Where I was

Monday, January 25, 2010

Dashing into the Blog room to say - Hi there.

No, I haven't forgotten you all. Yes, there is more to tell of the teacher battle stories. Some of it will even end up over at Canada Mom Blogs, where I wrote a little piece (Jury of Peers) about more recent events.

Tomorrow we have a meeting with the Principal, the teacher, the Special Ed coordinator and Terrance and I. I am going to try to behave myself. Honestly.

Terrance was in New York for a week, which meant that every possible thing that could be thrown at me in fact DID get thrown at me including my car deciding to not start at the gas station. There was a fairly funny moment with me having my hood up and jumper cables in hand having an African Man speaking at me in Very rapid French asking me to move my car. You know, cause I was blocking other people.

Really? Well, no shit. Ergo the hood up and cables in my hand. No, don't offer to help me or anything, just make me aware of how I am inconveniencing You.

This was followed by Emily developing some hellacious vomiting virus. Like the puke your guts up every 40 minutes, regardless of if your guts have anything in them to puke, kind. Like the "I'm sick, so I need to lay next to you after you have stupidly taken your sleeping meds because you had no idea I was about to unleash this viral destruction upon your household" Sick. Coupled with the "I am too sick to move to the toilet, so I will puke into a bucket which you will need to hold and rinse and return to me every 45 minutes...Then I will lay there moaning and breathing my puke breath onto you as you wiggle around trying to get out of the way of my viral laden breath while both fighting the sleeping meds and trying to maintain enough coordination to manage the puke bucket...."

Fun times.

And when I had stabilized her to the point where I could run out and get her some Gatorade ( and lets be honest, I needed coffee. Like Junkie need for coffee) the car wouldn't start again. With Terrance micro-managing me on the phone from New York as to how to possibly get the car started and should I take Em to the hospital and did I try this....

The fact that I didn't curl into a ball and weep can only be attributed to my extreme exhaustion and post-vomitfest induced shock.

So, that's where I was.

Tomorrow, the school meeting. I'll let you know how it goes.

Fatty Owls

Monday, January 11, 2010

There are things that you hope for your child, when you are in that dreamy stage of the last trimester...or even when you are laughing at the beginnings of their attempts at humor. Things that you want to give them, things which were important to you.

Of course, you can't be sure that your child will like the things that you treasure, be that Winnie the Pooh, or The Red Sox. Sure, you can surround the baby with those items. You can show them your enthusiasm, sharing your love and excitement for the idea with them.

BUT...You can never be really sure if the child is merely going along with it, trying to keep their poor pitiful parent happy under whatever delusion they may be suffering, or if the kernel of the love is truly in there.

Over the past Christmas holiday break, I did a little experiment. I borrowed the Fawlty Towers series from a friend with the idea of watching them with Emily.

It will shock none of you that Terrance dislikes British humor, particularly that related to Python or offshoot projects. Vehemently dislikes it. I - in the long standing traditions of spouses who are diametrically opposed to their partners tastes - LOVE British Humor.  Monty Python, in particular, was formative in my humor development and I have gone on to love everything up to the delicious absurdity of "The IT Crowd".

But would Emily like it? Would she latch onto the absurdity of the situation? The facial expressions? The wordplay? Would the physical comedy prove too dated  for her?

She loved them. While she didn't entirely understand some of the references ( I had to do a lot of explaining about the Second World War and any "adult" humor flew right over her head), she really enjoyed them.

I was tickled. I was beyond tickled. I was glowing with pride. I had done that most mysterious of things - passed on a love of British Comedy to my child. I had done this directly in the face of a Non-believer with a gene pool of which 50% did not understand or enjoy Monty Python AT ALL.

Which leads me to my next project:

After the first disk last night, I am pleased to report that her favorite bits have been the Funniest Joke in the World and the Famous Deaths. Dirty Fork also produced some hearty guffaws, as did the Musical Mice.

I am so proud.

My Weeping Heart

Friday, January 08, 2010

For all my bluster and bravado, at the end of the day, I am still Emily's Mom.

Part of the contract that I seem to have signed when she was born was that she would exist as my Achilles heel in the world at large. If you want to put an arrow directly into my soul, wound her.

While I have well established and heavily fortified defenses around my own persona, when it comes to Emily there is a decided wide open space with a large bulls eye painted directly in the middle.

Now, this isn't meant to paint Emily as an Innocent living in a world of wolves, in perpetual danger of being eaten alive.  I think more highly of my daughter than that. She is a typical 11 year old girl. She knows how to work her father and I like the Parental Meat Puppets we can be. For her father, it is a specific tone of voice that she takes. She can get him to move through the house at light speed with a tone. For me, its tears. Not the normal "I don't want to do my homework/clean my room/eat my salad" tears...I am immune to those tears.  No. It's the "My soul hurts" tears. The "I am bewildered as to why people are being unfair/unkind" tears.

THOSE tears get me. As in "I want to immediately and unthinkingly go out and hurt the person who has caused my daughter to have these feelings - even if it is another child, adult or inanimate object. It does not matter - they must be stopped."

That feeling arose in me last night.

Now, I can't speak for every parent, but I try to not get to that place terribly frequently. It does not show my best, most rational side to my child. It does not make me feel comfortable to be in that place. As such, I will weigh the other facts that I know :
Emily has been tired this week. It is the first week back to school after a 2 week vacation and her sleeping patterns are out of whack.
It has been very cold and snowing every day. That is enough to make anyone feel rotten.
While I have not discussed the specifics in front of her, Emily knows I don't love her teacher.

Again I say, My daughter is not stupid. She knows that the way to get her mother to become an unholy angel of revenge and fury is to plead injustice at my breast while crying, deep mournful sobs. I, in turn, will morph, black wings unfurling from my scapula, eyes beginning to glow with righteous fury. I will soothe her as I summon her father to the room, and when he arrives, I will have her lay out the case and stare at him, waiting for affirmation and permission to seek the vengeance which now rightfully belongs to me.

Last night, however, he stopped me.

"I'm going in to speak with the teacher in the morning", he says.
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