail recently, she had not been placed in honors classes in middle school. I sent e-mails that were not returned. I attempted to place phone calls and ran into some problem with the phone system being updated over the summer.

And so, finally, I just went stomping on up to the school myself. I wore my best pleasant-but-determined look on my face. I wore my glasses so I'd look smart. I wore my birkenstocks so I'd look like a recent transplant (all of the mommies here wear heels to the grocery store).

I went during a time when Miss America was at day camp because I also wanted to make damned sure that she and Goth Girl are not in any classes, hallways or (I wish) buildings together.

And, I got what I wanted. The principal gave me some thing about children being placed appropriately, and I told him that this is why Miss America needed to be moved into honors. And then he fixed her schedule. Thank you.

There were no honors classes at this level back in Ann Arbor. There is a disproportionate number of really smart kids there. My Miss America has the smarts to be in AP classes in a couple of years, and I have learned that the change in her schedule needed to be made now if she wants to do those classes then.

I've got that degree in P.R. somewhere in a drawer. I guess I need to be using it more in my day-to-day life when it comes to my kids. Maybe I'll even start wearing makeup again. Then again, we'll see about that one. No need to go overboard or anything.

A great encounter

2010-07-30T21:41:00.004-04:00

Late this afternoon, Crazy Boy and I went to our local market for groceries. There weren't very many people there yet, and there was a woman pushing a small, Asian girl in a shopping cart on our same path through the store. We each said, "Hi," to each other's kid, but neither of us asked the question, "So, where is yours from?" Parents of obviously adopted children can get kind of testy after being asked stupid but well-meaning questions from strangers.

Further complicating our situation is the fact that Crazy Boy looks so much like my husband that people in Ann Arbor would sometimes ask him if his wife was Asian. Nope, Scandinavian.

Anyway, finally, in the cereal aisle, I took the plunge and said, "I'm not trying to be totally nosy, but where is your daughter from?"

And.... it turns out that her daughter is from China and her baby son is from Korea, Crazy Boy is from Korea and.... (this is the best part) our two kiddos will be in kindergarten this fall at the same school!!! We don't know whose class they have been assigned to as yet or if they will be together (there are four kindergartens), but we do know that there will be more than one little Asian kid in a sea of white faces in kindergarten this fall, and I think that is terrific.

Plus, the mom was totally nice and asked if we wanted to play together sometime (yes, of course) so it was a doubly-good meeting, and a very happy coincidence.

No such thing...

2010-07-28T08:35:00.002-04:00

Dr. Freud might point out that there is no coincidence at all found in the fact that we are picking up our new puppy, Jessie (who is not a Beagle, but an Australian Cattle Dog), this afternoon and I am registering my baby person, Crazy Boy, in kindergarten this evening.

All sorts of emotions floating around both of these happenings, most of them happy.

And now, I must herd my people into the car for another morning dash to camp.

And to our former therapist, I say, "pfffffttttbt"!

2010-07-15T23:06:00.004-04:00

Tonight was Miss America's final swim meet. The last of the last. Never gonna swim competitively again. Yada yada yada.

Except she had fun at tonight's meet. Don't know why -- it was hotter than Hades and the mechanics kept malfunctioning so it took for-freaking-ever to get on with it. Nevertheless, she had fun.

And afterward, she mentioned in passing that she'd do this and that differently at meets in the fall when she's back swimming on the Y team.

Ten days ago, our former therapist lectured me on allowing my daughter to make her own decisions on these matters and not forcing her to participate when she doesn't want to. It seems she has not heard about such concepts as living up to your commitment when you swim on a relay team and learning to face pressure with grace.

So I fired the therapist and Miss America's awesome, college-girl swim coach convinced her to swim just one more meet and tonight was good.

Our family doctor's daughter is in Miss America's grade and swims on the same team. Tonight it was her turn to sob after every event where she didn't take first. Must be something about being an 11-year-old girl with a competitive streak. Or hormones. Or something.

In any event, I'd like to thank my long-time therapist, Ellen, whom I e-mailed after this whole clusterbleep and who (yet again) encouraged me to listen to my instincts and to believe in them.

More happy news

2010-07-15T15:29:00.004-04:00

Crazy Boy's school transfer was approved!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now he'll be able to stay with his same speech therapist and with many of his preschool friends. He'll be at a school that is familiar to him and with people who are familiar to him. I can't tell you how many prayers I said, how many stars I wished upon, and how many pennies I tossed into fountains over the past few months, hoping and praying that this would happen. Hurray!

Now that his summer speech is almost over, the moms are finally taking our noses out of our books and starting to talk to each other and it has been great. This probably makes no sense, but it is actually a relief to find that the mothers of the other two boys in his group, all of whom have the same diagnosis, are also teachers. We all blame ourselves for not doing more, for not starting sooner, for not knowing more instinctively. It's not so much misery loving company as much as it is wonderful to talk to somebody who truly understands what it is like to have a child who wants to talk to you and can't.

Now, if Miss America likes middle school, we will go three for three with happy peoples in my family. Gotta get my pennies out again...

Changing times

2010-07-12T16:12:00.004-04:00

So Miss America and I attended church together at the different church yesterday morning, and it was good. Great, actually.

I had gone the week before and had really liked it, but she was the litmus test. It got her thumbs up -- we are making the change.

She is taking this whole starting middle school thing to heart. All of sudden, she actually cares about what her hair looks like. And wants to wear makeup. And wears earrings and shoes that match her clothes. And has a phone permanently stuck to her ear.

It is bizarre and a bit unsettling, but good. For those who know her in real-life, you know what a gigantic change this is for her. I am coming to terms that I will never have a little, elementary school girl again. I am excited and apprehensive and curious about the journey that lies ahead for her, but it is a little bittersweet for me, as well. I'd never tell her that, though. This is her time, and I want her for face it as the start of a grand adventure.

On a side note, school really cannot start quickly enough for me. Crazy Boy starts all-day kindergarten in a few weeks. Part of me is wistful for the days when we could go to the zoo on, say, a Thursday, or something like that.

And then there is the other part of me. In spite of his work at speech camp this summer, about 95% of the time, Crazy Boy cannot verbally express his wishes or concerns to me. So he yells "Mommy!!!!" even if I am 12 inches away from him. I am expected to immediately drop what I'm doing and see what he wants or he will scream it again, and louder. It must be extremely frustrating for him -- I get that. However, in a slow hour, Crazy Boy yells my name about 150 times. By the end of the day, I just want to stuff cotton balls in my ears and crawl under my bed.

So, for a short summer vacation, a lot has changed around here. Miss America is turning into Miss America. Crazy Boy is still crazy, but is starting big boy school. Much of our summer -- all of the kids' camps, church, the zoo, are all 30+ miles away, so I spend hour upon hour driving my mom-mobile. I just ordered three used new-to-me books on tape. They should last me a week.

A Mean Post

2010-07-08T16:16:00.002-04:00

OK, not trying to be mean, but am venting about the ridiculous. This morning I had to stop at our car dealership to pick up a new key. Can't find my own keys (they are somewhere in this house) and have given up on the valet key.

So all I had to do was pick up this key at the "parts" window. Had already paid for it. Had two grouchy, hungry kids and it was 100 degrees outside and still humid inside.

I got in line behind one other person and discovered that the people at the window are old. Really really old. And, apparently, they have blown out their clutch and are there for repairs. And have prevailed upon the guy behind the "parts" window to explain to them how to drive a stick shift car. Which, apparently, they have been driving for some time.

So for nearly 30 minutes (I kid you not), I stood there while they asked over and over and over again, "Now when do I shift into 3rd? Why would I drive in 4th? Can't I just drive in 1st all the time?"

And all the while, my children are trying to kill each other. This dealership is 45 minutes away from my house and five minutes away from where Crazy Boy had a speech appointment this morning, so it wasn't like I just wanted to bail and come back later.

I know I know I know, I am being mean to the old people who are probably perfectly nice. But by the end of the conversation, I really wanted to just drive them home to keep them off the roads with my children.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

In other news, Miss America's swim coach convinced her to swim one more meet. And I canceled our future appointment with the therapist.

Therapist for sale

2010-07-07T18:54:00.004-04:00

Miss America and I have been visiting a local therapist to help her with her transition and to help me help her.

This morning was our last session. Ever.

Miss America has been swimming on a local swim team this summer, and until last week, had really enjoyed it. Last meet, she started freaking out about being nervous, not being good enough, not wanting to participate, etc etc etc. One of her good friends kept encouraging her through the meet.

So did her coaches. They are college girls who are beyond supportive and nice. This is the most non-competitive competitive bunch you can possibly imagine. Basically, it's a chance to swim with lots of other kids, snarf junk food when it is over, and get a ribbon for showing up. For Miss America, however, there are two rankings: winning and sucking.

This morning, we met with our therapist and I raised my concern that Miss America was taking this So Seriously, that she is unwilling to take on challenges that don't come easily to her (in much more than just swimming) and that she is part of a four-girl relay team that is relying on her for the final two meets.

Miss America said she doesn't want to compete anymore -- it isn't fun. She just wants to train and that's all.

So therapist woman looks at me and says, "Why is it so important to you that Miss America swim in meets when she doesn't want to?"

Oh, so this is MY issue?

Then therapist woman asks Miss America if she is feeling angry and hurt because I am not taking her feelings into account on this particular issue. And would Miss America like her to help her explain to me why she shouldn't have to swim any more meets.

And since I didn't feel like arguing with both of them, I said, "Fine, no more meets."

Miss America told therapist woman that all she really wants to do this summer is play on the computer in the basement. Which doesn't seem to be the healthiest thing for a depressed kid's mental health, but hey, what do I know (apparently)? Therapist woman didn't see a problem with that.

So I'm rather hacked off this evening. It seems to me that this was a chance to learn about sticking to something you've committed to do even if you don't want to do it, learning that it's not all about winning, and applying yourself to something that doesn't come easily to you.

But apparently not.

Decision

2010-07-05T17:33:00.005-04:00

When we moved here last November, I immediately found a church I liked. Note the pronoun I used. "I"

Husband could not care less, as he generally attends on Christmas and Easter. Crazy Boy gets shuttled off to the childcare room, lest he spend the entire service being a noisy little spectacle. And so it comes down to Miss America and me.

During the chaos of the past few years, I have woefully neglected my child's religious education. This fall, kids her age start confirmation classes. And here is the problem. At our current church, she is the only kid her age. Add to this the fact that she strongly dislikes our current church and, well, we have a problem.

Last week, we received a letter telling us that the rector of our church is leaving. From things I have seen and heard, I wonder if it a voluntary leave-taking. In any event, I have been a member of a church in search of a new rector, and it is (under the best of circumstances) also chaotic.

And so I have decided that we are moving on to a new church. Not a new denomination, just a different church that is larger, more diverse, and farther away. I visited last Sunday and it is terrific. One of the assistant clergy talks like a game show host, but I can live with that. It has lots of kids and female clergy and an active youth group.

There is a part of me that thinks, "I should stay at my current church and try and get lots of kids and female clergy and an active youth group there." Except for the part where I know next to no one in my community, and would not be playing an active role in the clergy search. My current church was once a large, vibrant church that has shrunk greatly over the past couple of decades and is trying to grow and be stronger. I want to be part of the solution. I just don't want to be part of the solution at the expense of my daughter's religious upbringing.

I think I am doing the right thing. If only I attended church (which has happened way too often in the past few years), then I'd just keep going where I am going. However, for the sake of my kiddos, we need to make this change.

I just feel crummy about doing it.

Good day

2010-06-26T16:14:00.001-04:00

No more relatives in my house. Took a long nap on the couch with Crazy Boy and Eddie the Beagle. Ate pancakes for lunch.

Life is good.

Epilogue

2010-06-25T22:16:00.001-04:00

and it was a good day. Boy Cousin barfed on mean SIL in the other car on the ride back. So many ways I could interpret this...

Fingers crossed for a good day

2010-06-25T08:26:00.005-04:00

Today the whole clan goes to Holiday World, a local amusement park. Tomorrow, they go home. I am putting on my pleasant face today and hoping for the best. Just don't want any drama. Just want a nice day.

I had promised Miss America that one of her cousins could have a sleepover with her while they visited. Seemed sane enough. So last night the girl cousin (4th grader) and her mom (mean SIL) decamped from the motel and brought their toothbrushes here. Miss America was so excited -- she filled up and made the air mattress in her room, got permission from me to rent a movie on TV, and all the rest -- and after an hour of the movie (half-way through), SIL announced that she didn't think Cousin would get enough sleep with Miss America, told Miss America to turn off the movie, and marched Cousin into Crazy Boy's room to sleep with her.

Miss America was crushed. She sobbed herself to sleep last night -- she had been so looking forward to a sleepover with Cousin last night. And so I'm going on something like three hours of sleep this morning.

Now I get to try and play diplomat (that's my sister's bailiwick, not mine) between my daughter with the strong personality and the relative who is a teacher just because she gets off on bullying kids. No one cares about what I could say, anyway -- I am that kooky liberal who nursed and avoids processed foods for her kids.

I don't want last night to ruin Miss America's day today. I have to go and wake her up now. I made Husband go and wake mean SIL and Cousin. I just want her to be able to have fun with her cousins. Whey do adults have to be such complete jerks sometimes?

Relatives and Fish

2010-06-23T17:13:00.002-04:00

It has been three days now, with two days to go. Two more days of sharing space, meals and time with Husband's parents, sister and children. Sigh.

There has not been any giant blowup (two days left, however...) Miss America and I are ready to pack their bags for them. Husband spends all of his time at home asleep. Crazy Boy is enjoying the attention from his nice, 8-year-old cousin who sees him as a giant doll.

My SIL teaches kindergarten at an inner city school. She is an OK sister in law, but I would take Cruella DeVille over her as a kindergarten teacher. She is a bitch in the classroom and proud of it. She treats her children the same way. She has spent three days now treating Miss America like one of her kindergarteners. Not so (oddly) for kindergartener Crazy Boy.

My grandma used to say "relatives and fish stink after three days." My grandma was so smart.

Not supposed to be scary

2010-06-19T14:42:00.006-04:00

So we left Wednesday for our trip to Michigan. Miss America had an appointment with her therapist, Ann, before we left that morning, and she asked me to come in with her.

Sunday afternoon, Miss America had gotten a phone call from her "best friend" Goth Girl, and had had little to say afterward. Wednesday morning, she finally shared the gist of the call. Goth Girl had another friend over to her house, and they called Miss America to tell her that Goth Girl's dad was mad at Miss America and was bringing peanuts over to her house to kill her (Miss America is severely allergic to peanuts). And then hung up.

Miss America told us tearfully that she can't figure out why Goth Girl's dad is mad at her and that she had been to scared that he was coming and scared to tell us.

Ann and I tried to convince Miss America that Goth Girl's dad, whom Miss America has met once for about 15 seconds in line at DQ, is not mad at her. That he is not going to kill her. Miss America kept saying, "No, no, Goth Girl told me. She knows what she is talking about."

As the conversation moved on to making other friends (a topic that is now as critical in my world as cleaning the gulf is to the big world), Miss America insisted that, no, Goth Girl and Aly are great friends and she doesn't feel safe approaching anyone else to possibly make a connection, let alone a friend. There are girls on her swim team who seem to me, her mom the geek, like perfectly nice girls. I was once a sorority chapter adviser, believe me, I can spot the difference. It's something in the eyes, I think.

Last night, there was a new girl at swim team practice. I asked Miss America if she was nice. Miss America told me the new girl hadn't spoken to her, so she didn't think so. However, Miss America had not spoken to her. I suggested that maybe the new girl was shy. Miss America rolled her eyes and gave me a "whatever."

Sigh.

On a brighter note, after swim team, I broached the topic of Goth Girl for the first time since our therapy meeting and said that, in my opinion, a friend wouldn't do to Miss America what Goth Girl did. And Miss America agreed with me!!! She said she wants to just let her friendship fall by the wayside. Huzzah! Whether or not Goth Girl will let go is another matter, but if I have to pry her skanky little self off of Miss America, I will do it.

Our trip to Michigan was good and sad and I'll write more about it when I can. I will say that it was wonderful to spend the day with good friends who were completely kind and non-threatening. The newest of the kid friends Miss America saw was her bff in kindergarten and 1st grade, before we changed schools. They played in the back yard and with their cats while her friend's parents (dear friends of mine) drank iced tea and chatted the afternoon away. I would take another day like that over (very literally) anything. A date with George Clooney. An all-expenses trip to anywhere. Keep 'em. Just give us another afternoon with Claire and her parents and I will be satisfied.

Sins of the aunt.... Stupidity of the mom

2010-06-18T22:18:00.002-04:00

Back when my sister was in middle school, she and her bff discovered a fabulous new way to torment bff's little sister. They would call her their 50-cent vocabulary words. You know those vocab words that you will (most likely) never need to say, let alone spell, in your lifetime. Little sis wouldn't know what they meant, and would become hysterical.

For example, bff and my sis would say, "Baby sis, you are a totalitarianism."

And baby sis would run off and holler, "Mommy, big sis called me a totalitarianism."

They got hours of amusement out of this particular game.

So, recently, I told my middle school girl the story of this game. And guess what? It works on her brother, too!

We drove home from Michigan today, getting stuck in Cincinnati rush hour traffic along the way. With about 90 minutes to go, Miss America started calling her brother an "onomatopoeia." Which he didn't like one bit. Then she called him "condensation." And "literary." And "revolutionary." You get the picture.

This caused him to shriek at the top of his lungs for the next 90 minutes, and made me seriously question the sanity of ever sharing this little tidbit with Miss America.

Not in my house, Missy

2010-06-11T10:53:00.002-04:00

Last night, Miss America said something new. She started a sentence with, "This is just my opinion, but..."

I just about jumped out of my skin. And then I explained that her opinion is just as valid as anybody else's opinion and that she doesn't need to apologize for saying it.

Middle school in the fall. We're not doing that hiding our intelligence just because I'm just a girl crap around here.

Nosiree Bob.

Wise child

2010-06-09T00:27:00.002-04:00

This afternoon I enlisted Miss America's help in making a "To Do" list for the in-law's visit. She hadn't realized until that point that they are staying here.

She looked around the house and said, "What? Is somebody going to sleep in the kitchen or something?"

I agreed that, yes, we would be crammed in like sardines.

She went on, "Well, I guess if anybody's gonna sleep in the kitchen, it should be Grandpa. That way, he'll be close to the beer."

Love that kid.

That, and she was seriously snarky this afternoon and apologized (without prompting) for her "crappy attitude" when I tucked her in tonight.

Love that kid a lot.

Heading north

2010-06-08T10:57:00.004-04:00

Miss America discovered that her Michigan class's 5th grade celebration is next Thursday, and she asked me about going. After giving it a good deal of thought (and doing a great deal of schedule re-org), we're going to make the trip.

I had some initial concerns that making this trip would open old wounds. Then I thought about it some more, and decided that this trip could bring the two of us some desperately-needed closure. And... there won't be another time to do this ever again. Her classmates are moving on to middle school, some teachers she loves will be retiring, and much will change. This is her chance to see her friends at the school she loves in their old, familiar setting, one more time.

And for me, I'll get to see many of my friends. Several of her classmates started in two year old preschool with her. Some of their moms are my good friends.

We need to do this, I think.

She started summer swim team last night with some kids that are new to her but will be at middle school with her in the fall. I just love to watch her swim -- she is so graceful in the water. Today we get to go swim suit shopping -- she has declared last year's suit to be "hideous." That's fine, we can go.

Miss America is a wise kid. She said to me recently, "Daddy has everything he needs here; he has a job he likes, a computer with football on it, and a place to be alone." She has summed it up beautifully. The harder part is finding the things my kids need -- as long as Crazy Boy gets his school transfer, we should be good with him. He has friends from his special ed preschool who will be attending the school we hope to transfer to. Plus, he was just accepted in a summer speech program, which is a huge relief. Miss America has her ups and her downs here, but I was thrilled to see good kids at swim team and more thrilled to see her hanging out with them instead of hiding behind her DSi. A bummer is that her middle school has had to drop swim team in the fall because of budget cuts -- otherwise, they'd all be on swim team together there and it would be a beautiful thing.

So that's it -- we are heading north for one glorious day back in Ann Arbor. It will be good to go home and soak up so much that is good there -- to see friends and places we love. I'm hoping I can just breathe it in all through my pores. We'll return again in July for the annual art fair. And then, I'll have to pray that my time there sustains me until the next time I can go home again.

Four days and three nights

2010-06-05T21:33:00.006-04:00

Last November, I moved from a 4,500 square food house (including finished basement space) to a 1,950 square foot house (again, including basement). We brought 4,500 sf worth of crap with us, and are still negotiating what stays and what goes. Seven months later, there are parts of our home that very much look like we just moved in.

Add my carpal tunnel and surgery that still make it impossible for me to lift much, move much or do much at a time (dang, I still get so tired...) and my house still needs a lot of work.

Last night, my phone rang. It was my MIL, announcing that Husband's sister and her two kids are coming along with my in-laws for their previously-planned visit. In spite of my strong suggestions, they refuse to stay in a hotel because of other stupid ways they are spending their money this summer. They are arriving 6/21, leaving 6/25. Two parents in law, a SIL, a niece and a nephew are all camping at my house. Said nephew is allergic to cats. I mentioned that (in case they had forgotten this) I have four. Nope, they are spending their money on other stupid stuff (did I already mention this?)

They are then moving on to my BIL's house back east. MIL told me that his wife is paying for a hotel for the visitors as there is no room at their house. hint hint. No, I will not be paying for a hotel for people who just returned from a three-week drinking tour of Europe. Sorry.

So we'll see how this goes. We were already giving up our bedroom to Husband's parents, and I'll be camping in Crazy Boy's twin bed with him. There is a couch in the living room, and I guess there is always the floor. At least we have 2 1/2 bathrooms. And they are coming during the week, so Husband gets to escape to work. I get to feed, clean up after and try and entertain a bunch of people who tried to talk my Husband out of marrying me (after all these years, that still stings a bit...)

I may gripe about my family a lot, but at least I come from a people that believes that when you are in your 40s and 60s, you are enough of a grownup to believe that kicking people out of their rooms and taking over their floor like a bunch of tweens is, well, kind of immature.

It would be one thing if we had adequate guest space, and another if they were destitute. Also, there always has to be some sort of knock-down-drag-out fight whenever they visit. The truly worrisome part is that my MIL just put my FIL on another diet. He will spend the entire time he is here being hungry, swilling beer, screaming at the kids, pets and TV and watching sports. Maybe my kids, pets and I could just go somewhere (anywhere) else while they are here?

Written by my kiddo

2010-06-03T12:09:00.004-04:00

Miss America came home from school yesterday with a note she and her bff, Aly, wrote along with their other dear friend Goth Girl. They asked me to e-mail it to their teacher, Mr. Crocker with my signature. When you read it, you'll know why I can't. I explained this to them as gently as I could (I agree with all they say). I think they make a strong case for their feelings. I am not editing this for content or style; these are their words and I'm proud of them.

And... the guy does yell far more than he should. And... the names have been changed to protect my kiddos. And... today Miss America called right before school to ask me to bring lunch to her -- all they were serving for lunch was peanut butter sandwiches. At a school with kids with peanut allergies. In three hours, this Godforsaken school will be in my rear view mirror (God willing):

Dear Mr. Crocker:

My daughter has come home to me many times and told me how rude and disrespectful you have been to her and her friends. You need to just accept that no one is perfect and just because Goth Girl isn't like all the other girls, it doesn't mean you can push her around like that. She's just different. Yelling doesn't fix anything. Aly randomly cries because of you.

EVERY DAY, Miss America tells me a very wise point you don't seem to understand. "If you want respect from your students, respect them back."

Treat others the way you want to be treated. You tell your class that all the time. If you don't set an example by doing that, who's going to listen to you???

You and Turner Elementary treat kids like property. Kids are living, breathing humans. They have minds and hearts and feelings. You hurt them all the time. I can't even count how many times my daughter has come home telling me the horrible things you have done to her friends and classmates for doing things that are reasonably forgivable.

These are all the reasons I am not sending my five year old to Turner Elementary next year.

Thank you for reading this. I hope you'll change your ways, and not yell at other students and break their trust and feelings.

Sincerely,

Dibs

p.s. Remember freedom of speech